You thought I was joking, but I left Facebook on October 18, 2011.  Shut down my account, and waited for a tsunami of grief that never came.  I had feelings around it, but I gained so much from leaving Facebook that it was worth it.

Before walking away I squandered untold hours trolling the ‘Net for funny videos, quotes, and stories that I could share with my Facebook friends.  The loss of my privacy mounted.  Every intimate detail that I shared created an incentive to reveal more, like a bumbling strip tease.

My Facebook friends — fifty percent were people in places that I lived years ago.  Without FB I would never talk to them, and had no reason to now that they’re married with kids.  Perhaps the twain should never meet.  Facebook is no respecter of propriety or boundaries.

Facebook forced me into intimacy with folks with whom I wouldn’t mix.  It also told me too much about their pets, diseases and food.  People I didn’t care for were up in my grill forcing me to block their posts, which felt un-friendly.  The site didn’t allow for friendships to find their natural level.

Half a dozen times a week, I asked is this person a frenemy. Once friended, it was impolitic to de-friend, and doing so guaranteed the demise of any real-life friendship.  Facebook raised troubling questions.  Without FB, would this person be my friend? Would a real friend post what she posted on my Wall? Who really has 928 friends?

Genuine friends of mine on Facebook were elusive. The few people from whom I wanted to hear never posted, leaving me wondering if they’d blocked me.   People who I cared about never joined or quit, like my brother whose example I followed.

The day I closed out Facebook, the exit page showed photos of Facebook friends.  The captions said, “Are you sure you want to quit Facebook?  Sandra will miss you.  Joey will miss you.”  What a lie!  If FB wanted to make me change my mind, they should pick friends I cared about, not Sandra and Joey who wouldn’t notice my mug missing from their friend lineup (no offense to them).

I guess Facebook doesn’t know everything, but the cheap tactic made me more contemptuous and eager to close my account, which I did.  I felt sad for twelve hours, that was the extent of the angst I felt walking away.  I threw myself into other projects — things I’d put off for months because Facebook was sucking up my time — and soon forgot Facebook altogether.

Since leaving Facebook I’ve regained ten to fifteen hours per week that had been lost.  When others complain about Facebook, I smile quietly. It showed who my real friends are.  People who care about me show up, and so do I.  Facebook created the illusion of closeness.

Ironically my new employer asked me to open a work Facebook account.  I did so reluctantly, only one month after closing my personal account.  However, I use it strictly for work and post no personal information.  I’m still clean and sober from Facebook.

©Copyright to the Author; All Rights Reserved.

1. Refuse to purchase insurance from companies that advertise by blimp.  Next time I see the Farmer’s Insurance dirigible, it’s the shoulder-mounted rocket launcher.  Ya hear GEICO?
2. Unsubscribe from e-mail Action Alerts cluttering inbox.  Stop eating dogs!  Occupy Lichtenstein!  Not before breakfast.
3. Treat gym workouts as business.  Shower, change, leave feeling cleaner than I arrived.
4. Stop scanning for shoplifters at drugstore.  Stop feeling like a security guard and acting like Neighborhood Watch.
5. Now that I’ve cut beef from diet, eliminate pork too.  Unlike certain friends, I’m not obsessed with bacon.  Purchase life forms raised with humane, sustainable methods.
6. Avoid overusing the word “Occupy” as in:  Occupy your life.
7. Continue fabulous child-free condition.
8. Don’t try to be perfect, unless having stroke is on 2013 to-do list.
9. Know the anagrams “lobster” and “bolster.”
10. Wear lipstick to bed. Bring sexy back.
11. Say no to multi-tasking.  Quit Facebook.
12. Remember where I put short-term memory.
13. Quit fantasizing about Amanda Knox.
14. Practice random and senseless acts of extroversion.
15. Accept that I won’t learn Punjabi and the voice in my head won’t learn English.

©Copyright to the Author; All Rights Reserved.

-- or her jokes

Birds and bees do it:  date on-line.  Your chances improve the more dates you go on.  You don’t know what you’re getting until you meet in person. Reality often differs from the airbrushed profile.

