My friend Simon is a lot of things. He is a filmmaker, a chocolate cake enthusiast, a critic, a cynic, and a button-up wearer. He is also right. Not all the time, but a good chunk of the time.  Last night, he was right. He suggested I respond to a young man’s invitation by simply writing, “No Thanks.” I have never been good at harsh, solid responses to men. I try to be polite and ladylike. So I buffered my response with an, “I don’t really know you.”  Simon was right.  A simple “No Thanks” would have been better.

In my own defense, the guy said, “I know you live in Canada and all, but I think we should start doing something.” I wasn’t sure if that was a euphemism for something else, so, despite the thousand other reasons I felt no inclination to respond positively, I felt that I ought to decline the offer. That and I don’t respond to facebook messages that begin with the words, “hey mama.” Especially not from a white guy.

Of course the guy followed up, insisting that we could get to know each other, and I found myself responding with a classic bull-filled response about being so over long distance relationships and being too busy with school and work.  Well, I suppose my response was honest enough. I am “so over” long distance relationships. And I am very busy with work and school and trying to finish a damn novel. But would those things really matter if I met someone with whom I had real chemistry? No. They just wouldn’t stand up as a real reason to not pursue the elusive Mr. Right. Or someone that seemed awfully right, for that matter. If I met someone I really hit it off with, distance and busyness would seem like very small obstacles.

Last summer’s brief spell dating a man that shall only be known as “Jersey Shore” (total guido!) was enough to remind me that I should only get involved with someone I really click with. Over the past year, I’ve also learned that I need to stop looking for Kevin 2.0. It would be so easy to continue looking for someone “just like Kevin, only he doesn’t do [insert frustrating thing] and actually likes [thing I like].”  I’m over it. I’ve moved on. And I need another Kevin about as much as he needs another Naomi. I’m pretty sure that amount roughly equates to “not at all, not even a little.”

So where does that leave me?  Single.

Sometimes I feel like I have become incredibly picky, but looking at the guys I’ve been involved with in the past, I know I haven’t been picky enough. I’d rather spend a lengthy period watching all my friends pair off and settle down than to keep dating for the sake of dating. It’s just frustrating. I feel like I’m finally at a place where I’m emotionally ready for another serious relationship, but I’m just not meeting any one that catches my fancy.

I still believe in fairytales and true love and being swept of my feet. Actually, the problem is that I’m just not willing to settle for anything less.

Now, if you excuse me, I shall go find my copy of Sense and Sensibility; perhaps Jane Austen will hold the answers.

Tonight I write about cardigans. Josh requested I write about cardigans, and, as I have little else to write about, I shall offer you a few thoughts about cardigans.

I have a long history with cardigans. As a Scottish school girl, the cardigan was an integral part of my identity. And uniform.  That formative period of my life left me with a general distaste for cardigans. I’ve always been the rebellious type; thus, I felt it necessary to rebel against cardigans for a long time. This led me to embrace several alternative fashion faux pas from the mid 90′s until about 2003. I’m talking about serious faux pas. On many a day, I left the house wearing denim from head to toe. I even carried a denim purse. I owned denim shirts and skirts and jackets and pants, and I wore them all in some sort of ridiculous blue ensemble. Don’t even get me started on the strange color combinations that I paired with my Old Navy tech vest. Although I courted cardigans upon occasion, I was bullied out of my openness to the garments by a giant, butch pain in my ass, who gave me hell for wearing pink.  Looking back, I see nothing wrong with my hot pink sweater, but I suppose anything from the Gap or Old Navy would intimidate a 13-year-old who grew up on a basketball court and lived in over-sized sweat pants.

So it seems strange that cardigans have become a staple of my clothing diet.

In the past six months, I bought at least 5 or 6 cardigans, all of which I’ve over worn to the point of destruction. I love cardigans. Two of said cardigans are pink, and I’m sure everyone I know is sick of seeing me in pink cardigans. On a particularly bad day, I found myself waiting in line at the Tommy Hilfiger outlet, baby pink cardigan in hand. It took every ounce of will power I had to put it back and walk out of the store. I own black cardigans. I own grey cardigans. I have biscuit coloured cardigans. Yes. Plural. Three biscuit coloured cardigans, to be exact. Beige, if you prefer.

Why am I telling you all of this? It just serves to illustrate that we’re a product our journeys. It might be my nature, after all, I come from a long line of cardigan-wearing women. It might be nurture; I was raised with cardigans, sweater sets, and films in which Doris Day wore cardigans. Whatever the reason, cardigans are in my blood.

