There comes a time in every overweight person's life when enough is enough.
When you realize you're not getting any younger, and you don't want to be fat and inactive and useless throughout your thirties, nor do you want to be riddled with weight-related health problems by the time you hit the big 4-0.
When you acknowledge that all your previous weight-loss "attempts" weren't really attempts at all, since going on that worthless soup diet or eating nothing for days to fit into that dress for your friend's wedding, was just a quick fix and not really a commitment.
When you stop making excuses about exercising and realize that your hour-long Big Brother watch-a-thon could be just as easily spent walking in place in your living room as it is sitting on the couch with a bowl of popcorn.
When you figure out that body-slimming undergarments don't actually make you smaller, they just redistribute fat to places it wasn't before.
When watching televised accounts of incredible weight loss becomes less about drowning your "why can't that be me" sorrows in a Big Mac and throwing the remote at the finale of The Biggest Loser, and more about motivation and inspiration.
When you can no longer call it "baby weight", especially since your baby is able to tell you that, "Mommy, you have too much chubbs on your butt."
When you resign yourself to not having a "cheat day", since people with as little discipline as you do have become the size they are because of willy-nilly cheat days that spiral into cheat months.
When you stop blaming your thyroid problem for the way you look and realize your weight is of your own doing (I have a serious thyroid problem - in fact, I'm guilty of using the excuse myself - and I can tell you with certainty that a thyroid problem, even one as out-of-whack as mine, does not cause a 50lb weight gain. You can't eat deep-fried wings and laze around your house and still blame your weight on your thyroid.).
When you reach the conclusion that losing weight is a simple formula of burning more calories than you take in, and that even the fancy and expensive "miracle pill/supplement/concoction" isn't going to solve your problems for the long term.
When you finally admit that french fries aren't vegetables just because they're made from potatoes.
When enough is just enough, plain and simple. I've reached that point.
Being fat sucks. I've spent that past 12 years complaining about how much it sucks, yet I've failed to sincerely try to do anything about it. I've even written about it with the best of intentions of losing weight, but my words never concretely translated into actions.
I quit pop in mid-January, my biggest hurdle, and haven't touched a drop since. And, though I did see minimal results, I didn't change my eating habits. I went on a diet at the end of April, but through the chaos of kids' birthdays, the end of school, vacations, and many excuses, I fell off the wagon a month later.
Then I got on the scale. Yikes. That was "the point", and I haven't looked back since. All I had to change was my attitude.
I no longer feel a bitterness toward skinny people, food, or exercise. I don't harbour feelings of deprivation and resentment because I can't get a Blizzard, instead I feel strong and proud how I'm able to resist the temptation. I don't curse my husband's late night snack, I look at it with relief that it's not entering my stomach and disrupting my steady course.
I put a sign on my fridge that says, "you're only cheating yourself", along with two pictures: one of myself and one of Jessica Simpson.
Aside from the occasional glass of milk or juice, the only thing I drink is water. I have completely (and unbelievably) cut ice cream out of my life. Other junk food and sweets are cut to an absolute minimum, though not eliminated entirely. I make sure to eat breakfast every morning. I have a filling supper without stuffing myself up to the eyeballs. And I never eat anything after supper is over - not a carrot stick, not a cracker, nothing. Those are my changes, and it's working.
I've lost 35lbs because of those very do-able and realistic changes. The point I'm trying to make is, if I can do it, anyone reading this can do it, too. I was the best of the best excuse makers; the thyroid patient; the busy mom; the "did you hear about that new pill" queen; the chronic complainer. Not anymore, no more excuses.
And I've never felt better.
Monday, August 24, 2009
And the Winner is....
On Thursday evening, I attended the Festival of the Strait Princess Pageant at the mall. Great job, girls!
I miss the days when pageants were the centerpiece of a summer festival. Picture the Scooby-Doo dream-sequence effects, and bear with me.
The annual River Bourgeois community festival used to be a really big deal, and every year it began with the princess pageant.
Those in attendance for the packed-house Saturday night affair were probably oblivious to the meticulous preparation required for the show to go on. The contestants had, by this time, found sponsors (businesses and organizations to donate money for the girl's sash and other pageant-y things). They had already posed for the all-important Reporter photo shoot, where their picture would appear in a full-page spread opposite the festival schedule, noting their name, sponsor, and parents' names (so all the older women could say, "you know Lisa, at Joe-Jim's"). They had even attended a "tea", where they practiced their best smiles and manners at a get-together with the judges. It was all very serious business, especially to the girls who, like me, were too young to participate.
