Oh Facebook, Oh Facebook, Wherefore art thou, Facebook?

I have been betrayed by Facebook.  I am a lover scorned.  A woman left at the alter.  A tragic figure of romance unfulfilled.  Facebook has rejected me.  Time and time again over the past few days I log on and log on again, only to be unrecognized - bumped off the system as though the past few years of our relationship never existed at all.  My page is still there.  I can put in my email and password and get the tease of a moment of access.  And then the second I try to comment or reply or move on to the next page, I am told to "log on" and asked, once again, for my credentials, as though I'd ever input them in the first place.  This kind of abject rejection is the cruelest kind of all.  It isn't as though I simply cannot log in.  It isn't as though the system fails to recognize me as ever having been a member.  My page is still there.  My friends are still there.  All traces of my past ardent and very Facebook-friendly activity still remain.  And yet I am bounced out of the inner circle like a girl passed around and then rejected by the members of the varsity football team.  Its like making it to the door of the hippest nightclub in town and never making it past the bouncer.  Or ordering a meal at a restaurant and then dying of starvation for the food that never comes.  Its sad.  Its humiliating.  But mostly its pathetic.  I had no idea how dependent I had become on the network known as "social" - on the book known as "face".  I am a parody of middle age - a woman forced by circumstance to derive great pleasure from her internet relations and access to bits of information that fill in the blanks of an actual social life.

And now, unless I take drastic measures (or figure out what drastic measures to take), I face life without Facebook.  Of course I will try to rectify the situation or hope that it is temporary - a mere blip in the e-universe and not a reflection on me personally.  But, meanwhile, perhaps I'll reach out to those I usually only connect with via internet.  Meanwhile, perhaps I'll read a book or write more posts or contemplate my navel to good effect.  Meanwhile, I will try to remember life before Facebook...

The View From This Side of the Pool

When I was Child Two’s age I had already lived in three different cities and gone to three different elementary schools.  The cities were similar to one another in many ways: each was suburban, each was middle class and each was politically conservative.  And in each, we were anomalous: we were Jews, we were liberal, and we were the only of either for miles around.  The only thing my family had in common with our neighbors was the color of our skin, though I’m sure to the neighbors we were as exotic as anything they’d ever been exposed to.  I grew up with a lot of, “You don’t look Jewish” and “Jews believe in Jesus Christ, right?”

This is what I was pondering as I sat poolside with Child Two over the holiday weekend.  We were in Palm Springs, bouncing between our uber-chic resort and the wildly groovy-cool place our friends checked into.  It struck me, as I sat gazing over the shimmering water of the perfectly heated pool in the middle of the well-groomed property, how different the influences shaping the worldview of Child Two are from those that shaped my own.  I know that sounds obvious and sort of silly – but the profound depth of the difference is worth noting. 

For instance, if you were born in Bakersfield (yes, that is the place of my birth), spent a few years in Edmond, Oklahoma and the rest of your youth in the suburban East Bay, you would probably think that America is comprised mostly of white born-again Christians and well-educated Catholic Asians.  You might think the majority of Americans are Republican and that most pay too much attention to their liquor cabinets and not enough to the whereabouts of their teenagers.  You wouldn’t know much about private school (save the parochial options) and you wouldn't meet anyone who went to an Ivy League school until you were in your twenties.

If, however, you spent your formative years in the world of Child Two, you might have a slightly different worldview.  You might think, for instance, that the world is mostly fashionable, mostly well-to-do, mostly Jewish and mostly gay.  You might not think that you live in a country where 12% of the population is black and 15% Hispanic.  You would not know that you live in a country where one in every eight people rely on food stamps or where almost half the public school population will not graduate from high school.  Nor would you think that Jews actually comprise a relatively small portion of the population.  Instead, you would probably think that most people are well educated, well dressed and inclined to engage in spirited discourse over long meals of plentiful food and wine and that sometimes those meals took place on Shabbat.  It isn’t that Child Two and his peers are unaware of homelessness or bigotry or mediocrity or suffering.  It’s just that they don’t SEE any of those things terribly often.  What they see is a world full of well-dressed women and fabulous men toting little dogs with sweaters. 

So I was thinking about these differences and wondering how they ultimately influence who we are in the world.  Does the world look the same, sound the same, taste the same to each of us and how much of the difference is defined by the sights and smells and sounds of our youth?  And how, in a world of privilege and exclusivity, do we make our children aware of life outside the bubble?  How do we imbue them with a sense of responsibility to engage in the world, to step outside of their box? 