The sooner we embrace our roots, the living history in us, the better. You can runaway from who you are and your past, but it’s still going to be there. When you finally confront it, it will hit you with a vengeance. You will wake up one day with a closet full of cardigans.

I’m a girl who wears cardigans. I’m not even cool enough to rock a hipster look. I am a Gap poster child reject. And I’m happy with that.

Sarah Palin is easily the most recognizable woman in North American politics. While Palin has little experience and few accomplishments under her belt, the former governor of Alaska has become iconic. Despite my love of – nay, obsession with – Tina Fey, I feel that the comedian is partially to blame for the over-exposure Palin has received. For weeks leading up to the 2008 election, I devoured every Palin-impersonation Tina Fey performed. Admit it; you did too. It was pure gold. And just a little bit frightening.  The  more ridiculous Fey’s impersonations became, the closer they seemed to Palin’s actual appearances. It was much like trying to figure out whether it was Oprah or Joel Osteen that coined recognizable inspirational statements.

Recently, Palin hit the headlines again. This time, she’s following in the footsteps of George W. Bush and creating her own words and pronunciations. Check out this clip:

That’s right. The Obama’s are yet to “refudiate” claims that the Tea Party movement is innately racist. Refudiate.

Had the woman any grace or poise, she would have moved on, unfazed, instead of trying to make “refudiate” a word. Instead, Palin tweeted the following:

“‘Refudiate,’ ‘misunderestimate,’ ‘wee-wee’d up.’ English is a living language. Shakespeare liked to coin new words too. Got to celebrate it!”

She actually dug herself deeper into the whole by using a phrase I’ve personally never heard before – “wee-wee’d up.” Such abuse of the English language is enough to convince me that Palin is a harbinger of the apocalypse. Unless Harry, Ron, and Hermione can find and destroy all of Dick Cheney’s horcruxes, this might just be the end of the world as we know it.

But I digress!

I think Palin sends several negative messages to young women:

1. It’s okay to be stupid. As long as you look pretty.
2. Playing down any shred of intelligence you may have is alright. People find stupid women charming!
3. Be more concerned with what you’re putting on top of your head than what you’re putting inside.
4. Never take ownership of your mistakes or accept constructive criticism.
5. Be quick to speak and slow to think.

She’s a terrible role model.  And our world is seriously lacking strong female role models for young girls.

It’s not funny anymore. I can’t honestly say I find a single thing about her amusing. I would really, really, REALLY like the Republican party to front one intelligent, educated, articulate female figurehead just to prove that it’s possible. Until then, we’re stuck with Palin and Coulter. That’s enough to keep my feet firmly planted in the Democrats’ camp.

Let’s all ignore her and hope that she goes away. That always worked in grade school…

• Walking city streets unobstructed by umbrellas.
• Good drip coffee. Almost everywhere.
• Quality used bookstores.
• Knowing exactly where to buy obscure groceries.
• Or Chinese take-out.
• Bottles of wine for $5 or less.
• The smell of garlic fries filling Safeco.
• And pouring out of the stadium, onto the street, where it mingles with that of popcorn and beer.
• Poseidon, Lord of the Sea – otherwise know as the Edmonds water temperature guy.
• Mac & Jack’s.
• Bumping into old friends.
• Bumping into new friends.
• Bumping. Generally.
• 24-hour fast food chains.
• Ferry rides in the rain.
• Blustery days.
• Walks through old wood growth on familiar paths.
• Waves from the sound, surging over the breakwater.
• Watching pink sunsets from rooftops.
• Front porch nights bleeding into morning over a smoldering hookah.
• Shoe sales.
• Seashells.
• Soft-serve.
• Rockabilly shows in the park.
• Driving too fast.
• Learning too slow.
• And You.
• All of you.

As relocating to a tropical locale is currently beyond my financial means, I did the next best thing. I purchased a Toy Story Action Heroes Adventure Pool, with which I have created my own backyard oasis. At Toys R Us I had been confronted with the difficult choice between said Toy Story pool and a Lightening McQueen pool, but ultimately chose the former because it came with a canon. Seriously. A canon to which one can connect one’s hose in order to launch water across the yard.  Perhaps the choice wasn’t so difficult after all… In the end, I knew I had made the right choice because I incited envy in the small boy behind me in the check-out line.

“Why can’t I have a pool like that,” He asked his mother.

“I bet that lady’s little boy has been really good,” She replied. “Maybe if you’re really good we can talk about it.”

The little boy switched his attention to me. “Is your little boy really good?”

