I'm a Facebook Reject...Twice: My History of Self-Sabotage

I work with some of the oddest, rudest, most super offensive people I've ever met.* I absolutely love it.  Every year, at the end of May, we have a company dinner to celebrate the start of our season, and one thing each of us has to do is stand and say something about ourselves that no one else knows. Do you know how hard it is to come up with new things every year that will surprise, and hopefully shock, the wackos I see almost every day?

Last year, I panicked about this dinner days beforehand because I felt that I had nothing interesting to share. I considered saying that I had a tail or that I was really a man,** but at the last moment, I decided to reveal that in 2005 I had joined this new-fangled thing called Facebook. I explained to the crowd that I had enjoyed the Facebook for about four months, and then I was kicked out. Asked never to return. I swear it. And here's the thing: what I thought was a pretty lame confession actually brought the room to a halt. Two-thirds of those present had never known life WITHOUT Facebook. My confession was the modern day equivalent of being excommunicated.

What was supposed to be a one minute confession soon turned into a melee. Questions were shouted from the floor: How is that possible? Did you appeal? Are you serious?

I began to slowly recount the timeline of events leading up to my Facebook dismissal. I explained how I had started my account in early 2005, but how I kept procrastinating about adding a profile picture. I told them that Facebook kept nagging me about it, reminding me that people with pictures had more friends. The kids listening all nodded in agreement; they knew exactly what I was talking about. Facebook is RELENTLESS about collecting friends. I mean, I know the seduction of collecting. As a kid I was a collector of all kinds of things: matchbox cars, stamps, model rockets, and lentil beans***. So, at Facebook's urging, my OCD kicked in, and I started to get a little hooked on the idea of amassing friends. But I still didn't have a decent picture, so I decided to borrow one from the web:

It didn't look like me EXACTLY, but rather, looked like how I felt then. I thought that was appropriate enough. And here's the thing, I used my real name and my real address. Just the picture was fake-ish. And you can't tell me that kind of thing doesn't happen every day on millions of Facebook profiles.

My two sisters were also on the Facebook, and all three of us had had a really hard time posting anything. We're an oddly shy group, and for some reason, posting stuff about our lives seemed like bragging.****  I can't remember why, but I decided one day to bite the bullet and post. And I did. I wrote about how I had just been released from rehab, and that while I knew it was my third time in, I really felt that this one was going to stick.  I begged my sisters to let me see my kids, whom, I explained to my 37 friends, the court had taken from me. My sisters replied to my "wall", without any prompting from me, that according to court mandate they could only send pictures of the kids in profile. And, in fact, they did. They posted current pictures of my REAL kids in profile. I thanked them profusely and publicly, and then proceeded to try and get them to lend me a little cash.

This train-wreck-in-slow-motion was, apparently, perfect bait..."friends" starting coming out of the woodwork, and it became addicting. The fame went to my head. I started to raise the ante. My sisters and I would have horrifically public Facebook fights and then laugh together at night as we sipped our drinks of choice and watched the friend requests pour in. For several months, I enjoyed a level of fame that I had only dreamed of. When I went to the center store to get gas, I would see people stop their conversation and stare, whispering to each other and pretending not to see me. It was amazing. And too good to last.

What I hadn't taken into account was that during this time, I was the vice president of the district school board and president of the financial committee. From what I can gather, some do-gooder must have contacted Facebook about the inaccuracy of my reporting, because one day about four months in, I got a notice that my account had been disabled due to IMPERSONATION. I tried to contact Facebook...but let me tell you, it's IMPOSSIBLE. It makes calling the Department of Human Services look like a cakewalk.

How can one impersonate oneself? Isn't it my god-given right to project myself in a bad image if I choose to? Nonetheless, I had no recourse...but I had my story.

So, this was the story I relayed to the group of 130 co-workers sitting in a small banquet hall.  And, over the last year, I have enjoyed the notoriety of being the Facebook Lady. But just last week, as I was talking to one of my co-workers about Facebook and Russia and what-not, she suggested that I try opening another account, now that enough time had surely passed. I considered it throughout the morning. And to be honest, I was a little nervous that I WOULD be able to get an account; that I'd just be known around the office as the Double Jointed Lady or the Lady With Five 0'Clock Shadow.

But the gauntlet had been thrown. When I had a moment, I called my co-worker to my desk and began the process of starting a new Facebook account.  I entered my information and pressed submit. I immediately got a message saying "Your account has been permanently disabled". I shouted "No Fucking Way!" But secretly, I was pleased.

However, my co-worker was undaunted. She said I needed to set up an account from a computer that had nothing to do with the real me. She offered hers. I went into her office and began again, using her computer and a newly created gmail account. And...it worked!

Within 20 minutes, I had friended all of my office people and had posted a link to FoodTruckWarehouse. I was determined to do it right this time...and then I got bored. Less than 30 minutes into my newly created Facebook page, I posted this profile picture:

To my credit, I still believe I was thoughtful about the aging process, given the 12+ years that had passed since my first profile picture. I think it was realistic. 38 minutes into my second Facebook excursion, my profile disappeared. My gmail pinged, and I received this notification:

And there you have it. My legacy of self-sabotage remains intact. I can't explain the compulsion I have to do this kind of thing. But to be honest, I think Facebook has done me a favor. Nothing good would ever come from my having an account. I truly am part of the problem; never part of the solution. And, at least I'll have something interesting for the upcoming what-you-don't-know-about-me dinner.