When the lights dimmed, a Master of Ceremonies announced the procession and the hall filled with more chiffon and frills than I care to remember, as was the style of "teenager fancy dress" back then. The girls, usually more than a dozen of them, filed up the center aisle, introduced themselves briefly ("Hi, I'm Lisa Smith and my sponsor is J&C Take-Out!"), and took their place on stage.
Once the judges had been introduced, it was time to get down to business. Each girl would give a more thorough introduction, telling everyone their age, grade, perhaps what they liked to do, what career they intended to pursue, things like that.
After the introductions came speeches. The topic was up in the air, completely up to each contestant, and it was always interesting to hear what the girls chose to talk about (even though the delivery mattered more than the content).
When the speech portion was complete, the girls would head downstairs to prepare for the talent competition. There were usually singers, dancers and piano players, but every year had a wild card - whether it be demonstrating a cadet Drill Team routine, or teaching the crowd how to cross-stitch. After everyone had shown their talent, the girls went to sweat it out downstairs while the judges made their decisions and the audience mingled and chowed down on coffee, tea and sweets. (For the record, River Bourgeois hall sweets are still in my top five favorite foods of all time.)
Eventually, the MC would inform the masses to be seated, the results were in. The crowd buzzed in anticipation every time and you could cut the tension with a knife; well not really, but I want to make it clear how intense a scene it was. The contestants nervously took the stage, the previous year's Queen took her mark in the wings after her swan-walk, and the envelope was handed over.
Miss Friendship, decided by the girls earlier in the evening by secret ballot, was announced first, followed by the expected squeals and hugs, and awarding of the trophies, flowers, and other pageant swag. The first winner was followed by 2nd Runner-Up, 1st Runner-Up, and finally Queen. It was all very climactic and wonderful, and I'll never forget it.
The very first pageant I attended was in 1984, where I met my future-best friend, Amy Doary, for the very first time. We were both very impressed with the pomp and circumstance of the whole thing, and our 5-year-old heads were just about spinning. We swore we'd be in it one day, and we would have - if only pageants hadn't become pretty much obsolete sometime after 1995.
Someone must have decided that being a teenager in a pageant was uncool, and that's a shame. Not only are they great confidence builders for girls at a crucial age, but they're a showcase of talent, a platform to experience public speaking and an excuse to dress up like a princess for a day other than prom.
Most of all, it's an excellent opportunity to bring a community together. Everyone is busier these days, and our local festivals are visibly suffering, with attendance, participation and volunteer numbers lower than they've been in years.
I'd love to see a big pageant in every festival, and a rightful Queen take her seat at the front of a parade float. It's something I'll always miss watching, and I hope someday they become "cool" again. (If there are any girls between 14-18 interested in participating next year, get in touch with me and I'll certainly be willing to help put it together.)
I miss the days when pageants were the centerpiece of a summer festival. Picture the Scooby-Doo dream-sequence effects, and bear with me.
The annual River Bourgeois community festival used to be a really big deal, and every year it began with the princess pageant.
Those in attendance for the packed-house Saturday night affair were probably oblivious to the meticulous preparation required for the show to go on. The contestants had, by this time, found sponsors (businesses and organizations to donate money for the girl's sash and other pageant-y things). They had already posed for the all-important Reporter photo shoot, where their picture would appear in a full-page spread opposite the festival schedule, noting their name, sponsor, and parents' names (so all the older women could say, "you know Lisa, at Joe-Jim's"). They had even attended a "tea", where they practiced their best smiles and manners at a get-together with the judges. It was all very serious business, especially to the girls who, like me, were too young to participate.
When the lights dimmed, a Master of Ceremonies announced the procession and the hall filled with more chiffon and frills than I care to remember, as was the style of "teenager fancy dress" back then. The girls, usually more than a dozen of them, filed up the center aisle, introduced themselves briefly ("Hi, I'm Lisa Smith and my sponsor is J&C Take-Out!"), and took their place on stage.
Once the judges had been introduced, it was time to get down to business. Each girl would give a more thorough introduction, telling everyone their age, grade, perhaps what they liked to do, what career they intended to pursue, things like that.
After the introductions came speeches. The topic was up in the air, completely up to each contestant, and it was always interesting to hear what the girls chose to talk about (even though the delivery mattered more than the content).
When the speech portion was complete, the girls would head downstairs to prepare for the talent competition. There were usually singers, dancers and piano players, but every year had a wild card - whether it be demonstrating a cadet Drill Team routine, or teaching the crowd how to cross-stitch. After everyone had shown their talent, the girls went to sweat it out downstairs while the judges made their decisions and the audience mingled and chowed down on coffee, tea and sweets. (For the record, River Bourgeois hall sweets are still in my top five favorite foods of all time.)