“I don’t have a little boy,” I admitted.  ”I’m buying this for me.”

He blinked, slightly bemused, and then grinned widely. I’m probably the coolest adult that kid has met in a long time.  In any case, he nodded approvingly.

I’m still a child at heart, and I hope I never lose the ability to sit proudly in my Toy Story pool. Growing up is strange in that regard. As much as we must mature and readjust our goals and priorities as we become responsible, independent adults,  I think it’s important to keep a youthful spirit. But I find the balance a little tricky at times. About two weeks ago, I had a crazy freak-out moment. I realized that, despite taking several educational detours, I may actually graduate next summer. And the thought of it scares the pants off of me.

What the hell am I going to do with an English degree?

Regardless, I had planned to go straight to graduate school after finishing my degree, but I didn’t realize I was going to have to start making the hard decisions about where and when and how quite so soon. I’m stunned, actually.  The scariest thing is that it’s all out of my control. If I can’t get into all the required classes I need, I wont graduate. I almost prefer that idea. Tagging on an additional semester would allow me to finish up three minors; excessive, but it would certainly make it seem as though I’d been very studious over the past couple of years.  I guess I’ll start my grad school applications and leave some room for serendipitous developments; whenever I plan my life too carefully, God laughs and throws me a curve ball.

In the meanwhile, I’ll be finishing my novel and drinking beer in my wading pool. The coolest thing about being an adult is that you don’t have to ask anyone to buy you wading pools or beer. (Okay, maybe those are lower on the top-ten list.)

I just read a very disturbing article from our local news paper, The Surrey Now, about a child pornography case going through the Surrey Provincial Court.  The Now tells us that:

A Surrey dad who sexually molested seven girls under the age 10 – three of them his own daughters among them – and made videos to swap with other men in South Africa, Australia, Toronto and Iowa is facing up to 15 years in prison after pleading guilty to 11 charges involving incest, sexual assault, sexual exploitation, invitation to sexual touching, sexual interference, and making and distributing child pornography…

… Outside court, [Crown Prosecutor] Sandhu said he was particularly disturbed by the way the molester had groomed his victims and counts the case as “certainly” one of the toughest he’s had to deal with.He’s calling for a sentence of 14 to 15 years.“We’re seeking a high sentence,” he said.

You can read more of the story here.

I’m still reeling with the realization that this monster will be back on the streets when I have children one day. He has stolen both innocence and childhood from seven little girls, and the prosecutor is hopeful that he will serve the “high sentence” of 14 or 15 years?  What sort of justice is that?  In 15 years, those little girls will be in their midtwenties; they’ll still have a lot of life to live, carting this baggage along with them.

Apparently, the courts don’t take sexual offenses seriously. In March, the courts allowed a convicted sex offender to move back into his Langley neighborhood, in which one of his victims lives; they also made provision for him to continue his work as landscaper in proximity of children, as long as he is outdoors in daylight. This man exposed himself to two young girls, performed lewd acts in front of them while watching pornography, and invited them to touch him.  He served just four months of his six month sentence. You can read about it on The Province.

These are just two examples of very lenient sentences for very dangerous, sick men.   What I find more concerning is that, after a very thorough google search, I anything useful about a sex offender registry.  In Washington, I believe one could check the registry and knew if an offender was living in one’s backyard. Not so in Surrey!  What I learned tonight is that the sex offender registry is sealed, even to local detachments of the police. Unless the police file an official request pertaining to an active investigation, they don’t have access to the national registry!

Compare the situation in my area to the case of a Gobsonton, Florida offender. This man did not make child pornography, he simply possessed copious amounts of it. He was also found guilty of intent to have sex with a mentally challenged girl. Tampa Bay Online says the following about the case:

He was charged with using a computer to solicit child pornography, two counts of attempted lewd and lascivious battery, and 45 counts of possessing more than 10 images of child pornography.

Cocking faced 1,300 years under state law, but prosecutors said 55 years was the maximum sentence under state sentencing guidelines.

For lesser crimes, the Floridian man faces 55 years in prison.

I’m gravely concerned by the light sentences the offenders in my area receive.  Two messages emerge. First, sexual offenses are not serious in nature. Second, sexual offenders need not fear repercussions of their actions because they will simply get a slap on the wrist.  Both are dangerous messages for our society to proliferate.

I think the following quote from the Florida circuit judge sums up the situation succinctly:

Every time these images are made, a child has been raped, a child has been victimized and a child has lost its innocence. It has to be stopped.