There is no question that my own childhood was a fancy bubble all its own – we wanted for nothing and my parents went to great lengths to make sure that we kids were unaware of whatever struggles they endured to give us a good life.  Culturally, we may have been outsiders in an average world – a living example of statistics at work.  But even in our outsiderness, we were pretty normal – we went to public schools and traveled economy class and had a distinct awareness of wastefulness and saving and that even with all of those things we were so much more fortunate than so many people.

I worry now that as much as Sig Other and I talk to the children about the real world and as much as we try to show the real world, the fact that we don’t actually LIVE in the real world has more influence on their formation than anything else.   Maybe that’s ok.  Maybe a fancy bubble is okay if we’re forming sensitive, caring souls who will someday walk out of the bubble with a sense of responsibility and vision.  I don’t know.  All I know is that today my gratitude is tinged with guilt and the hope that I’m making enough holes in the bubble for Child Two to look through and see the other side with empathy and compassion and a sense of purpose. 

Quotes of 2010

Catching up at work means falling behind in posts but it is at least worth noting that as I sit trying to write about my fancy Palm Springs weekend replete with fabulous gays and their fashionable dogs, my own dear Alpha Dog is engaged in that rather disgusting thing female dogs do when they bury their faces in their own ladyparts and do a bit of cleaning.  She is not wearing a fancy sweater nor is she in a Louis Vuitton carrier but she did get a bit startled when Sig Other looked across the room and shouted, “hey, hey, stop that – how would you like it if I just took out my cock and started masturbating in front of you?” 

And so begins the year with quotable quotes from my colorful beloved and swirly thoughts in my head…

Happy Birthday Sig Other!!!

Day Two of the New Year and my beloved’s birthday!  His dream of riding a century today dashed by a headcold, Sig Other is snuggled in bed with kindle and stack of tissues nearby as we share a quiet moment before the children rise to smother him with birthday hugs and kisses.  In spite of congestion and disappointment, S.O. is charming and adorable as he models his new Hermes birthday hat and poses for a picture with it jauntily atop his smooth crown. 

Day One of the New Year began with the news that Miss Whistle lost her father in law.  We consoled her beloved Minks who sat sobbing poolside with lemonade, a deck of cards and painted fingers – a perfect picture postcard of the moment between girlhood and what lies beyond.  She wondered aloud what one is supposed to do.  There is no handbook for the bereaved.  We talked through the many ways to look at the passing of those we love from both spiritual and scientific points of view.  I’ve no idea if that talk was helpful.  I sense that Child One does not know what to say or do for her friend to ease her pain.  And I realize that in spite of my words and hugs, neither do I.  43 years can grant the wisdom of experience but not necessarily the magic of healing. 

And so we are two days into the new year and already we’ve had grief as well as joy.  In a few more days Child One and Child Two will return to school, I will go back to my office, Sig Other to his and all the while the earth continues to spin.  2010 begins. Some people will die, some will grow older with grace, some less so, our children will continue to grow and amaze us, our lives will continue to challenge and overwhelm us.  And through it all, I will be ever grateful for another year with S.O.

So Happy Birthday, beloved Sig Other, my wonderful husband who gives me the strength and perspective to go through life with a full heart and a modicum of grace.  

R.I.P.

Rose Waldman
1910-2009
aka Great Aunt Rose

All Work and No Play...

I’m dull.  Well, maybe not completely dull.  But duller than I’d like to be.  I have not read the latest Pulitzer Prize winning novel, am not well-versed in any one particular subject, do not have a hobby or sport I’ve mastered through the years.  Mostly what I am right now is stymied by vacation.  I check my blackberry at regular anxiety-filled intervals and cycle my projects through my head in a panic.  What have I forgotten?  What haven’t I done?  What could I be doing that I’m not? And when I’ve done with that exercise, I realize I have slowly, over five years time, become increasingly uninteresting.  Faced with a day of no work obligation I am paralyzed. 

Day One I gave over to Sig Other and his insistence that I learn to shoot.  So we trekked out to Piru (a place where bucolic farmland meets Deliverance) and I learned to handle an HK, a Glock and a Remington.   Turns out I’m a good shot.  I don’t quite get the adrenaline high “yeehaw” of our instructor after shooting the shit out of stuff.  But I’m good at it. 

