I don’t now if Facebook has an official slogan or not, but I think it should be:  “Giving all types of weird and boring people a public forum since 2004.”

Status Update; Tristlynn is: tired.

Comment 1: Ohhh Girl you’re the best!!

Comment 2: Trynn, you work too hard, go get some sleep!

Comment 3: You’re a tire? I thought you were a human?!? Jk, luv ya big sis!

Comment 4: Cuz you been PARTYING??? Oh, wait, that’s me! hahahahah!!

Comment 5: Hon, how did the test go? I love you…Mom.

But while the recent revolution in social media has its cons, it also has one huge pro, namely the nearly limitless potential for stalking. Now, there are many different kinds of stalking, and some existed before social media. For some of us stalking is taking black and white pictures of other people from a windowless van with high-powered cameras. Is there anything wrong with that? Of course there isn’t. It’s a hobby in the same way tennis is a hobby. And ever since the advent of heartthrob and uber-stalker Edward Cullen, those in the professional stalking community have gained new stature, even insisting that stalking now be called “protecting.”

Who me? Oh, uh I’m just protecting this person across the street. You bet I will. You have a good day too, officer.

But this post is about a different kind of stalking, the kind where someone simply has to know about everything going on around them. And whether you admit it or not, almost all of us have a stalking bone in our bodies. Women are born with 7 or 8 of them, but even us dudes have one.

Here’s an example of one of the many forms of casual stalking; one that comes from my life:

Husband: “Hey Hon.”

Wife: “So, how was your lunch the other day?”

Husband: “Um, fine.”

Wife: “What did you have?”

Husband: “What are talking about? Which day?”

Wife: “You tell me.”

Husband: “I just really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wife: “I found a Chick-fil-A receipt in your car.”

Husband: “Ok… So what’s the problem?”

Wife: “Why were you trying to hide it from me?”

Husband: “I wasn’t. I’m skinny and we aren’t poor, so I have no reason to hide it. I just didn’t deem it newsworthy, I guess.”

Wife: “Well you didn’t tell me about it, which is weird, and what did you do with the trash?”

Husband: “You’re crazy, you know that?”

That kind of stalking has been going on from the time Adam’s own-business-minding rib came back with eyes and a mouth and opinions about every single thing. But now social media has blown open the world of casual stalking. We make connections with people and it’s a natural human instinct to be curious from time to time about where that person ended up. So we stalk them on blogs, Facebook, maybe even Google them if they are notable enough to appear on a Google search. Sometimes we do this with people we don’t even like. Especially people we don’t like, actually. My wife, Rebecca, regularly checks a certain blog. Reading about all the world traveling and triathaloning and perfect lifeing gets under her skin (you are allowed to blog about 1 or even 2 of those, but not all 3) and everyone knows her rich parents are paying for all those fabulous vacays she and DH go on! All this annoys Reba, so naturally she keeps going back. And a lot of folks say they only blog to force them to keep a journal. This is a lie. They blog to be stalked.

“But Christian, what about the people who take their blogs private, those people obviously don’t want to be stalked, right?”

Wrong. Those people went private because they gained weight or married someone they’re ashamed of. When they lose the weight (or spouse), they’ll go public again; trust me on this one.

It’s great to see you again too Natalia! Be sure to Facebook me! Ok, now. And to your health as well. Bye bye.

Now I have been a pretty proficient amateur stalker—for a guy, at least—my whole life. The highest level, most professional stalking I’ve ever done was at BYU:

(Warning, the following account will alter your opinion of me. All I can say is that it felt right at the time.)

I met this girl at BYU who I was smitten with and I wanted to contact her again, but the only thing I knew about her was her first name. So I called BYU info to see if they could help me out. Of the 100 BYU operators, guess who answered the phone? A good friend of mine. Point Sharkman. It was a sign. I asked this friend what she could do to help me and she told me she couldn’t do much with just a first name. Point Patriot Act. But then she called back on a secure line (i.e. a line that didn’t have a serious 29 year old MTC teaching job reject listening for quality control) and told me she had a buddy who worked in the BYU IT dept. This buddy had access to the BYU system that has everyone’s basic info on it, including their student ID photo, and he had given her his username and password and had approved limited sharing. Another point Sharkman. I found her info, nothing came of it, and I married the lovely Reba. But that’s not the point. The point is I took initiative, got a little creative, a little funky, and I made things happen.