Common words and phrases from on-line profiles, and their true meaning:

A little extra or curvy: Love handles, muffin top, fasting, baby phat.

Bisexual:  Married, straight, curious or in the closet.

Canadian:  Hoser, culturally superior, bilingual, nice, dull.

Cat person:  Gay man or lesbian.

Funny: “Funnoying” by the end of Date One.

Glass of wine: Wine enthusiast, maintenance drinker, college student, failed artist.

Height:  Divide height by profile photo, minus three inches.

Likes children: Divorced, reproductive failure, breeder, Nadya Suleman.

Likes dogs: Professional dog walker, dog mommy, Dobephile.  Opposite of “Cat person.”

Profile photo:  More than six months old, minus one point. More than five years old, infuriating.

School:  Procrastinate, slob, pizza, hangover, marijuana.

Smile  or wink:  Too drunk or lazy to send message; manipulative.

Spelling error:  Turn-off, deal-breaker, cock block, game over.

©Copyright to the Author; All Rights Reserved.

Sources

http://www.urbandictionary.com/

Pocahontas

OUT                                              IN

Wall Street                                  Stonewall

Vibram FiveFingers                       brogans

U.S. Postal Service                      anarchy

To Do List                                  Bucket List

gold                                            wheat pennies

Mayor Jean Quan                         Governor Jerry Brown

cankles                                        Zumba

Facebook                                     coffee date

Steve Jobs                                   Siri

Brad Pitt                                      Sean Penn

cars                                             calves

relatives                                      chosen family

unemployed                                workaholic

diversity                                      reverse racism

Muammar Gaddafi                         Lou Reed

The Virgin Mary                              Amma

Harold Camping                             Be Here Now

Italian prison                                 Amanda Knox

ADHD                                            meditation

Lady GaGa                                    Pocahontas

middle class                                   Occupy

pepper spray                                 free speech

eating animals                               compassion

speech                                     American Sign Language (ASL)

©Copyright to the Author; All Rights Reserved.

I lost Internet access when I moved. “I’ll Be Back.” happy holidaze

I had one Christmas package to mail.  Guess that was one too many, because it took me four trips to the Post Office.

The first trip was innocent; the Post Office is a block from my workplace. This is too convenient, I thought.  The neat head of a uniformed African American woman bobbed behind a scratched plexiglass window.  The plump, dark blonde customer chirped through the speaking hole.  “Most of these are going to Canada, this is the only one going to Shanghai.”

I saw the mountain of boxes on the counter.  “I’ll get going on the customs forms!” the customer called reassuringly.  The twelve person line, cradling boxes and envelopes, sagged against the displays of postal supplies, emitting a barely audible groan.  My eyes widened, then narrowed, and taking another look at the line, I turned on my heel and returned to the office.  I wasn’t angry — yet.

Choosing a time when workers’ lunch breaks would be over, I took up my holiday package and tramped back to USPS around 3 p.m.  The line was the same length as it had been that morning and the same beleaguered clerk was there by her lonesome.  A fellow sufferer said, “I come here all the time, and she’s always here by herself.”

Like sand through an hourglass, the woman at the counter ticked away precious moments of my day.  “Do you have tape?”  She held a box, and gift-wrapped presents, and bubble wrap, but they were not packed as they should be. The clerk passed her a roll of tape and said, “Don’t get back in line, when you finish come back up here.”  The line moved one person, and stopped.  I had to go back to work.

I decided to try first thing the next day, when I hoped the line would be shorter.  Not only was it, but it moved quickly and I rejoiced, for my package felt like it weighed 3,000 pounds.  Finally, I was the first person in line!  I smiled, imagining Mom opening her Christmas gifts.

But wait, the clerk — same one as before, the only person in the building it would appear — was saying,  “I’m having computer problems, so y’all are gonna have to come back later.”  Desperation drove a brain wave before it.  “Can I buy stamps?” I asked, like Oliver holding up his empty bowl for more.  “I can,” she said, “But it won’t be an even amount.”  Wha?