Eventually, the MC would inform the masses to be seated, the results were in. The crowd buzzed in anticipation every time and you could cut the tension with a knife; well not really, but I want to make it clear how intense a scene it was. The contestants nervously took the stage, the previous year's Queen took her mark in the wings after her swan-walk, and the envelope was handed over.
Miss Friendship, decided by the girls earlier in the evening by secret ballot, was announced first, followed by the expected squeals and hugs, and awarding of the trophies, flowers, and other pageant swag. The first winner was followed by 2nd Runner-Up, 1st Runner-Up, and finally Queen. It was all very climactic and wonderful, and I'll never forget it.
The very first pageant I attended was in 1984, where I met my future-best friend, Amy Doary, for the very first time. We were both very impressed with the pomp and circumstance of the whole thing, and our 5-year-old heads were just about spinning. We swore we'd be in it one day, and we would have - if only pageants hadn't become pretty much obsolete sometime after 1995.
Someone must have decided that being a teenager in a pageant was uncool, and that's a shame. Not only are they great confidence builders for girls at a crucial age, but they're a showcase of talent, a platform to experience public speaking and an excuse to dress up like a princess for a day other than prom.
Most of all, it's an excellent opportunity to bring a community together. Everyone is busier these days, and our local festivals are visibly suffering, with attendance, participation and volunteer numbers lower than they've been in years.
I'd love to see a big pageant in every festival, and a rightful Queen take her seat at the front of a parade float. It's something I'll always miss watching, and I hope someday they become "cool" again. (If there are any girls between 14-18 interested in participating next year, get in touch with me and I'll certainly be willing to help put it together.)
Monday, July 13, 2009
Facebook Etiquette, Part 3
Welcome to the final installment of Facebook 101.
Pictures are a huge component of this site we love so dearly, so if you're going to partake, make an honest effort at doing it properly. Labelling your photos is always nice. A simple "Sam & Me in the delivery room" might seem obvious to you, but it could mean all the difference to someone dying to congratulate you, but who can't for the life of them remember your husband's name. And, that gelatinous pink blob might look like an exotic jellyfish to you, but without a label, it looks like sea junk to me.
For those of you who have so few friends (family members, acquaintances, other nearby humans capable of operating a camera) that you must resort to taking your own picture, please heed these warnings: Do not hold the camera in front of the bathroom mirror. Why the bathroom?? It's always in the bathroom! (Very astute observation, Kelly.) Also, don't make the pouty face. The "I'm-giving-you-a-kiss-through-my-low-end-model-flip-phone" face. And whatever you do, NEVER combine the two.
A few words about statuses. There is really no need to update your status more than a few times per day, even on an extrordinarily eventful day.
Furthermore, cryptic status updates like, "Sue wonders if her secret will get out," and "Timmy will get through this," do not make you seem mysterious. They point to desperation and attention-seeking.
Finally, never "like" and comment on the same status. The act of commenting alone indicates your interest in that status, so "liking" it is redundant and just sends an unnecessary notification.
Perhaps the most complicated Facebook situation one might face, for both parties, is the issue of "defriending". For starters, let it be said that it's perfectly acceptable to pare down your friend list from time to time; sometimes it becomes necessary, especially after a rush of ill-considered friend requests. There are people who belong on your list and people who don't, and that's just the way it is.
There are people who, unless they've been inappropriate in some way, you're obligated to keep on your list. People like relatives, spouse's relatives, and co-workers. Even if they send you some annoying gift with every message ("Here, friend, please enjoy this virtual chocolate teddy bear at the bottom of my inbox greeting").
This, however, is where loyalty and obligation pretty much stops and people start to become expendable. There are definite circumstances that necessitate a friend's removal, like consistent inappropriate language or information being posted on your wall. Another reason might be lack of communication. If, for example, you become friends with someone who has never responded to any direct message, post, comment, status, or anything else, you can justifiably eliminate that person from your list after a reasonable period.
Don't be tempted to clean house, though. It may seem appealing to rid your list of anyone you haven't spoken to on a regular basis or who doesn't have a lot of Facebook activity, but you don't know when you might need that girl in order to gain access to pictures of her really cool and unique wedding pictures, or to catch a glimpse of her sister's tremendous weight gain that everyone is telling you about. Weed, but don't tear up the whole garden.
Now, what to do in the terribly awkward situation of post-defriending run-ins, you might ask. Before you defriend, be prepared to never have the occasion to speak to that person face to face again. You've banished them from your Facebook world, and always assume they've already noticed. You now have no choice but to avoid them like the plague when you see them at the grocery store, and here's a tip: if you should happen to accidentally bump into them, the old, "oh really? yeah, there's something wrong with my Facebook account, a bunch of my friends just disappeared" excuse doesn't work anymore. People know better.