I’m not sure how we put an end to child pornography, but I’m sure it starts with acknowledging the serious nature of the crime and responding accordingly in the court system.

Tonight I tempted fate.  A one-time Twihard, I dangled myself precariously close to the world of vampires and shapeshifters created by the infamous Stephenie Meyer, with hopes I could see the third film in the Twilight franchise without succumbing to the the Twicrack once more. I’m glad to announce I emerged from the cineplex unscathed, although quite startled.  After the train wreck that was New Moon, I had low expectations for Eclipse. I suppose it didn’t help that every trailer released made the film seem unintentionally hilarious.  I anticipated more cheesy “special” effects, gaping plot holes, and a super-sized helping of the world’s worst acting; I was pleasantly disappointed.

For those of you who have taken the high ground and avoided all things Twilight, I’ll summarize the plot briefly:

Bella Swan (Kristen Stewart) is a masochistic, mopey teenager, who leaves her Arizona home after her mother remarries, opting to live with her father in Forks, Washington. Although Bella is nervous about being the new kid at tiny Forks High School, she assures herself that “nobody wants to bite her.” Enter Edward Cullen, vampire extraordinaire. Edward is part of a large vampire family; he has two parents – Carlisle and Esme – and four siblings – Rosalie, Emmet, Jasper, and Alice.  They all have superpowers, like the X-men, but way less awesome. Edward finds Bella irresistible to his vampire appetite, but Bella assumes he’s an ass for avoiding. Then he saves her from a speeding minivan that will surely crush he with a single bound that would make even Superman jealous.  She falls madly in love with the pigheaded, boorish, mopey Edward, despite the fact he is overbearing, overprotective, and overly comfortable climbing through her window to watch her whilst she sleeps obliviously. Perfect, right?  Pretty much, once Bella learns that Edward is a vampire, anyway. Everything is peachy until Victoria, James, and Laurent, three nomadic vampires, pass through Forks. James decides he wants to eat Bella, but Edward is still undecided about whether or not he wants to eat her or date her. Bella must flee Forks while Edward’s family of vampires begin a search and destroy mission to get rid of James. At the end of Twilight, Edward kills James and they all go back to Forks. And they go to the Prom.

New Moon begins with Bella’s birthday party and lots of annoying quotes from Romeo and Juliet. Bella gets a paper cut, which sends Jasper into a feeding frenzy. The logical solution is for Edward to dump Bella and move the entire family out of Forks so that none of them will eat her. Meanwhile, Victoria is plotting revenge. Remember that. Bella sits in a depressive rut until she starts hanging out with Jacob Black, a native american kid with whom she played as a child. Bella continues to play with Jacob, using him as an emotional crutch while Edward is gone. When Alice uses her psychic powers to check on Bella, she sees her cliff diving and wrongly interprets this as Bella committing suicide. (If this is what Bella’s BFF thinks of her, it speaks volumes about her disfunction, no?).  This spurs Edward on to suicide.  He decides to piss of an ancient clan of Italian vampires called the Volturi so that they will destroy him. His plan is to expose his glittering vampire flesh at high noon in the middle of their crowded city streets – a big no-no, duh! – with hopes they will tear him limb from limb. Alice sees that she was wrong and goes to fetch Bella because she is the only one that can stop him!  Together they fly to Italy, steal a Porsche, and catch Edward just in time. They also meet the Volturi. It is decided that Bella must become a vampire, lest she ruin all of vampiredome by knowing their secrets; Edward does not like this.  Neither does Jacob. And then Edward proposes to Bella, which makes perfect sense because they haven’t even graduated high school yet. Jacob runs off in a strop and Bella is adamant that she wont marry anyone right out of high school because everyone will just think she’s knocked up.

Unlike the previous films, Eclipse actually had a sense of cohesion about it.  New Moon [especially] had a scattered feeling to it; characters made massive, life-changing decisions with flimsy motivation (if any was apparent). The few scenes with the broader scope of characters were not enough to chop up the non-performance given by Kristin Stuart.  And it seemed the goal of the special effects department was to continue in the groan-worthy footsteps of Twilight. I really felt that David Slade was able to chip away at these issues and start to form something that resembled a decent film.