Suddenly the elderly African American woman behind me bolted to the window, cutting in line.  I stood dumbly paralyzed.  The world spun crazy on its axis. I listened to their conversation but couldn’t follow a word.  The clerk ended up giving the old lady a sheet of stamps, saying, “You come back later tonight and pay for that, Darlin.”

I know when I’m not wanted.  “Privatize it!”  I grumbled as I walked past the remaining queue.  After work I hit a different post office where there’s an “Automated Postal Center” meaning that I wouldn’t have to deal with any U.S. Postal worker.   I slapped on the postage.  Catch-22:  there’s nowhere to mail it because the package mailbox is bolted shut, and the regular mailbox only accepts parcels under 13 ounces.

I had to — wait for it — take a number and bide 15 minutes to hand my package to a postal clerk,  stamped and ready to go.  Never thought I’d say it, but the Postal Service is dead to me in its current form.  Never thought I’d say “Postal Service” and “privatize” in the same sentence.  That was then.

©Copyright to the Author; All Rights Reserved.

1. How Many Twitter Followers I Have.  Sure I want heaps, but my number of followers …really…doesn’t…matter.
2. Phone. While feeding through a stomach tube, I won’t care whether my iPhone is a 4 or 4S.  If I can speak I’ll tell Siri to feck off, and take all of Silicon Valley with her.
3. To-Do List.  I didn’t get everything done, is that so wrong?  Trying to do it all killed me in the end.
4. Karaoke.  Makes good singers sound bad.
5. Playgrounds.  No kid has ever had the time of their life in one.
6. FOX News.  They’ve never told the truth and never will.  Who’s got time for liars?
7. Cars.  With the (possible) exception of Car Talk, no good came from ‘em.
8. Cosmetics.   Matter before death and afterwards, not during.
9. The New Yorker.  Why did I care?
10. Shopping.  Thousands of hours wasted at Ross and Target* makes me want to rend my garment.
11. Santa Claus.  Other than lingering trauma from my parents’ lies, Santa was a big fat zero.
12. Sex.  All those orgasms when I could’ve been planting trees, curing cancer and meditating. Wait, they were on my To-Do List. Aaagghh!

*I’m proud not to shop at Target but Ross is another story.

©Copyright to the Author; All Rights Reserved.

Top Ten Reasons I Detest Vibram FiveFingers Shoes

1. Ugly
2. Butt Ugly
3. Foot odor
4. People stepping on your toes
5. Worse than Crocs
6. What to wear them with?
7. “Forefoot-strike running,” ow!
8. Wall-climbing tricks
9. Hobbit feet
10. FiveFingers never got anyone laid.

©Copyright to the Author; All Rights Reserved.

What’s in your jewelry box?  I took my scrap silver and gold to sell;  single earrings and broken pieces, things I hadn’t worn in years and wouldn’t wear again.  You can sell precious metal for extra cash.

Before heading out make sure you’re not selling stuff you’ll miss later.  Don’t sell if there’s a sliver of doubt as to whether Aunt Ruth’s brooch means something, or will to your heirs.  It’s usually safe to hock single earrings and broken pieces that you won’t wear or repair.

Most buyers accept only sterling silver, they use acid to test it.  Most sterling is marked .925.  Some buyers won’t accept gold-plated pieces, the only way is for them to examine it.

When deciding where to take your silver, gold and platinum, ask friends to recommend a buyer. I found two places on Yelp! and took the same pieces to each buyer.  It makes a difference where you sell:  one shop offered me 40% more.

Google the price of silver and gold before hitting the counter.  Recently gold has been at $1,700 or more per ounce.  However, that’s for pure 24 karat gold, not 14K which is 14 parts gold to 10 parts alloy.  Precious metals are measured by what is called a “troy ounce,” about 31.1 grams, or 20 pennyweights.  The buyer should explain how she calculated your estimate, and the daily price they pay per pennyweight.

Put on your game face with the metal buyer.  The buyers don’t mess around, although I found diverse appraisers at each shop:  the beefy biker who looked like he ate Volkswagens for breakfast, versus a peroxided matron with a Midwestern accent at the other store.