One day, you might find that you've been defriended by someone as well. Make no mistake, it was no accident, and re-adding that person is an insult to your integrity. You must swallow your pride and move on, and don't even bother wondering why. NEVER send them a message asking them.
And there you have it, three whole articles to help you navigate Facebook with the confidence of knowing you're doing it right. Take each suggestion with a grain of salt, though, since contributors to the Facebook series have all been guilty of their own faux-pas, I'm sure.
If I can leave you with one final piece of advice, it is this: never drunk-Facebook. You're just asking for trouble.
Pictures are a huge component of this site we love so dearly, so if you're going to partake, make an honest effort at doing it properly. Labelling your photos is always nice. A simple "Sam & Me in the delivery room" might seem obvious to you, but it could mean all the difference to someone dying to congratulate you, but who can't for the life of them remember your husband's name. And, that gelatinous pink blob might look like an exotic jellyfish to you, but without a label, it looks like sea junk to me.
For those of you who have so few friends (family members, acquaintances, other nearby humans capable of operating a camera) that you must resort to taking your own picture, please heed these warnings: Do not hold the camera in front of the bathroom mirror. Why the bathroom?? It's always in the bathroom! (Very astute observation, Kelly.) Also, don't make the pouty face. The "I'm-giving-you-a-kiss-through-my-low-end-model-flip-phone" face. And whatever you do, NEVER combine the two.
A few words about statuses. There is really no need to update your status more than a few times per day, even on an extrordinarily eventful day.
Furthermore, cryptic status updates like, "Sue wonders if her secret will get out," and "Timmy will get through this," do not make you seem mysterious. They point to desperation and attention-seeking.
Finally, never "like" and comment on the same status. The act of commenting alone indicates your interest in that status, so "liking" it is redundant and just sends an unnecessary notification.
Perhaps the most complicated Facebook situation one might face, for both parties, is the issue of "defriending". For starters, let it be said that it's perfectly acceptable to pare down your friend list from time to time; sometimes it becomes necessary, especially after a rush of ill-considered friend requests. There are people who belong on your list and people who don't, and that's just the way it is.
There are people who, unless they've been inappropriate in some way, you're obligated to keep on your list. People like relatives, spouse's relatives, and co-workers. Even if they send you some annoying gift with every message ("Here, friend, please enjoy this virtual chocolate teddy bear at the bottom of my inbox greeting").
This, however, is where loyalty and obligation pretty much stops and people start to become expendable. There are definite circumstances that necessitate a friend's removal, like consistent inappropriate language or information being posted on your wall. Another reason might be lack of communication. If, for example, you become friends with someone who has never responded to any direct message, post, comment, status, or anything else, you can justifiably eliminate that person from your list after a reasonable period.
Don't be tempted to clean house, though. It may seem appealing to rid your list of anyone you haven't spoken to on a regular basis or who doesn't have a lot of Facebook activity, but you don't know when you might need that girl in order to gain access to pictures of her really cool and unique wedding pictures, or to catch a glimpse of her sister's tremendous weight gain that everyone is telling you about. Weed, but don't tear up the whole garden.
Now, what to do in the terribly awkward situation of post-defriending run-ins, you might ask. Before you defriend, be prepared to never have the occasion to speak to that person face to face again. You've banished them from your Facebook world, and always assume they've already noticed. You now have no choice but to avoid them like the plague when you see them at the grocery store, and here's a tip: if you should happen to accidentally bump into them, the old, "oh really? yeah, there's something wrong with my Facebook account, a bunch of my friends just disappeared" excuse doesn't work anymore. People know better.
One day, you might find that you've been defriended by someone as well. Make no mistake, it was no accident, and re-adding that person is an insult to your integrity. You must swallow your pride and move on, and don't even bother wondering why. NEVER send them a message asking them.
And there you have it, three whole articles to help you navigate Facebook with the confidence of knowing you're doing it right. Take each suggestion with a grain of salt, though, since contributors to the Facebook series have all been guilty of their own faux-pas, I'm sure.
If I can leave you with one final piece of advice, it is this: never drunk-Facebook. You're just asking for trouble.
Facebook Etiquette, Part 2
Last week, I laid down the basic rules of a positive and successful Facebook experience. This week, I'll discuss a few rules and guidelines that target more specific problem areas, ones even veteran Facebookers might not be aware of.
To start with, while the very existence of Facebook encourages sharing personal information, airing grievances is best saved for private phone calls and personal confrontations. Starting a "Jane Finch is a dirty hoser" group is not the way to go about things. Likewise, I don't need to see a bunch of four-letter words in your status, or pictures of your best girlfriend pretend-spanking you at a pub crawl. Neither does your boss.