With technology going the way it is, I suspect we’ll get to the point where we are all tired of each other and want to go back to the days where stalkers had no rights. But for now, this feels very natural.

I’m not going to bore you with the details.  The salient facts are these:Melissa and I got engaged, I lost my job, my good buddy and roommate Ron was working part-time, he and I were stuck with the lease for the apartment we’d been sharing, none of us wanted to commit to a new apartment when we could be leaving New York for new jobs, and so when Melissa and I got married in April she moved in with me and Ron.

This arrangement obviously raised many an eyebrow, including our own.  We all had our reservations about doing it, but our hands were forced, and we did what we had to do.  And the truth of it is, the five months we spent as a trio went swimmingly.  It wasn’t perfect, of course.  Perhaps the greatest threat to peace in our home were the tense skirmishes over how to train Lyla.  I’d go into more detail, but I don’t think either Ron or Melissa is quite ready to laugh about this one quite yet.

“My Mommy and my Second Daddy are always fighting about me.  Is it my fault?”  “Yes.  It is.  Everyone was happier before you came.  You should probably kill yourself.”

All in all, though, we loved living with Ron, and if we had a house with a basement, we’d have him live with us forever.  Melissa enjoyed having someone around who would watch Oprah and So You Think You Can Dance with her, and I liked having someone to hang out with during Melissa’s 12-hour baths. Of course, the main reason we enjoyed this arrangement is because Ron is good company and we just liked having him around.  But a close second was that he served as judge and jury in instances where we needed an impartial outsider and/or a tie-breaking vote.

Anyone who has ever been in a relationship has had the following thought when engaged in a disagreement or fight with their partner:  “Sugar Bear, I love you.  But you are clearly insane, and if you and I were to present our respective sides of this disagreement to an impartial observer, this observer would laugh in your face, have you committed, look at me with eyes of sympathy, and call the Pope to start the process of having me canonized.”

That’s where Ron came in.  For the most part, he broke the tie on smaller matters, like choosing restaurants or movies.  And because these matters involved him, his vote was binding.  Even when the vote went against me, I kind of enjoyed not having to engage in the bargaining and compromising that these small disagreements can sometime entail.  Except for the time when Ron and Melissa both voted to go see Twilight.  I didn’t enjoy that.

“Ok, all those in favor of Ron using less product in his hair say ‘aye.’”  “Aye.”  “Aye.”  “Aye. Wait, what?”

Occasionally, Melissa and I sought a non-binding judgment from Ron on a disagreement that pertained to our relationship.  Sometimes he ended up taking my side, which was obviously nice.  But sometimes he took Melissa’s side, which actually caused me to think a little harder about her point of view.

Fortunately for you, we here at Don’t Do Dumb Things have decided to extend this same service to our readers, but without having to live with a guy who sneaks the puppy you’re trying to train to sleep in her crate into bed with him every night.  Here’s how it works:

You submit to us a disagreement or tiff you had with your significant other, large or small.  You’re welcome to submit them anonymously, or you can let us know who you are while specifying that you’d like your name withheld.  Or you can put your name in big red font.  The process will work best if each side writes in, briefly explaining the facts of the matter and the reasoning behind their stance.  To ensure fairness, each side is limited to a single paragraph of advocacy (feel free to submit a joint statement of factual background if necessary).

Ryan, Christian, and I will review these statements and will each write a brief response ruling in favor of one party or the other.  In order to keep things gender-balanced, our respective wives, Macy, Melissa, and Rebecca will do the same.  In the event of a 3-3 tie, we’ll bring in Ron (who, as a flaming metrosexual, acts in a gender-neutral role here) to cast the final vote.  After which you will submit to our judgments (we are especially good on family planning issues).  So there you have it:  the opportunity to confirm once and for all that you’re not the crazy one, you’re the sane one.  Please send submissions to tiebreakers@dontdodumbthings.com.

In our infinite foresight, we’ve already prepared the first entry in our special DDDT Series: Tiebreakers.  Tune in tomorrow for the first episode.

Look, I can count on one finger the number of Mormon-themed attempts at humor that I’ve found funny.  And Twilight-related jokes at this point in the game are generally pretty Jay Leno-y.  (“You want to see bloodsuckers?  I’ll save you the $9 and drive you to my lawyer’s office!!”)  So I’ll be the first to admit that I was a little skeptical about the below video.  My skepticism was misplaced.

Twilight Years from Tom on Vimeo.