Day Two was Christmas – Sig Other and I took the dogs to Venice.  Alpha Dog nearly ran off while Beta Dog sad idly by watching Sig Other and I run hysterically after her.  We then harnessed both beasts, put on their Hanukah jingle bells and took them for a long walk by the beach before heading off to an over-indulgent dinner with friends.  On our way we marveled over the number of Jews with Christmas trees and Sig Other raged about how he felt it disrespectful to Christianity to strip their holiday of symbolism. 

And now its Day Three.  Sig Other is off on his bike – he’s in training for the century he’ll ride on his birthday.  Alpha and Beta are sleeping sweetly.  And I’ve begun a novel I’ve wanted to read for weeks now.  The start is unsatisfying.  I realize I’m a little sick of drunk-lit.  Ex-Husbands #1 and #2 were drunks and clearly there was a long period of time when the romance of alcoholism held an intense appeal.  But those days are long past and the self-indulgence of an addict’s tales no longer hold me rapt for long. 

And so I’ve put my book down and am instead focusing on how I got this uninteresting.  I must do something to address this – take up a hobby, find a book I like, explore ways I can expand my brain past the limitations of the everyday challenges it meets.  Wish me luck…

Clocking time.

Great Aunt Rose is in hospice now.  She’s 99.  And she’s dying.  Ninety-nine years.  Imagine the change she’s seen.  She lived through two world wars, the formation of Israel, the assassination of Kennedy, the rise of Frank Sinatra, the discovery of Elvis and the Beatles.  Middle Sister told me that lately, Rose has been talking about how excited she is about Obama.  About how she never thought she’d live to see the day.  It’s very like Rose, to be excited about Obama.  Rose never watched anything but public television and never voted any ticket other than Democrat her whole life. They considered themselves socialists, that side of the family. 

99 years.  For 99 years, Rose has watched as the world transformed around her.  She has thrived as her hair turn from red to grey and as her stride went from brisk to the careful walk of a woman cautious of too many broken bones.  She outlived her parents, her sisters, most of her friends, and of course her beloved nephew – my father.   I wondered today, as I was thinking about Rose, when the world started to look different to her.  In the span of 99 years, what are the watermarks?  When do you start to clock the change in social mores?  When do you take notice of the transition from analog to digital?  When do really see your first wrinkle?  Is there a day?  A year?  Or do these things just start to sneak up on  you?      

For me, it seems that 43 is definitively the year that things look different.  There’s a certain sag to the skin on the front of my upper thighs.  My cheekbones are both more and less prominent depending on the lighting and angle (jowls more emphasized in harsh light and diminished in lower light and from high above).  The list of things that anger me has grown shorter but more profound.  I care more deeply but for fewer people.

And today, one of my girlfriends made a lunch date with me pending bruising from her most recent botox appointment.  Truly.  It seems she bruises easily and her social schedule now revolves around the public unveiling of her face.  If today didn’t go well at Dr. Needle, our lunch would be put off to next week.  I laughed as she told me this and asked what lasts longer, the bruising or the botox.  I knew the answer, of course.  But it seemed right to ask, if only to remind her of the ridiculousness of the situation.  She laughed and said she’d report back.  In a few short hours an email arrived.  Thankfully, the good doctor performed well and we’re meeting for a meal in just a few days time.

There was a time when we girlfriends got together no matter what – when the urgency of our meetings was dictated by boyfriend trouble or job drama and not by the vicissitudes of a paralyzing bacterium.  And there was a time when our skin was tight, our troubles were fewer and we didn’t worry much about the effect of a second glass of wine on our ability to rise early in the morning.  There were no husbands then.  And no children.  No complicated scheduling and no one to worry about but ourselves.  And there were no sweet requests for a tuck in or a snuggle late at night. 

The tautness of our skin yields to time.  Life gets more complicated.  And more difficult.  Richer in some moments.  Less so in others.    I lay in bed next to Sig Other.  Alpha and Beta dogs snuggled in for the night.  Child Two tucked tightly away.  And Great Aunt Rose, three thousand miles away, lies in a bed breathing what may be the last of her breaths.  I wonder if she’s thinking about change.  I wonder if she’s thinking about sagging skin or graying hair or wishing for a time when things were simpler.  Or maybe, just maybe, she’s thinking about Obama and what programs she might miss tonite on PBS.