Of my research into the topic of Facebook pet peeves, this one earned a landslide victory: STOP TAKING QUIZZES. Nobody cares what Twilight character or literary time period you are. No one cares which Spice Girl you resemble or what color your aura is. Really - stop. And anyway, why would you want to know that? What purpose does having that information serve in your life? And what purpose do you think it will serve in my News Feed, cluttering up all the important stuff with sparkly ponies and astrological signs?? (In case you couldn't tell, that was a direct quote from a friend of mine. It was too succinct to modify.)
On a related note, the "when will I get married/how many babies will I have/how will I die" calculators are not scientifically accurate, just so you know.
Joining too many groups cheapens the value of your membership in the ones you actually care about, so think twice before becoming a member of "Please bring back Tart n' Tinys, Wonka company". (I know Tart n' Tinys rocked your socks off - mine, too. But, at least save your confectionery loyalty for a far superior candy like Punkys.) (Wow, talk about digressing.) What I mean is, no one will value the opinion of a "CTV Atlantic Newstalk" contributor if they're also a member of "Eminems new album sux, and no I'm not a hater it just does".
Don't invite people to events if they don't live in the same province. I, a resident of Cape Breton, will not be attending your poetry recital in Saskatoon next Tuesday night, girl I went to elementary school with. Did you really think I would?
STOP YELLING AT ME LIKE THIS.
A unilateral relationship status change, on top of being immature and unfair, will only result in confusion for everyone. Make it a mutual decision, especially before you announce you're in a new relationship or informing someone you're filing for divorce. If you handle your relationship status with grace and poise, people will say, "Hey, that person is pretty responsible with his/her use of Facebook in a relationship setting", increasing your odds of finding another potential mate.
FYI: if you have somehow gained access to the Facebook profile of an ex/ex's new flame/other person in whom you should have no interest anyway, you're a creeper. If you return more than twice, you're a stalker, so stop. Facebook stalkers are not cool.
I am not even remotely interested in zombie/bumper sticker/graffiti/pet-raising/friend-buying/game-playing/green patch/gift-giving applications, and one would think that preference would be clear after me ignoring your invitation fifteen times.
Growing a baby in a virtual clay pot is all kinds of wrong.
Speaking of babies (and this rule also applies to pets and cars), posting 56 pictures of your sleeping, immobile newborn might fill your heart with parental pride, but it does nothing for most others. One would have been fine, two perfectly acceptable, even three if you're really worked up. But an album full? C'mon. Wait until the baby is at least capable of an expression.
Also, probably not a great idea to post pictures of your baby in the bathtub. You don't know what kind of weirdos might be scoping out your pictures, even if you think your privacy settings are iron-clad.
Try to comment selectively on your friends' pictures. The one-two-three picture-posting rule loosely applies to this as well. If you have something notable to say about a particular picture, by all means, leave your two cents. But, there's nothing worse than seeing 34 notifications, clicking on the little red flag, and seeing that Aunt Mary Lou has committed the mortal Facebook sin of severe over-commenting. Not only is it a buzz kill (ooh!! ooh! I wonder who left comments on my.....Oh. Aunt Mary Lou. Again.), but then I have to read "wow" and "cute" and "looks like fun" a tedious 34 times.
When I started writing about Facebook etiquette, little did I know that the material would span not one, not two, but three whole articles. I'll conclude next week.
To start with, while the very existence of Facebook encourages sharing personal information, airing grievances is best saved for private phone calls and personal confrontations. Starting a "Jane Finch is a dirty hoser" group is not the way to go about things. Likewise, I don't need to see a bunch of four-letter words in your status, or pictures of your best girlfriend pretend-spanking you at a pub crawl. Neither does your boss.
Of my research into the topic of Facebook pet peeves, this one earned a landslide victory: STOP TAKING QUIZZES. Nobody cares what Twilight character or literary time period you are. No one cares which Spice Girl you resemble or what color your aura is. Really - stop. And anyway, why would you want to know that? What purpose does having that information serve in your life? And what purpose do you think it will serve in my News Feed, cluttering up all the important stuff with sparkly ponies and astrological signs?? (In case you couldn't tell, that was a direct quote from a friend of mine. It was too succinct to modify.)
On a related note, the "when will I get married/how many babies will I have/how will I die" calculators are not scientifically accurate, just so you know.
Joining too many groups cheapens the value of your membership in the ones you actually care about, so think twice before becoming a member of "Please bring back Tart n' Tinys, Wonka company". (I know Tart n' Tinys rocked your socks off - mine, too. But, at least save your confectionery loyalty for a far superior candy like Punkys.) (Wow, talk about digressing.) What I mean is, no one will value the opinion of a "CTV Atlantic Newstalk" contributor if they're also a member of "Eminems new album sux, and no I'm not a hater it just does".
