Category: Slice ‘o Life

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When Facebook Sucks

You a Sex and the City fan?  I was.  I always wanted to be a Carrie, but was instead a Charlotte, with a sprinkle of Miranda to cut the sweetness.  Being a Charlotte is a little bit like height — it just is and you can’t really change it.  I could dress like Samantha, but it wouldn’t make me any more bold.  It would just make me look silly.

Back to Charlotte.

Truth be told, I loved Charlotte.  She was hilarious.  Charming, prudish, but with more than a hint of naughty, a proper girl who didn’t judge and always hoped for the best.  Do you remember when she miscarried?  She was newly pregnant, miscarried pretty quickly, and then sank into days and days of bad television.  Faced with the first birthday party of Miranda’s son, she couldn’t go.  It was too hard.  She couldn’t face celebrating the birthday of a baby when she mourned her own.

I get it.

I am struggling right now, for a lot of reasons, but adoption is one of them. Adoption is hard.  Many things in life are hard, I know, but this is one of my challenges right now.  We are waiting to adopt.  And there isn’t a damn thing to do about it, but wait and hope.  So wait and hope we do.  But it’s hard. Facebook makes it harder.

Today I logged on to find that two acquaintances just learned they are pregnant.  With twins!  Scrolling further down, I see a friend’s enormously pregnant belly with a pint of ice cream resting on top.  Yum!  And, oh yes, the ultrasound photos.  There are lots of those.  Did I ever mention that three of my four miscarriages were detected in ultrasounds?

So pardon me, please, if I wallow for a bit as I have done today.  I do NOT want to be that woman — you know the one cause you all have one in your life — the woman you are afraid to share your good news and fortune with because you know she wants nothing more than the same good news and fortune and it just ain’t happening for her.  Ugh.  I am now, officially, at least today, THAT WOMAN.

I hate being that woman.  I do.

I want to share in your joy, I want to applaud all the new life and growing families and hope and love that these new babies will bring.  I do.  I really do. And most every day I can.  Today, I am struggling.  I hate to admit that, but it’s true.

Facebook, such a staple in my life, is not always good for me.  Sometimes, it makes my life harder.  Completely unintentionally, but still harder.  My friends and family should post their joys on their feeds, just as I post mine.  And their joys should not lead to my sorrow.  But sometimes they do.

I am not proud of that.  And I wish I could change it, but in all honesty, I probably can’t, at least not today.  My best bet, for now, is to step away for awhile.  Build up my reserves, replenish my strength, lick my wounds, pick up a book and put down my keyboard.  Stop obsessing about surprise pregnancies and babies and growing families and waiting, waiting, waiting.

UGH.

Damn you, Facebook.  So much of you I love, but parts of you I hate.  You bring out both the best and worst in me.  I can be witty and inspired and impassioned on Facebook, but you can also make me feel small, petty, and isolated.  It’s hard to lick your wounds when every time you open your lap top you’re faced with news that for a million different reasons you will view from your own personal lens, even when it has not a fig to do with you.  Not a fig. Which, strangely, is the size of the eleven week old fetuses my friends keep posting photos of on Facebook.

Not so confidential note to friends:  You know I love you.  Forgive me my transgressions.  I still want that shower invitation.  

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I Blame Andy Cohen for the Downfall of Humanity

This is Andy Cohen.  I am certain you know him, even if you don’t recognize him.

You so wacky, Andy! But why, oh why, do you hate humanity so much?
You so wacky, Andy! But why, oh why, do you hate humanity so much?

A nice Midwestern boy who made it big in the Big Apple, he’s adorable, really.  And I’m certain he would make an excellent brunch date.  The thing is, Andy here is shaping America’s pop culture and pandering to the lowest base of our collective junior high unconscious where the girls are mean and calculating and the boys are stupid lunkheads.

As the Executive Vice President of Development and “Talent” at the Bravo cable network, Andy is who we have to thank for the Real Housewives juggernaut.  And here is where I out myself as an avid watcher of the Real Housewives.  I can’t go so far as to call myself a fan, cause that just ain’t true, but, yes, an avid watcher is an accurate description.

