While trying to figure out how to work the DVD player at the cabin, Adam and I were subjected to several minutes of some television show about hip-hop artists and the perpetually upset women in their lives. I was trying very hard not to watch it, especially after the first young man ended an argument with his crying girlfriend by shrugging, putting on a piece of bling, and leaving. The next scene showed another young man trying to convince his girlfriend to move in with him, and she was having none of it, in spite of his solid argument—made in a paddleboat—that it would help him figure out if he wanted to make a more serious commitment to their relationship. Just at that moment, text appeared at the bottom of the screen to identify the actor/rapper/Casanova.

"His name is Fizz!"

Adam replied, "Well, he does have carbonated hair."

Which is now obviously my favorite way to describe anything. (And it was entirely accurate.)

While showering today, I was daydreaming about a website for political candidates that would list promises made alongside promises kept. As someone who votes, I would appreciate this information before heading to the polls. I was feeling all uppity about my Very Important Shower Thoughts and was in the middle of naming my hypothetical site EffectiveOrNot.com when I was immediately haunted by memories of HotOrNot.com and the Ghost of Internet Past.

In college, I was a moderator for Hot or Not and was so good at spotting all the cheaters (people who hid their contact information in the captions of photos) that I was promoted to some elite moderator level, which was only cool to the two guys who convinced me to join in the first place (in the hopes that I would help them find and connect with "babes"). To clarify: I volunteered my time looking through low-quality photographs of people who were more Not than Hot and checking that the photos and their captions met a certain set of guidelines for the site. And when mistakes were made by other moderators, I went to an exclusive forum to tattle on them.

I have been repressing this humiliating memory for ten years now, but I guess you don't get a say in what kind of humble pie the Ghost of Internet Past will bring or when he will bring it. But maybe I'll stay home and skip the shower tomorrow just to be safe.

For the past ten years, I have had a remote control to operate my ceiling fan and light fixture (and set varying speeds and brightness, respectively), and I'll be damned if it has ever been within arm's reach when I wanted it. It is such a stupendously impressive failure of a luxury that I keep it around to remind myself what a charmed life I lead (it's like Downton Abbey but with even more tea)—and that I could probably use the exercise anyway.