It probably happens to you. Some say it's no big deal, and perhaps it isn't, but when someone "friend requests" you and you have no idea who they are, what do you do?
Facebook is stuck in my craw lately.
Going to a high school of 4,000, I ran into a lot of people. That doesn't mean we spoke. Following it up with I.U., I certainly met--or at least saw--a lot of faces from Indy (Kokomo, Greenwood and Columbus don't count) and "Chicago" (most kids in college who said they were from Chicago were actually from Northern IN, or a Chicago suburb, pop. 12,000).
In today's world I get weekly friend-requests from unfamiliar people. Perhaps I knew them when...but I don't know them now. Facebook will claim that we have 15 or 16 mutual friends, but when I refer to the list, I usually can't remember those people, either. Do I ignore the request? Should I have ignored the other requests? Do I accept the friend request to push my numbers up so that it seems like I know a lot more people that I really don't know? Do I want to see photos of kids whose parents I can't remember? Do I care?
Oh shit, wait: I don't really care.
My husband is a master of snubbing people he can't remember, never really liked, or wants to rid from life. I gasp: Won't that crush their delicate feelings? and he replies, "So what?"
So, because of my terrible memory for faces and names, and because it feels like strangers going through my closets, I'm gonna have to let the snubbing begin. In advance, I apologize.
I feel lighter already. One to go.
Facebook went public this week and their stock isn't selling well: I'll tell you why. It's because of people who put things like this on their status update:
Please pray for us.
For days I pray. I pray and pray and pray; meanwhile, I'm messaging that person (who I really can't remember): What's wrong? Who am I praying for? I need more details!
No response.
By this time, hundreds of people have posted things like, "I'm so sorry!" or "Let me know how I can help!" and I'm still shrugging my shoulders asking, "What the hell happened? And...who are you? Did we have a class together?
Shit.
A few days later a new post appears:
Thank you for all of the prayers and support. We're on our road to recovery.
with no...freaking...explanation.
From now on people of this nature will be deleted from my beloved book. The people I don't know can go bother someone else with whom they maybe had French class (although I skipped that class a lot, which could help explain a lot of this mess...).
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Wednesday, May 02, 2012
A Breath of Fresh Air
If my blog were an infant strapped inside a hot car while I ran into the grocery for a couple of things, I'd be arrested.
The rains have let loose, and there are ants inside my mailbox. I'll give them 48 hours to find new digs or they're going to have an unmemorable spring.
As I snack on green bean crisps (which Sam says are "totally gross") and sip wine, I reflect on recent happenings, spectacles and things that made me laugh really hard.
I'll begin with the latter. Matt used a jackhammer over the weekend to take out our front, God-awful-ugly sidewalk. Stomach-aching laughter....but cute, dat. I couldn't be near him, truth be told, due to the continuous giggling. Instead, I dug a new line around the house for the flower beds, ripping out grass and thick dirt with my bare, farm-raised hands. I love back-breaking work. Matt left a jagged pile of cement debris, and returned the jackhammer to the store. We both relaxed with a glass of water and a jar of Aleve.
Today, Sam and I started picking up the pile of rubble. We looked like a chain gang out there mindlessly tossing rocks into buckets. Some neighbors passed by with their dog, snickering in that we've-already-finished-our-work tone, "Having fun?" Sam responded by shouting, "We're picking up rocks. My dad isn't really a good worker." Oh my God, I laughed so damned hard.
As for spectacles, Matt and I saw Dwight Yoakam at the Palladium, one of the most fru-fru venues on the planet, and a fight broke out. In Carmel, Indiana. At the Palladium. Penny loafers and tassled leather shoes were flying everywhere. The Republican Party had never seen such nonsense in their lives! It was pretty brilliant. Well done, drunk assholes.