The Midwestern housewife flashed temper when I left without selling.  Biker dude offered $70 less and I wound up back groveling before Ms. Midwest who made good on her higher bid.  I was impressed by her written offer that was good for a week.  Mr. Biker damaged one of my silver earrings with acid, and sneered that half of my pieces were blended metals.

Lastly, I found it reassuring to flash a “wedding ring” in the pawn shop.  Of course, it’s illegal for gays and lesbians to marry here in California, but I try not to over-think the implications.

©Copyright to the Author, All Rights Reserved.

Copyright 2011

My first glimpse of Occupy Oakland was mid-October.  At 11 pm the subway spit me onto 12th Street.  I was fascinated by the forethought given to the encampment, tagged “Oscar Grant Plaza” after the unarmed black teenager shot in the back by local transit police in 2009.

In the urban gloom I marveled at pallet walkways laid on the grass (later ordered removed by the Fire Department).  I noted the medical tent, children’s area, and the orderly transition of rappers on the mike in the amphitheater.  Insistent drumming soothed the surprisingly quiet camp.

These people, many young, homeless, of every hue were doing what I didn’t have the guts to do:  camp in the cold and risk arrest.  I had no fear except for the young man who nearly ran me down on his bicycle; a portent of coming events.  My heart was with the 99%.

Tonight I hear no choppers shredding the sky so I know that Occupy Oakland is over.  The copters  ground overhead at all hours to get footage of the freaks.  A smaller encampment survives at Snow Park, the remnants of yesterday’s extermination by Mayor Jean Quan, proud new owner of a Police State.

I’d heard predawn hellacopters during the previous police raid of the camp on October 25, where Iraq war veteran Scott Olsen sustained a head injury.

Copyright 2011

My blood froze whenever choppers chugged towards city center.  I knew that protestors could be beaten, lives altered.  It made me proud that they didn’t give up easy.  They knew it was worth standing their ground because they represented the 99%.

The overhead roar woke me at 4 a.m. Monday and I knew.  The camp was being dismantled for the second time.  After removing it previously, Mayor Quan inexplicably allowed tents to return, sending mixed signals to cops and campers alike.  Perhaps this would be the camp’s historic finale.

One sunny afternoon I passed through the plaza, noting a plaque commemorating it as the site of a strike by retail clerks in 1946.  I took in the camp kitchen and the ominous lack of customers in nearby cafes.  A portly bearded man yelled at campers, who spent significant time smoking pot and cigarettes (a sign read ‘Cigarette Donation Station’).

Exiting a nearby building that evening, the formerly serene camp was in an uproar.  One young man had shot another and sweet sage smoke chased the heaviness shadowing the camp. Despite campers’ protestations that victim and assailant were unconnected to the protest, I sensed that it was over for Occupy Oakland.

By contrast, the General Strike eight days earlier was triumphant.  Ten thousand skipped work and school and converged on the Plaza.  Protesters peacefully shut down transit and the Port.  The 99% chanted, “Whose streets?  Our streets!” along Broadway.  Suburbanites streamed in, filling the square with thousands of the old and young, strollers, wheelchairs, queers and transients.  Destitute campers somehow fed hundreds of hungry protesters hummus and veggies.

As Funkadelic might say, “it weren’t nothin’ but a party.”  Pot smoke mingled with incense and a line snaked through the camp waiting for the young man who was silk-screening posters hung on lines to dry.   An impromptu disco with DJ and turntable materialized.  A giant semi emblazoned “Teamsters Local” backed itself into the festivities blaring union songs like “Solidarity Forever” from before the time of most protesters, including mine.

Copyright 2011

Although the intensity of Nov. 2 morphed to vandalism after dark, the energy was electric and that’s why the Movement has legs.  The 99% aren’t going away. Everyone shares in America’s economic downturn, and it feels good to be united in a way that the country hasn’t been since the days of Vietnam.  Solidarity is fun, and people united can Fight the Power.  A petition to recall Mayor Quan is now in circulation.

©Copyright to the Author; All Rights Reserved.