I can’t quite pinpoint when my fascination started, but it’s been a few years. I’ve seen the OC, the NJ, the ATL, the NYC, and the BH.  Miami and DC? Snooze.  My favorite joke is that Real Housewives of Schaumburg is just moments away from pre-production.  That is how ubiquitious this franchise is.

And it doesn’t stop with the Real Housewives.  Oh no, it goes on and on.  We can thank Mr. Cohen for these gems, too:

  • Shahs of Sunset – follows the liquor fueled exploits of privileged and entitled Iranians/Persians living in LA.  Oh, yeah, and most of them have anger management issues.
  • Married to Medicine – follows the lives of two Atlanta doctors and four ‘doctors wives’ and uses that term with no irony whatsoever.  Oh, yeah, and most of them have anger management issues.
  • The Millionaire Matchmaker – follows Patti’s Stangers’ dating service exclusive to millionaires and assholes, many with anger management issues.
  • The Rachel Zoe Project – follows the life of an angry celebrity stylist turned fashion designer — it’s bananas!
  • LA Shrinks – follows therapy of the rich and vapid, some with, yes, you guessed it, anger management issues.

Oy.  I lost brain cells just compiling that list.  And, yes, these shows really exist.

Why, Andy?  Why?  You’re smart, personable, charming, have a solid background in news production and crafting some of the most entertaining NPR commentaries on pop culture I can remember.  Why you do us like this?  Your programming is now just leaving a bad taste in my mouth.  I worry you hate women.  I worry you hate middle and working-class folks.  What is with your sick obsession with wealthy people who behave worse that the barbarians on Game of Thrones?

These are honest questions that would make for a fascinating dissertation.

If television, even the “docusoap” format that most of the Bravo shows follow, is meant to be reflective of our larger culture, then, I am sorry, my friends, but we are fucked.  Royally and in loudly colored clothing, often with a peplum and a heaping dose of silicone.

Bravo’s cameras cast a bright light on dysfunction.  The shows feature drugs and alcohol, violence, adultery, divorce, abuse, neglect, deadbeat parents, family drama, bankruptcy, suicide, lawsuits and a laundry list of more sins of the week.  Lots of you might be saying right about now, lighten up, Mary Tyler Mom, it’s entertainment!  All in good fun, you know?  Sheesh, get a life.

When I first got hooked, my daughter was going through cancer treatment and I saw these shows as escape.  Reading took too much effort in the state I was in, so Bravo offered what books could not — mindless, easy, escape. Sigh.  And let me be the first to admit that part of the attraction, I think, was the fact that watching these shows made me feel superior in some way.  I always had the moral high ground, you know?  If news was rough and our daughter was relapsing, I could turn on Bravo and 43 minutes later feel that at least someone had it worse than me.  Even if that someone was wealthy and lived in southern California.  My daughter might be dying of cancer, but at least I wasn’t full of silicone and botox and ignoring my kids while wondering if my husband was having an affair with the bitch who lived in the next sub-division, all while wearing Lululemon in my spinning class, my weave unmoving and strangely perfect.

Yeah, I’m not proud of that.

I still feel the call of Bravo on a sad day.  The programs numb me, which is oddly comforting.  And alarming.  How and why do I find grown women cat fighting and dishing about each other’s philandering husbands or fake breasts or tanking businesses or failing children or foreclosed upon homes comforting?  How?  Why?

And this is where it’s easy to blame Andy Cohen.  He bets on viewers like me.  He caters to our sadness and sense of feeling overwhelmed in the day-to-day.  “You having a bad day, Sweetie?  Sit down, Mama, ” he purrs, “Put your feet up.  Here’s the remote and I’m gonna go get you a Coke and peanut butter egg.”

Oh, Mr. Cohen, you know me too well.  Damn you.  Now where is that Coke?