Don't invite people to events if they don't live in the same province. I, a resident of Cape Breton, will not be attending your poetry recital in Saskatoon next Tuesday night, girl I went to elementary school with. Did you really think I would?
STOP YELLING AT ME LIKE THIS.
A unilateral relationship status change, on top of being immature and unfair, will only result in confusion for everyone. Make it a mutual decision, especially before you announce you're in a new relationship or informing someone you're filing for divorce. If you handle your relationship status with grace and poise, people will say, "Hey, that person is pretty responsible with his/her use of Facebook in a relationship setting", increasing your odds of finding another potential mate.
FYI: if you have somehow gained access to the Facebook profile of an ex/ex's new flame/other person in whom you should have no interest anyway, you're a creeper. If you return more than twice, you're a stalker, so stop. Facebook stalkers are not cool.
I am not even remotely interested in zombie/bumper sticker/graffiti/pet-raising/friend-buying/game-playing/green patch/gift-giving applications, and one would think that preference would be clear after me ignoring your invitation fifteen times.
Growing a baby in a virtual clay pot is all kinds of wrong.
Speaking of babies (and this rule also applies to pets and cars), posting 56 pictures of your sleeping, immobile newborn might fill your heart with parental pride, but it does nothing for most others. One would have been fine, two perfectly acceptable, even three if you're really worked up. But an album full? C'mon. Wait until the baby is at least capable of an expression.
Also, probably not a great idea to post pictures of your baby in the bathtub. You don't know what kind of weirdos might be scoping out your pictures, even if you think your privacy settings are iron-clad.
Try to comment selectively on your friends' pictures. The one-two-three picture-posting rule loosely applies to this as well. If you have something notable to say about a particular picture, by all means, leave your two cents. But, there's nothing worse than seeing 34 notifications, clicking on the little red flag, and seeing that Aunt Mary Lou has committed the mortal Facebook sin of severe over-commenting. Not only is it a buzz kill (ooh!! ooh! I wonder who left comments on my.....Oh. Aunt Mary Lou. Again.), but then I have to read "wow" and "cute" and "looks like fun" a tedious 34 times.
When I started writing about Facebook etiquette, little did I know that the material would span not one, not two, but three whole articles. I'll conclude next week.
Facebook Etiquette, Part 1
Why didn't I think of this before?
I'm an enthusiastic Facebook participant, as are most of the people I know. To date, there are more than two hundred thousand registered users on the site - making it a breeding ground for social and behavioral faux-pas, especially with numerous format changes feeding the fire.
One would think, with such a huge population, Facebook would by now have some formal etiquette in place: cue Gina, along with some of her more vocal and opinionated Facebook friends, to deliver the goods. To be fair, these rules aren't necessarily all mine, remember that. The last thing I need are dozens of people throwing sheep at me.
Let's begin.
First of all, it's not Question-mark-book, it's Facebook. Get a picture. Assuming you're an established Facebooker and have already have pictures of yourself on your profile, then a shot of your puppy or your toes on the beach in Cuba will do. Something to differentiate yourself from the other question marks, if you please. An avatar, anything.
Unless you have no actual interaction with anyone on your friend list, your profile picture should actually look like you. I know, I looked skinnier and younger ten years ago, too - but putting up a good picture from 1999 isn't fooling anyone, and it creates suspicion and, ultimately, disappointment.
Put a little effort into building your profile. “I don’t read” is not a favorite book, just as “NEthing but country” isn’t favorite music.
A few words about friending (which is only a word in Facebook world. In every other circumstance, the correct verb would be "befriending". If you didn't know that already, we're probably not friends).
Knowing "of" a person (or even having met them) is not the equivilent of knowing them, and is not a susbstantial enough reason to friend them . For example: I hear Heidi Saarloos on the radio every day and have even met her briefly on one occasion, but since I do not know her, I have not sent her a friend request, even though we have friends in common. Get my drift? (Just using you as an example, Heidi. I'm sure you're lovely.)
Friending those who aren't your actual friends is a matter of personal choice, though it is generally frowned upon in the Facebook community, and fairly earns you to the title of "creeper" and the description of either "nosy" or "desperate to win the very lame 'I-have-the-most-Facebook-friends' competition".
If you must friend someone you don't know well, include a message explaining why you are doing so. For example, "Hi, I'm your roommate's cousin!" would suffice. (But wait, why would you want to be friends with your roommate's cousin? Weird...)
Friending someone you don't particularly like is also tacky. They know you only want to scrutinize their pictures, so maintain your dignity and don't bother. If you ignore this rule and they accept, fully expect them to do the same thing to you.