It also helped that someone obviously took screenwriter Melissa Rosenberg out for coffee and explained that a lot of people watching the film – parents, big sisters, boyfriends – have never (and will never) read a Twilight book. Shocking concept, I know. Frankly, I expected more from the woman that cut her teeth as a writer on Dr. Quinn: Medicine Woman and Party of Five (sarcasm, I assure you). In any case, coffee was bought and consumed over a riveting conversation which had the desired effect, and Rosenberg wrote the screen adaptation in a way that really explained the backstory and motivation for most of the story.  There is only question I could imagine a Twi-virgin asking the person with whom he attended: “Who are those Volturi people?” And, of course, “Why are those two moderately attractive guys so obsessed with such a mopey, egocentric, masochistic, annoying, homely girl that cannot act?” This is a vast improvement.

As with the prior films, the best acting comes from those in relatively small roles. Billy Burke, who plays Charlie Swan, Bella’s father, steals every scene he’s in. He has great comic timing. And his mustache is pretty legit, too. Ashley Green and Jackson Rathbone play Cullen couple Alice and Jasper; their chemistry is fairly tangible, and it’s fun to watch them together.  Newcomer Xavier Samuel plays Riley Biers, Victoria’s sidekick, and delivers a convincingly painful performance of his transformation to a vampire.  In addition, someone clearly slipped a laxative in Robert Pattinson’s coffee, because he manages to show some emotional range in the film, and – upon a few occasions – actually looks genuinely pained, frustrated, elated, or in love. Perhaps the best casting decision for Eclipse was to replace Rachelle Lefevre (Victoria) with Bryce Dallas Howard. Howard brought a doe-eyed vulnerability to Victoria that added a lot of dimension to the character.

Most importantly, I was entertained. I didn’t expect Eclipse to be a great film. It’s not Oscar worthy. I could rip it to shreds for the negative messages it sends young women or the ridiculous plot line, but that’s entirely beyond the point.  This is not a film one goes to see if one wishes to find food for thought! That would be like drinking Arbor Mist and turning up my nose because it’s not a vintage Shiraz. It’s frivolous fun. And I had frivolous fun watching it! For a film adaptation of Stephenie Meyer’s brainchild, it’s pretty darn good.

My family sucks at picking movies.  If we were in a life or death situation with no way to save ourselves – with exception to choosing a quality film from the OnDemand menu – we would suffer a slow and painful death. We order pizza, pour drinks, and order the world’s worst films; it has become a weekly ritual. With a selection much smaller than that of a traditional Blockbuster set up at our disposal, we wade through unfamiliar titles and allow ourselves to be conned by the enticing plot descriptions.  Tonight, we (to be fair, it was my mother and I) cast our votes for The Good Guy based on the fact Alexis Bledel (Rory Gilmore, herself) was in the leading female role.  Here’s the trailer:

Within the first ten minutes, it made perfect sense that Alexis Bledel has been relatively unemployed since Gilmore Girls came to an end. Bledel doesn’t have the acting chops to make an audience forget awkward, shy Rory Gilmore; she is far from convincing as a Manhattan career type.  The plot picks up as Rory (er, um, I don’t even remember her character’s name) is getting serious with her far-too-pretty Wall Street hotshot boyfriend.  Wall Street appears to be the only classy guy at his office of misogynistic salesmen. He also works with Uber-Nerd, whose only personality trait is “niceness.”  Uber-Nerd is the butt of ever office joke; he also wears his blackberry affixed to his belt.  Wall Street coaches Uber-Nerd, hoping he’ll develop some skill with the ladies. Thankfully, Wall Street doesn’t change Uber-Nerd, and it soon becomes clear that Uber-Nerd and Rory are perfect for one another. Only Rory can’t see this because she’s so very enamored with Wall Street.  Rory and Uber-Nerd develop a friendship, and he attends her ladies bookclub, at which they discuss classic literature. Meanwhile, Wall Street and Co. are convinced that Uber-Nerd must be dark and twisty inside – or gay – because there is no way humanly possible that anyone can be that nice.  In actuality, they simply cannot see beyond their own depravity.  Wall Street, we find, has numerous girlfriends; at his lowest point he even hires a hooker when none of them answer his calls.  As Wall Street greets his hooker, Rory meets Kristal (Kristen? Kristy?), his infamous, crazy ex-girlfriend. In a not at all surprising twist, Rory learns that Kristal is actually his current girlfriend. Gasp. This drives her directly into the arms of Uber-Nerd.  The film ends as Uber-Nerd and Rory contemplate a future together and Wall Street uses the pick-up line he offered Rory to hook-up with another unsuspecting, doe-eyed idiot. The End (thank goodness).