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Lost and Found: Read This Post If You Need Your Faith Restored in Humanity

I lost my phone yesterday.  I sure did.  In the midst of an epic-ly bad afternoon (more on that tomorrow), I lost my phone.  Had it in my lap in the car and when I got out, that sucker just tumbled onto Lincoln Avenue.  I didn’t realize it at the time, of course.  I worried about it an hour or so later, but was in no position to go looking for a phone that may or may not already be gone.

My phone is like a lifeline to me.  It helps me connect to the things I need to do while I am busy mothering.  I have conducted radio interviews while driving to an aunt’s funeral in Michigan.  I have finalized really important charity decisions while hoping that folks on the other end of my emails, texts, and calls have no idea that I am sitting in a diner eating pancakes with my kid. I document my family life, my mothering life, my Pinterest fails with the camera.  Instagram provides me with photography skills I never thought possible.  I heart my phone.  Too often, I think, certainly Mary Tyler Dad would agree, the phone looks like an extension of my hand.

You get the point.

And yesterday it was gone, lost.  And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.  I was with my boy at his very first soccer class.  Important stuff, yo. He didn’t care about my lost phone.  My panic was not shared and I opted for his joy over my anxiety.  It felt very Zen, actually, the choice to go to the park after soccer class rather than run to the car where the phone might be. And it was a choice.  Because I had backed up my latest photos, I thought everything else could be replaced.  There was an undercurrent of worry at the park, but it was bright and sunny and we were happy outside.

When we got home, though, I made a beeline for our land line.  And yes, we still have a land line.  Cord and everything.

If my corded land line din't tip you off that I am getting older, maybe the bread box or fish oil might convince you.
If my corded land line din’t tip you off that I am getting older, maybe the bread box or fish oil might convince you.

I called my number, one of a very few cell phone numbers I actually remember, and waited.  RING, RING, RING.  A man’s voice picked up on the fourth ring.  “Um, I think you have my phone,” I said breathlessly.  I was expecting to be taunted, or blackmailed, or hung up on.  “I do,” the voice said.  He had found it on Lincoln Avenue, just where I had dropped it while so distracted by my kids and worries.  He had my phone.  Better yet, somehow, I don’t even know how, he had already made arrangements with my husband to pick it up in ten minutes.

WOW.  WOWWWWW, WOWWW, WOW!  WOWZY WOW WOW!

My phone was lost and now it was found.  There were a few moments of nervous jokes about hoping my husband wasn’t walking into an ambush, but they were just jokes.  I was breathing easier.  Life was better.  My phone was found.

I quickly called my husband and asked him to snap a photo of the finder, Brian, his name was.  Please!  I wanted to see the face of the voice and the kind person who had found the phone and taken the time to retrieve it and get it back to me.  And I encouraged Mary Tyler Dad to offer some $ as a thank you.

With phone found and plans made for its return, I got the boy settled and opened up the old lap top.  Clicking on Facebook, I saw that Brian, the phone finder, had left a status as me, “”I found your phone Sheila. Call me or text me at XXX-XXX-XXXX or call your phone if you would like it back.”  Simple as that.  You GOTS to love Facebook!  My friends started texting Brian thank yous and better yet, he returned the texts.  This is a fine, upstanding young man we have here.

Besides having a land line, I also think about kids in their 20s as “kids” and using the phrase “fine, upstanding youngsters” definitely says something about me.  Whatever.  My phone is back and I have this young man to thank.  He didn’t have to stop what he was doing to pick up my phone.  He didn’t have to leave his cell phone number on Facebook to get word out that he had it.  He didn’t have to make it so easy to retrieve.  But he did.  And I am grateful.  And I hope his parents know what a fine job they did.

Brian -- phone finder and as my Dad would say, "A gentleman and a scholar."
Brian — phone finder and as my Dad would say, “A gentleman and a scholar.”

Thank you, Brian!  Honest to goodness, your kind gesture helps me feel better about the world at large.  To be on the receiving end of someone else’s Good Thing, just feels GOOD.

Has something happened to you that restored your faith in humanity?  Tell me about it in the comments.  We could all use a lift every now and then.  

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