*  And that says something because my work career has included laboring for an excavation company, working as a midway carny, and delivering mail for the U.S. Postal Service. All of which were rude and offensive environments, but not nearly as entertaining. 

** But for real...I couldn't do it because the possibility that someone else in the room had the same confession was too great. 

*** I shit you not. I had no idea what lentils were, and I continued to be oblivious until half way through college.  All I did know was that I kept finding these perfect green-to-yellow little THINGS on the kitchen floor at my friend Amy's house. Keep in mind, this was life in rural Maine and the only beans I thought existed were Yellow Eye, Kidney, and Pea. And those beans lived in crockpots. With mustard and molasses. But Amy's parents were back-to-the-landers from California, and they also walked around the house nude. Enough said.  

****  I'm not sure why we thought it would come across as bragging. We weren't doing ANYTHING anyone else could possibly be envious of: "Wow! Just got home from catching earthworms with old man Tuttle to sell at the center store! Going to do a quick tick check and get myself to bed!"  

How My Fascination with Certain Men Gets Me in Trouble

I recently got myself in some hot water because I obviously don't know how gmail works. I had been invited to a potluck with a group of moms whom I don't usually do anything with, and I was a bit flattered to be asked into the clique. I thought I was responding "I'll bring a bok choy salad!" to this group of no-nonsense women using my very respectable work gmail address. But evidently, I was still logged into this gmail which APPARENTLY has the accompanying picture of Mr. Rogers giving the finger* with every correspondence. 

Needless to say, there was a bit of backlash about it.** But really, can anyone keep track of emails? I can't believe I'm the only one who has made this mistake. Give me a break.

So, I took the opportunity to ask one of the millennials in my office to help me figure out what went wrong. I tend to answer emails on my phone, and I handed it over to her, asking if she could make my professional work email the default. Just so it wouldn't happen again. She started scrolling through the list of accounts and exclaimed, "Why do you have so many email addresses?"

Wait, what? 

Doesn't everyone have multiple emails? I mean, depending on what you're signing up for or answering? I'm sure you didn't sign up for your Ashley Madison account using your home email address...just saying.

But I will admit, I do have quite a few email addresses. And mostly because a long time ago, I started collecting the addresses of game show hosts. I don't mean I collected THEIR emails. I started to create email addresses in their names. I can't tell you why. But what I can tell you is that I became intrigued with the popularity (or not) of certain hosts.

For example, the first in the collection was G.Rayburn1999@yahoo.com. I remember getting that one before gmail even existed. I picked that number because it was the year of his death. But soon I got another address because I didn't want Gene to be lonely. I picked Richard Dawson. But despite my attempts to use either Richard or R, everything was taken. I ended up having to settle with rdawson1289@yahoo.com. That COULD mean 1,288 other people were paying homage to the great Mr. Dawson before me! It became a little like stamp collecting, and ultimately, I've collected over 26 different email addresses*** not including my real work emails and my personal emails. 

So who's the most popular TV game show host according to the gmail machine? Alex Trebek. I got his about 5 years ago and it was at 19088 at that point. I have no idea what it is today. And the least popular? As you can see, it's the one I use on this account: psajak1. Meaning, only Pat and I use that email address. Nobody else. It kind of makes me sad. That's why I use it the most.

I always imagined that there was animosity between Alex Trebek and Pat Sajak. I think the first time it occurred to me was while reading National Lampoon in 5th grade****, and they quoted Mr. Sajak as saying:

"Every now and then, if you're very quiet in the studio, you can actually hear my brain cells die and hit the ground. But you have to listen carefully."

I think I fell in love with Pat a little because of his self-deprecation. And somehow a rivalry between him and that upstart Alex Trebek, who hosted that "smarty-pants show" that my father would snort at while changing channels to find the M*A*S*H reruns, was born. I know now that I had simply internalized a kind of anti-intellectualism and imagined a cold war between the two. And I always assumed it was a creation of my own making.

UNTIL, I read a short story written by my most favorite author of all time, David Foster Wallace. It's called Little Expressionless Animals, and it has a sub-plot that highlights the animosity I imagine exists between Sajak and Trebek. I was completely mind-blown and once again, in love*****. 

www.theparisreview.org/fiction/2547/little-expressionless-animals-david-foster-wallace

In any case, I hope my email issues have been resolved. Thank you, young millennial****** whom I won't mention by name, for helping this old lady keep her shit straight. I can't promise it won't happen again. But I'll try my best.