And, the haps. Sam began Little League, and he's doing quite well. Seems he's got a little 'Brooks' in his blood (my nephews are astonishingly good at baseball). He's sooooo into it, sleeps with his glove, wears his uniform day and night, and when other kids mess around on the field, Sam looks at them like, "Dude, we're in the middle of something here..."
He's a lefty, and the kid can hit. His team is the Boston Red Socks, unfortunately, but luckily he looks divine in red. The practices and games have been nothing short of hell frozen over here in the Midwest, due to erratic weather behavior, but it's fun to see him participating, fielding some grounders, twirling when he's bored.
And lastly, we adopted a 5-yr-old bloodhound/coonhound mix from the Indy Humane Society. It was that or a pitbull, but Matt said that all pitbulls should be eradicated from Earth, and I second that emotion. Our dog is awesome, and I love hearing Sam say, "Here boy...here good, good, good, good boy..." Aww. He came with the name Waylon, but I've taken to calling him Longfellow.
When we're away, Longfellow whines for us. Sam calls it squeaking. We pull into the garage and Sam says, "I'm sure my dog has been squeaking for me all day," and then begins calling "Here good, good boy..." This kid! This sweetheart kid. Always amazing me...
Until next time, little bloggey, rest well. I'll keep the window cracked for you.
The rains have let loose, and there are ants inside my mailbox. I'll give them 48 hours to find new digs or they're going to have an unmemorable spring.
As I snack on green bean crisps (which Sam says are "totally gross") and sip wine, I reflect on recent happenings, spectacles and things that made me laugh really hard.
I'll begin with the latter. Matt used a jackhammer over the weekend to take out our front, God-awful-ugly sidewalk. Stomach-aching laughter....but cute, dat. I couldn't be near him, truth be told, due to the continuous giggling. Instead, I dug a new line around the house for the flower beds, ripping out grass and thick dirt with my bare, farm-raised hands. I love back-breaking work. Matt left a jagged pile of cement debris, and returned the jackhammer to the store. We both relaxed with a glass of water and a jar of Aleve.
Today, Sam and I started picking up the pile of rubble. We looked like a chain gang out there mindlessly tossing rocks into buckets. Some neighbors passed by with their dog, snickering in that we've-already-finished-our-work tone, "Having fun?" Sam responded by shouting, "We're picking up rocks. My dad isn't really a good worker." Oh my God, I laughed so damned hard.
As for spectacles, Matt and I saw Dwight Yoakam at the Palladium, one of the most fru-fru venues on the planet, and a fight broke out. In Carmel, Indiana. At the Palladium. Penny loafers and tassled leather shoes were flying everywhere. The Republican Party had never seen such nonsense in their lives! It was pretty brilliant. Well done, drunk assholes.
And, the haps. Sam began Little League, and he's doing quite well. Seems he's got a little 'Brooks' in his blood (my nephews are astonishingly good at baseball). He's sooooo into it, sleeps with his glove, wears his uniform day and night, and when other kids mess around on the field, Sam looks at them like, "Dude, we're in the middle of something here..."
He's a lefty, and the kid can hit. His team is the Boston Red Socks, unfortunately, but luckily he looks divine in red. The practices and games have been nothing short of hell frozen over here in the Midwest, due to erratic weather behavior, but it's fun to see him participating, fielding some grounders, twirling when he's bored.
And lastly, we adopted a 5-yr-old bloodhound/coonhound mix from the Indy Humane Society. It was that or a pitbull, but Matt said that all pitbulls should be eradicated from Earth, and I second that emotion. Our dog is awesome, and I love hearing Sam say, "Here boy...here good, good, good, good boy..." Aww. He came with the name Waylon, but I've taken to calling him Longfellow.
When we're away, Longfellow whines for us. Sam calls it squeaking. We pull into the garage and Sam says, "I'm sure my dog has been squeaking for me all day," and then begins calling "Here good, good boy..." This kid! This sweetheart kid. Always amazing me...
Until next time, little bloggey, rest well. I'll keep the window cracked for you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)