Finding myself

Today I managed to sneak in my monthly self-google to make sure no one is talking about me on the internet. I found another Monica C***** who commented on the Tyra Banks show website about the miracle cream who cured her overweightness and her asthmatic son, and another Monica C***** who ranted about the evil fur trade on Peta. Currently, googling my name returns mostly sites mentioning very esteemed Monica C*****es with roles like marketing director, public affairs director, author, translator, limerick writer, nurse, and most frequently appearing, headmistress of prestigious school for aspiring girl astronauts. And then there's the doosh who was interviewed for some Microsoft magazine about Pets on the Net:

There it is. My brilliant internet debut . The three sentence fragments this writer used from the leghumpingly overeager 2 pages of info I sent her portray me as a vacuous a-hole with redundant grammatical tendencies who buys puppy mill dogs on eBay.

"The Internet is always my first source and almost always my primary source." (That's first source AND primary source, people). God.

Despite my lengthy sanctimonious ramblings about the evils of buying animals over the internet and the importance of face to face meetings with the animal you decide to adopt from the humane society, to my horror, the writer excerpted passages of my manifesto to cue up the expert who scorns the "window shoppers" and warns against buying dogs from litters listed in the classified ads like that douchebag Torontonian Monica C*****.

A few months later that writer asked me about my experiences for her new article on vacationing with pets. I told her we tie the dogs to the hitch and let them run behind the truck on road trips, but if we're going real far, we just leave them tied up in the backyard for the week. I did tell her however, that it is of first AND primary importance to leave them a bowl of water before you go.