*  Which is one of the greatest photos ever taken and is hopefully archived in the Smithsonian.
**  Luckily the potluck was postponed and I haven't had to face them in person yet. They're going to let me know when it's rescheduled. 
***  Gene Rayburn, Richard Dawson, Bob Barker, Alex Trebek, Pat Sajak, Bob Eubanks, Monty Hall, Regis Philbin, Chuck Woolery, Allen Ludden, Wink Martindale,...well, you get the idea.
****  Let me explain why and how a 5th grader might have a subscription to National Lampoon (god rest its soul). I found an old NL issue in our second-hand piggyback camper when I was in 2nd or 3rd grade and thought it was hysterical. Much better than MAD or Cracked. I finally convinced my mother to cancel my Ranger Rick subscription for NL in 4th grade by telling her that it was National Geographic for kids. Because it came in a similar brown wrapper and had illustrations by R. Crumb on the front, she bought it. 
***** I wrote David several letters and tried to explain the magicality of it all. I never heard from him. But I still think of him fondly as he hung himself in 2008. I'm not saying that because I think I had anything to do with it. But, it would sort of fit a pattern in my life...
******  Not to go on, but I remember when I was on the school board and we'd be asked to add exorbitant funds to our technology budget for "computer literacy and instruction". I was always the board member who voted "NO" on those hikes. Simply because hiring an adult to teach kids how to use a computer is ridiculous. It still is. I mean, they are born knowing that stuff. Case in point, when I first got a smart phone, my son somehow reprogrammed the texting application so that certain typed words changed into other ones. But not until you pressed "send". He was 7 at the time. And here's one of the texts I ended up sending to both the President of the Board and the Superintendent (spelling mistakes are his):

Hello Paul and Poop Stane, 

I received the board packet and had a few questions about the transportation expenses. Could you give me a fart buble when you have a chance? Thanks so much.

I still don't know how he did it. But I did use it as an example supporting my case during the next budget review.

Why I MAY Get a Mother-of-the-Year Award

It's been a tough couple of weeks here. I won't bore you with the details, but one side-effect from the stress has been a micro-flare up of my MS*. A couple of weeks ago, my jaw started feeling tired. Like I couldn't relax it enough. And it's progressed to where sometimes it's hard to chew or talk. Before you get all worried, I DID see my doctor. And my neurologist. And I had scans and EKG's. I'm a picture of health. Hopefully it will just go away.

In any case, I was kind of tired of eating soup by the third week. I'm not much of a cook and really have no tolerance for recipes and whatnot. Sometimes I don't even heat the soup. Just saying.  So, one night last week, it occurred to me that a smart person would "go to the experts" for easy, quick, and no-need-to-chew dinner options. And with that, I downloaded the TLC app and started watching My 600 Pound Life.

The show is surprisingly addictive, and I was in the middle of Season 4 when my son came home from boarding school for the weekend to visit me. Not wanting to continue passing my food-related issues on to him**, I tried to sneak watch it on Friday night. I sat on one end of the couch with my headphones on while he sat at the other end, playing on his computer. A real slice of American family time, I know. But I was so into Dottie's story (Season 4, Episode 6), that I didn't notice when he got up to use the bathroom and walked by my screen.

When he asked, "WHAT are you watching?!" I stammered and blushed and tried to explain myself. I claimed it was for an assignment.  I said it was suggested to me. Finally, I tried to blame it on my daughter who wasn't even home. He stood there, calmly staring at me while a screen-frozen and tearful Dottie shotgunned a can of whipped cream. I was humiliated.

And then, he did EXACTLY what I had done to him when I found out that he was secretly watching Game of Thrones...He said "Let's watch it together and then we can pause it and talk about any scenes that confuse or upset us." What a bastard!

So, we sat and watched. And, I realized that I had forgotten about why I had started watching in the first place. It dawned on me during the episode of Sarah's story when she makes a huge TaterTot casserole. My son said, "Wow. That sounds really good." And I had to agree. I made a mental note to grab some Tots when I went shopping the next day. Soon, we were skimming through episodes, taking notes of some of the finest "recipes" created by these (for-lack-of-a-better-term) professional eaters.

Who knew that a bag of potato chips crushed into a tub of cream cheese could be so tasty? Thank you, Lupe!  And a bowl of Nilla wafers in milk with sliced banana and Hersey's syrup? Thank you, Stephen! And hot dogs dipped in peanut butter? Delicious, Olivia!. Soon, I had several food ideas, all requiring little to no chewing effort. Also, I had spent an evening with my son that actually included conversation and laughter. AND, I know he won't starve when he goes off to college. I'd say that deserves a nomination at least.

*  I don't even know if that's a real term; I think I made it up. 
**  The fact that I may have already done damage in this department could effect my Mother-of-the-Year award. In fact, there are a couple of other factors that could complicate my award status:

• When, as a child of three, he kept asking me if I liked him or his sister better. Finally, out of sheer frustration I said, "To be honest, I like your sister a little more."
• When we took a surprise trip to Florida and the kids had to get up really early in the morning to catch a plane they didn't even know they were taking... I woke them up by screaming "FIRE". 
• When we spent hours trying to perfect the art of stealing a wrist watch off a person without them noticing
• When we reprogrammed his Speak-and-Spell to say "Donkey Punch" (look it up)
• There are a couple more...but I think you get the idea.