Gmail, my primary source of mail, makes money like this:
You let their robots view your e-mails.
Their robots serve you up tailor-made ads, based on the content of your e-mails. No big. No people are actually reading your e-mails. So what, privacy, shmivacy. Everybody knows by now that there’s no such thing as a private e-mail anyway, right?
Right? You DO know your e-mails AREN’T private? You’re better off writing and posting stuff right outside your office cubicle. In 18-point type.
So if you didn’t know before, trust me. I used to write a newspaper column on personal technology. AND I’m a web developer. So really: trust me on this, folks.
ANYWHO: Imagine my alarm when one of the ads served up to me, based on my correspondence, was this:
101 Cookbooks: Coconut Macaroon Pancakes.
A) I don’t even like pancakes.
B) I am SO WAY NOT the pancake-flipping, apron-wearing type.
C) I rarely open a cookbook. Who needs a cookbook for spaghetti-os? Peter doesn’t even use cookbooks, and when HE cooks, he uses all those cooking-show style ramekins, filled with all kinds of colorful diced things. And everything comes out delicious. Plus, it isn’t even ANNOYING that he’s used every ramekin in the house, because then he CLEANS them all – plus all the dishes — and hand-washes the pots, too. (So tell me again? WHY am I getting pancake recipes on my Gmail? Where IS Peter, anyway?)
D) Did I mention I don’t even LIKE pancakes? As in, I REALLY can’t STAND pancakes? Those horrid, soggy things?
E) Have I mentioned that Peter takes the garbage out, and THEN puts a new bag in, too – without being told? It’s almost unimaginable that I got so lucky to find the one male in the world that knows how to do that.
F) Lordy, I hate pancakes.
G) PLEASE visit the 101 Cookbooks site. It is so hilariously funny. They describe the pancakes as “decadent and delicious,” [pancakes?} and the writer goes on line, after line, including a mention of her “favorite skillet.”
H) NOTE to SELF: Do I have a favorite ANYTHING?
Really, please, you HAVE to read the laboriously constructed journal of the genesis of this confection. Her head is alternately “in pancake land,” and “in the clouds,” although at some point, she confesses, “her heart was heavy,” because the cookies that inspired these flapjacks “would suffer.”
Poor aching cookies.
I) NOTE to SELF: Consider donation to Amnesty International, Cookie Division.
j) I’m starting to get in the mood for some pancakes.
(photo source: 101 Cookbooks.)
Everything you read on this blog is actually true. As in, this is a genuine, non-fiction blog. Generally, I don't name names when the parties concerned are (a) related to me and/or (b) under the age of majority, and therefore no matter how funny they are, unable to give their informed consent to have their hilarious but true commentary on the ridiculousness of life publicized globally. I do, however, skirt the issue of crediting them by admitting it was not ME who came up with their jokes, but "some kid." (Works for most of us.)
look - no, really, look 