The film is littered with some of the worst attempts at foreshadowing I’ve come across since reading Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight (within the first chapter Bella reassures herself that she can attend Forks High because it’s not like anyone wants to bite her).   The book club discussions become a forum for Uber-Nerd to drop one liners towards Rory, such as, “He loved her more than his life. That’s what love is. Everything else is just a distraction. **deep, probing gaze.**”  They read A Good Solider by Ford Madox Ford, and discuss the main character – a former solider, just like Uber-Nerd – and his decision to shatter his perfect facade by making a play for his friend’s girl; at this point Rory informs us that she got halfway through reading the book and realized that she was far too trusting of the narrator and that she believes his story to be utter bull.  Did I mention the fact that Wall Street narrates the film?  (insert facepalm here)

I was even more frustrated by the way that everything in the film was over-done. Wall Street’s friends weren’t just edgy playboys, they punctuated every exclamation with profanity and acted like sexist pigs.  Uber-Nerd wasn’t just a nice, quiet guy – he was a caricature of niceness with few quirks. And his favorite book is Pride and Prejudice. Wall Street wasn’t just a philanderer, he was the Tiger Woods of the financial sector.  The film was completely lacking subtlety and nuance.

Simply put, The Good Guy was absolutely terrible.

Our neighborhood sucks.

On the surface, it looks like a slice of suburban heaven. The craftsman charm is, in actuality, skin deep and entirely misleading.  Under the facade of picket fences, our neighborhood is a breeding grown for illicit behavior.  The following has occurred within a one block radius of my home in the past 10 months:

• A marijuana grow-op, resulting in the seizure of a home
• Marijuana use on the lawn at the side of my house by two men I’ve never seen before
• A police raid on a garage apartment; we presume this was drug-related
• A motorcycle DWU that resulted in a woman being airlifted to a trauma center
• Two (or was it three?) arson fires in the extension of our development currently under construction
• Our neighbor’s basement tenant beat the snot out of his girlfriend while I watched in horror
• A fatal stabbing
• And – today – a man was shot. Twice. We don’t know why, and the police still have the street closed.

This list ignores the moderately annoying this we deal with on a constant basis… young garage apartment tenants partying until 3 am, punk kids smashing windows in the retail construction two blocks away, graffiti, littering…

This is my neighborhood:

(I choose to ignore the fact that the woman arrested as a person of interest does not look like the sort that would shoot someone.  I’m sure the Surrey RCMP know exactly what they’re doing. )

Regardless, I feel like I’m living with all the hazards of the “hood” without any of the soul.  There’s nobody sitting on the stoop, there’s no hip hop, there’s no double dutch in the street, there’s no fire hydrant spraying a crowd of kids on the hottest day of the year. Perhaps that’s an idealized image that hollywood fed me, but if I have to live constantly looking over my shoulder, I would far rather live in a thriving metropolis than an apathetic suburban cesspool.  In the eleven years we lived in Seattle, we didn’t witness anything close to the crime that is practically in our backyard.

And I suppose it doesn’t help that I’ve been feeling exceptionally home sick lately.

A Utah woman has filed a suit against Google, claiming the web giant is responsible for her recent accident. Lauren Rosenberg used Google Maps to find walking directions on her blackberry device, and then disengaged any cognitive faculties that she may (or may not) posses in order to follow them along a busy highway with no sidewalks.   The case states that:

Defendant Google, through its “Google Maps” service provided Plaintiff Lauren Rosenberg with walking directions that led her out onto Deer valley Drive, a.k.a. State Route 224, a rural highway wit no sidewalks, and a roadway that exhibits motor vehicles traveling at high speeds, that is not reasonably safe for pedestrians.

The Defendant Google expects uses of the walking map site to rely on the accuracy of the walking directions given….

As a direct and proximate cause of Defendant Google’s careless, reckless, and negligent providing of unsafe directions, Plaintiff Laren Rosenberg was led onto a dangerous highway, and was thereby stricken by a motor vehicle…

In case you were wondering if this case had any legitimacy, I found a few pictures that have been popping up across the interwebs…

This is the highway along which Rosenberg chose to walk:

And here are the Google Maps directions, which clearly warn that the walking directions are still in beta stage and may be inaccurate and potentially hazardous:

“But the interwebs told me to!” has never – and will never – be a legitimate excuse for idiocy. At what point did it become acceptable to shut off common sense?  This is Darwinism in action – survival of the fittest.  Unfortunately, Rosenberg survived the accident and will pass on her inferior intellect to the next generation. I can’t help but feel as though some great injustice has thus been committed. (Harsh, perhaps?)

I have a sneaking suspicion that what really happened that fateful day was similar to this news item from last summer: