How Facebook Came to be the Most Depressing Place on Earth

I’m not quite sure exactly what happened, when the tipping point was, but Facebook is really starting to harsh my mellow these days.  It is depressing as hell over there. Between dentists decapitating lions, black motorists dying after traffic stops, and political hijinks, I’ve about had it.

The thing is, none of these things are new.  Wealthy men with small penises have always opened their wallets wide to get help putting a new animal head on the wall of their man cave.  Racism in our criminal justice system is not something “on the rise,” as its been the norm for as long as our criminal justice system has existed.  And politicians just suck, everyone knows that.

Maybe part of the problem is that Facebook allows me to know things about people I love dearly or just met once or twice.  In a different era, I might not be privy to where my acquaintances stand on controversial issues like choice, marriage equality, or the displaying of the Confederate flag.  Now I know.  Because they tell me.  Often.

I am just as guilty.  Facebook has become the ultimate bully pulpit.  I use it myself to raise funds for pediatric cancer research, rail about the state of public education, and try and educate folks about America’s unhealthy and dangerous obsession with guns.

Here is a sampling of my own posts from the past few weeks:

Heading to my son’s school for an evening meeting. Thanks to Obama, Duncan, Rahm, and the CPS powers that be, it feels like I’m heading into a crime scene. And, yes, I do hold Obama partially responsible. His education policy truly sucks.

Bobby Jindahl tells us that what we can do for the victims of tonight’s theater shooting is send our prayers and hugs. I respectfully disagree. We can start to demand shock and outrage at these continued shootings.

And my kid now has a 7:30 AM start time for his CPS school. That means a 5:45 AM bus pick up for some classmates. This is not good. Not good at all. All to save $ that was squandered by politicians. But I guess we all need to make sacrifices, right?

We have lost any sense of collectivism or social responsibility. We embrace this mentality of taking care of our own, and no others.

My guess is that many of my “friends” find me insufferable, politely scrolling past my Facebook activism, believing that our connection from grade school or cancer circles or blogging merits me remaining on their friend list, just as I do with them.

And the thing that strikes me as the most oppressive is the indignity we all seem to have, again, including myself in this.  The shaming, the outrage, the hell fire and brimstone response to everything that happens.  Everything, big and small. Facebook’s currency is making mountains out of mole hills.

Here’s an example.  Cecil, the feline national treasure of Zimbabwe, is stalked and killed by a dentist from Minnesota. People are outraged.  An actress posts the dentist’s address on Twitter.  He is almost universally reviled (at least on my feed).  Cue the contrarians. Now a whole other set of folks are outraged that the dentist outrage is so out of control.  Where is the outrage about street violence in America?  Where is the outrage about violence committed by cops?  Where is the outrage about hunting closer to home?

It goes on and on and on, the outrage.

Caitlyn Jenner is crowned with an award certifying her courage in the midst of her transition from man to woman.  Cue the contrarians. Where is the courage award for veterans who have lost limbs?  Where is the courage award for young women basketball players struck down by pediatric cancer?  Where is the courage award for [insert cause of choice here]?

Witnessing this outrage and indignity is unhealthy and oppressive.  Seriously.  It is depressing and heavy and ugly and fills our hearts with goop, and not the expensive Gwyneth Paltrow kind.

Human nature, it seems, can be kind of awful.

I need a break.  It used to be that people complained about the nightly news.  “If it bleeds, it leads,” was the saying.  But, the thing is, that evening news was contained.  It was an active decision to turn on the news at 5:30 or 6 or 10 or 11 to learn about the world around you, near and far.

These day, just the mere act of trying to stay connected with friends and family places you in this arena of ick that is Facebook.  We have all somehow decided to slog through the muck of black lives matter/all lives matter, cops suck/cops are heroes, the sky is falling for Confederates/Chicago public school kids/the Supreme Court/Christians/etc.

Staying in touch with one another never required so much fortitude.  And I’m pretty certain this is not what our forefathers hashed out in the Constitution.  Oh wait.  That’s another discussion entirely.

See, that’s the thing.  Everything has gotten all jumbly-wumbly.  A person’s concern about animal cruelty really can be separate and apart from their also present concern about local gun violence. Cops can, it turns out, be both good or bad, and they are also allowed to be individuals, meaning one bad cop does not condemn an entire profession.

This constant exposure to anger, outrage, shame, indignity, and Kardashians cannot be healthy for any of us.  Why, then, do we stick around?

  • I stick around because it’s where I learn that a fellow set of Cancer Parents who also lost a little daughter to cancer are traveling home from China with their newly adopted daughter.
  • I stick around to see how that micro-preemie is doing since she was discharged from the hospital.
  • I stick around to celebrate my friend’s kids graduating kindergarten and junior high and high school and college.
  • I stick around to learn about a mother in Chicago’s south side who has created a grassroots band of other mother’s who sit in lawn chairs on dangerous street corners every afternoon in an attempt to curb gun violence, believing that no one will shoot a gun under a mother’s watchful eye, even if it is not their mother.
  • I stick around to share my blog posts that I work hard to ensure are not all doom and gloom and, hopefully, contain words that inspire and help people feel connected to one another.
  • I stick around to nurture virtual friendships made with people I would have never, ever encountered in my typical day-to-day life.
  • I stick around to keep in touch with cousins that live in Las Vegas and Virginia and Ireland — folks I might never see again in person, but whom I care about and value and treasure.
  • I stick around because a friend in Amsterdam I have only met a handful of times posts some of the most life affirming photos of flowers I have ever seen.
  • I stick around because when I am writing a blog post about children’s literature, I can tap one of several Facebook friends who just happen to be children’s lit authors.  How cool is that?

Okay.  It’s sunshine and lollipops for you, folks, just for slogging through this blog post. No rainbows, though, because Facebook reminds me that rainbows are now considered controversial symbols of the evils of marriage equality, and I am not jumping on that outrage bandwagon.

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Facebook isn’t always easy, but it is, most likely, how you came to find my words, how you came to learn about my dear daughter Donna, how we manage this connection we have, close or distant, near or far, friend or acquaintance.

Damn you, Zuckerberg, I fear I will never be able to quit you.

When a Cake Is More Than a Cake

This post is part of ChicagoNow’s monthly “Blogapalooza” hour wherein bloggers are given a prompt at 9:00 pm and required to post their words by 10:00 pm.  Here is this month’s prompt:

“Write about a time you lost your temper or somebody lost their temper at you.”

I have been feeling bereft lately.  For days, really.  It is a whole lot of not fun.  I am so tired of being sad.  Or mad.  It feels like I sort of ping pong between those two emotions as of late.  My poor husband is left as a witness to the worst tennis match ever:  Sad, Mad, Sad, Mad, Sad, Mad, Sad, Mad, Sad, Mad, and Sad wins by a hair.

Last Monday, Mad won out and it is still sticking with me.  That day happened to be the should be/would be birthday for our daughter, Donna.  Donna’s 10th, to be exact.  I will be the first to admit that even six years in to this whole grief thing, I don’t have a clue about how to celebrate the birthday of our dead child.  Not.  A.  Clue.

In the end, I let our older son stay home from camp.  We made a day of it and went to the zoo together.  We came home and napped together.  My husband got home from work and we decided to eat out.  Noodles & Co., because it was Donna’s favorite. Cheesy noodles make everything better, right?

Not exactly.  The restaurant, despite being almost empty, was a dirty pit.  Food and paper all over the floor.  Tables needing to be bused.  The drink station was filthy.  The food came out lukewarm, meaning the cheese never even melted.  It was depressing as hell on an already depressing day.

A young man passed our table.  I took a stab at it and guessed correctly that he was the manager.  He was, indeed, the manager.  I politely registered my complaints, pointing out the dirty tables and floors adjacent to our table.  I told him about the drink station needing attention.  I showed him how the cheese on our son’s macaroni-and-cheese orders was just clumping, as the noodles were not hot enough to melt it.

The manager looked at me and replied, with a tight smile, that corporate was responsible for the cheese sauce.  Um.  What?  I smiled back and told him that the noodles, including my own, were not warm enough to melt the cheese.  He finally got it.  “Oh,” he said, “We check our temperatures regularly in the kitchen.”

Okey dokey, manager not doing your job.

I smiled at the young man.  I was weary and sad and tired.  “Thank you for listening,” I said, and left it at that.  Yuck.  Was he dense or defensive or obtuse or simply 24?  I didn’t know and I didn’t care.  The meal was less than ideal, as was our day.  It wasn’t his fault my daughter had died of cancer.  It was his fault his restaurant sucked, but he didn’t seem to care and I didn’t want to argue.

After we left there we stopped by the grocery store to pick up a small cake.  I’ve gotten cakes at the same store for years because they sell nicely decorated 5″ cakes that won’t sit around my counter for a week reminding me of how awful it is to celebrate the birthday of a child who is no longer with you.

Donna's cake was just like the pink and green one in the middle row, except teal and yellow.  A cheerful cake for a girl no longer here.
Donna’s cake was just like the pink and green one in the middle row, except teal and yellow. A cheerful cake for a girl no longer here.

I hate to name names, but the grocery story chain rhymes with Schmariano’s.  This is a small chain who stakes their reputation on customer service.  They are different from the rest, they say, and, for the most part, they are.  It’s a pleasant shopping experience there.

I left the family waiting in the car and ran in just to get the cake.  There were three left to choose from.  I chose the teal cake with the large yellow bloom on top.  It was pretty, and happy, and didn’t look like frosted depression.

A young woman assisted me.  It was easy to see her trying out a couple of different boxes.  She settled on a square one when I noticed her manager whisper in her ear.  It was easy to tell the manager was directing her to a different box.

The young gal (whose name rhymes with Machel) didn’t heed her manager’s advice and brought the box to me at the counter.  She greeted me with a disclaimer, “This box is too small, but you can see that I taped it so that the top will not touch the frosting.”

Well, before I had even touched the box, it was clear that the frosting had already been smushed, as could be seen through the cellophane window.  I asked for a different box, please, as clearly, the cake was damaged before I had even left the counter.  “There must be a properly sized box back there to accommodate this sized cake.  Please, I want it to look nice,” I gently pushed, confirming I was no pushover.

Machel turned away from me in a huff with the cake, walked to the back counter where she clearly said something nasty about me to two of her bakery coworkers, who promptly looked up from their work and simultaneously snickered in my direction.

What in the fuck just happened?  Did she just do that?  In front of me?  Oh, no, no, no.

She had.  My sad and my mad collided and exploded in that moment.  I had had enough.  “What did you just say about me?” I called out to her.  Machel looked the other way.  Then she walked away.  Then she started taking care of another customer.

There, at the bakery counter of Schmariano’s, I wanted to scream.  I wanted to cry.  I wanted to wail and wail and wail and wail at all of it.  I wanted to slap Machel six ways to Sunday.  I wanted everyone within a 20 foot vicinity to know what had just happened and that it was not okay.  I wanted to crawl into a hole.  I wanted to cry.

I did none of that.

Instead, I asked someone else for help.  A young man took over and within about two minutes he had packaged up the cake properly.  I asked for the young woman’s name. I asked why she was no longer helping me.  “Machel,” he said.  “She’s rude to everyone,” he whispered to me, then apologized.

Machel did not know why I was buying a cake.  She had no idea what was happening in my own little slice of the universe.  She was just a mean and nasty person in that moment.  She chose to be.  Why?  I don’t know.  Maybe she too was grieving.  Maybe she just got dumped.  Maybe she was feeling sick to her stomach.  Maybe she has a strong aversion to middle aged ladies with curly hair and glasses.

I don’t know what Machel’s problem was and I don’t care.

With my cake in hand, I went to go pay for it, making a beeline for the customer service desk on the way.  I calmly explained the situation to the two store managers there. Both apologized profusely.  One left immediately to talk with Machel.  The other comped me the cake, hoping the experience would not keep me from shopping with them in the future.

And then, I cried.  I didn’t mean to.  The tears came, just a few, but they were unmistakable.  I told him why I was there to buy a cake and how the mere act of walking up to that bakery counter took every ounce of strength I had.  I hoped Machel would do better and learn not to be so nasty.  I had just freaking played the grieving mother card.

Sigh.  Oh, yes I did.

Today, for the first time in nine days, I went back to Schmariano’s.  I didn’t see Machel, but that brief bakery exchange did come flooding back while I was there.  I felt icky. Unkind.  Sad.  Who wants to feel all of that while standing in line to pay for cheese and cilantro and limes?

I had just about convinced myself I would never return to that store again, when, as I was leaving, I ran into the manager I had confided in last week.  He recognized me, it seemed, because when he said, “How are you?” he cocked his head and seemed to actually care.

45 Minutes

Time is a subjective thing.  For some, 45 minutes is a lifetime.  For others, 45 minutes is a blip, little more than a blink.  45 minutes in a dentist’s chair is absolutely different than 45 minutes at a party. And 45 minutes in a car on the way there definitely feels longer than the 45 minute car ride home.

This morning I got to spend 45 minutes on the beach with my youngest.  He’s a handful, this guy.  When I would watch other moms chase after a very active toddler, I would always refer to the child as “busy,” as in, “Wow!  He’s a busy one!”  After raising two not terribly busy toddlers, I finally got a busy one.

It’s delightful.  And exhausting.  Delightfully exhausting.

He loves the water, my little guy.  I love watching him play in the water.  He is focused when near the water, happy and content to just splash away the minutes.  Today we splashed away 45 minutes.  It looked a little something like this:

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For 45 blissful minutes, I didn’t think about anything other than being on the beach with my busy boy.  Childhood cancer didn’t enter my thoughts, not even once.  Grief wasn’t at my side. My ‘to do’ list wasn’t an issue.  The moms with nannies I will surely annoy with an upcoming blog post didn’t factor into those moments.  Menu planning and bill paying and blog organizing would all have to wait.  Gun violence in Louisiana and Georgia and even my own neighborhood could do without my worries for a little while.

For 45 minutes this morning I was at the beach with my boy and that was all that mattered.  What a gift in this crazy, busy, harsh life we all seem to lead. Even the water was with me, it was gentle and calm, barely a ripple breaking its surface.

Aaahhhhhhhh.  So this is what peace feels like.

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In these rare moments of stillness and quiet without distractions, you are gifted with noticing sea gull prints in the sand, or how the sun glistens just so on the water.  You have the space to think about the riches in your life that have nothing to do with money.  You breathe the gratitude in and exhale your thanks out slowly, fully.

After a while, though, you feel hot.  Unpleasantly hot.  And a little sticky, too.  Is that pink on your son’s legs?  Hmmmm.  Should I reapply sunscreen, or gather up our things, wrangle a sure to be annoyed toddler, and head for home? A good indication that it’s time to leave is when the heaviness of climate change dictates your next move.

And just like that, snap, your 45 minute allowance of peace and gratitude is over.  But it was lovely, wasn’t it?  It was.

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