Never friend an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend unless you're prepared to see status updates and pictures that you probably don't want to see.
Writing on your own wall is somewhat of a "faux pas". People will look at the post with pity and think, "aw, she must be new."
Poking is the lowest form of Facebook communication and should be done sparingly and in moderation. There is absolutely no reason to body slam or throw a sheep at anyone.
If someone has sent you a message to which a reply is appropriate, do so in a timely fashion. Never read the message and decide to write back at a later time; that person will see your post-message Facebook activity, and your not making their message a priority might cause them tremendous insecurity. And then they might call you crying and ask if you're mad at them, which is at once ridiculous, terribly awkward, and a good reason to terminate the friendship (both on-line and in real-life).
Some messages are wall-appropriate, and some aren't, so know the difference. "Hey girl, I had a great time last weekend!" is a perfectly acceptable wall post. "Hey man, you were sooooo drunk when we left the strip club...who bailed you out?" - that's more message fare.
When posting pictures, make sure they're rotated in the right direction. If they aren't, no one will look at them, which completely defeats the purpose.
And by the way, it's cheating if you un-tag yourself in a picture just because you look bad. They got you fair and square, so be a good sport and let everyone else laugh. You'll have your chance, even if it doesn't involve the same person.
These are the more broad, sweeping rules that even beginners should know. Next week, we're really going to crack the whip.
I'm an enthusiastic Facebook participant, as are most of the people I know. To date, there are more than two hundred thousand registered users on the site - making it a breeding ground for social and behavioral faux-pas, especially with numerous format changes feeding the fire.
One would think, with such a huge population, Facebook would by now have some formal etiquette in place: cue Gina, along with some of her more vocal and opinionated Facebook friends, to deliver the goods. To be fair, these rules aren't necessarily all mine, remember that. The last thing I need are dozens of people throwing sheep at me.
Let's begin.
First of all, it's not Question-mark-book, it's Facebook. Get a picture. Assuming you're an established Facebooker and have already have pictures of yourself on your profile, then a shot of your puppy or your toes on the beach in Cuba will do. Something to differentiate yourself from the other question marks, if you please. An avatar, anything.
Unless you have no actual interaction with anyone on your friend list, your profile picture should actually look like you. I know, I looked skinnier and younger ten years ago, too - but putting up a good picture from 1999 isn't fooling anyone, and it creates suspicion and, ultimately, disappointment.
Put a little effort into building your profile. “I don’t read” is not a favorite book, just as “NEthing but country” isn’t favorite music.
A few words about friending (which is only a word in Facebook world. In every other circumstance, the correct verb would be "befriending". If you didn't know that already, we're probably not friends).
Knowing "of" a person (or even having met them) is not the equivilent of knowing them, and is not a susbstantial enough reason to friend them . For example: I hear Heidi Saarloos on the radio every day and have even met her briefly on one occasion, but since I do not know her, I have not sent her a friend request, even though we have friends in common. Get my drift? (Just using you as an example, Heidi. I'm sure you're lovely.)
Friending those who aren't your actual friends is a matter of personal choice, though it is generally frowned upon in the Facebook community, and fairly earns you to the title of "creeper" and the description of either "nosy" or "desperate to win the very lame 'I-have-the-most-Facebook-friends' competition".
If you must friend someone you don't know well, include a message explaining why you are doing so. For example, "Hi, I'm your roommate's cousin!" would suffice. (But wait, why would you want to be friends with your roommate's cousin? Weird...)
Friending someone you don't particularly like is also tacky. They know you only want to scrutinize their pictures, so maintain your dignity and don't bother. If you ignore this rule and they accept, fully expect them to do the same thing to you.
Never friend an ex-boyfriend/girlfriend unless you're prepared to see status updates and pictures that you probably don't want to see.
Writing on your own wall is somewhat of a "faux pas". People will look at the post with pity and think, "aw, she must be new."
Poking is the lowest form of Facebook communication and should be done sparingly and in moderation. There is absolutely no reason to body slam or throw a sheep at anyone.
If someone has sent you a message to which a reply is appropriate, do so in a timely fashion. Never read the message and decide to write back at a later time; that person will see your post-message Facebook activity, and your not making their message a priority might cause them tremendous insecurity. And then they might call you crying and ask if you're mad at them, which is at once ridiculous, terribly awkward, and a good reason to terminate the friendship (both on-line and in real-life).
Some messages are wall-appropriate, and some aren't, so know the difference. "Hey girl, I had a great time last weekend!" is a perfectly acceptable wall post. "Hey man, you were sooooo drunk when we left the strip club...who bailed you out?" - that's more message fare.
When posting pictures, make sure they're rotated in the right direction. If they aren't, no one will look at them, which completely defeats the purpose.
And by the way, it's cheating if you un-tag yourself in a picture just because you look bad. They got you fair and square, so be a good sport and let everyone else laugh. You'll have your chance, even if it doesn't involve the same person.
These are the more broad, sweeping rules that even beginners should know. Next week, we're really going to crack the whip.
Monday, June 15, 2009
They Come in the Night
This Thursday evening past, I was sitting in my living room, plugging away at an article for this week's paper. Having just celebrated my wedding anniversary on Wednesday, I decided to write about what I've learned about marriage over the last few years, and indeed it was coming along nicely.
I had almost finished when my dog started doing his "let me out to pee" dance in front of the door. I put my laptop down, opened the main door, put him on his leash, and grabbed the handle of the outside door.
You will not be reading an article about the rules of marriage this week, due to events that occurred when I looked out the glass pane of my door.
There, clinging to the screen, exactly at my eye level, was a June bug the size of an albatross. Not a finch, not even a quail, but an albatross. He knocked on my door and asked to borrow a sweater. And it fit.
I suppose it didn't exactly happen that way, but those with a fear of June bugs will understand why I'm exaggerating. They are, after all, a present threat.
I'm a tall, hefty girl without a lot of fear. It's not like one of those old phobia episodes of Maury Povich, that I'm scared of hair or tomatoes or people named Bernie. The things I'm afraid of are, in my mind, legitimate and justifiable.
Like tornadoes. I can't imagine why people choose to live in Kansas, Oklahoma, or anywhere else defined as "Tornado Alley" (hello? would you live in a place called "City of Torrential Floods"?), but I guess that's their choice, and they're willing to take that chance. I, on the other hand, will never visit any of those places, let alone park my mobile home in the middle of the potential melee. I am terrified of tornadoes, and the shock of seeing one would kill me before the funnel cloud ever could. But tornadoes, while a legitimate fear, aren't a present threat.
Same with rats. Wet rats, specifically. I had the occasion to see a giant, wet wharf rat when I was young (thanks for taking that picture to school, Mitchell Burke), and the horrifying image has been seared into my mind for over 20 years. To make matters worse, shortly after seeing that picture, a rat darted out from under our shed, ran up my leg, and jumped off my shoulder. By rights, I should still be in intensive therapy. But, while rats are a legitimate fear, I don't live near enough to any notoriously rat-prone areas to consider it a present threat.
Sharks, too. Though I would never go past my ankles in the Caribbean (ask my travel mates), I don't loose sleep over an impending Cape Breton shark attack. You get the point, I'm sure.
June bugs are different, they're a present threat. They arrive in late May, like clockwork, and there isn't a single thing I can do about it. There's nothing I can spray and nowhere I can hide, unless I want to leave North America all together.
A friend said to me, "They say there's a purpose to everything under God, but I haven't found a single good reason why June bugs exist", so I decided to research exactly what they contribute to our ecosystem.
I found out the, ahem, phyllophaga is a New World scarab beetle with three sets of legs and a penchant for deciduous trees. Not only do they attack the roots of garden vegetables, causing poor and stunted growth, but since they live underground, they've been known to cause lawns to turn yellow and die, with such severe damage to the grass from their subterraneous munching that said grass can be rolled up like a carpet.
In as much reading as I've done about June bugs over the past few days, nowhere have I found a single useful characteristic or positive attribute, unless you count "medically harmless" (which you shouldn't, since it's not true, if you consider heart attacks caused by one unexpectedly flying into someone's hood).
All the reading and venting in the world won't do me a bit of good, since these hateful, hard-backed creatures will still be infesting the Strait Area for the next month. Hitting the side of my house with the force of a meteor; flying around my porch light like a possessed swarm of locusts; stomping around my patio at night, waiting for an unsuspecting Gina to wander outside, all for them to leap forward into my long hair and lay eggs...heaven help me, I'm going to have nightmares just from writing this article.
June bugs were put here to scare us, people. Get used to it, and may the force (or the heavy shoe) be with you.
I had almost finished when my dog started doing his "let me out to pee" dance in front of the door. I put my laptop down, opened the main door, put him on his leash, and grabbed the handle of the outside door.
You will not be reading an article about the rules of marriage this week, due to events that occurred when I looked out the glass pane of my door.
There, clinging to the screen, exactly at my eye level, was a June bug the size of an albatross. Not a finch, not even a quail, but an albatross. He knocked on my door and asked to borrow a sweater. And it fit.
I suppose it didn't exactly happen that way, but those with a fear of June bugs will understand why I'm exaggerating. They are, after all, a present threat.
I'm a tall, hefty girl without a lot of fear. It's not like one of those old phobia episodes of Maury Povich, that I'm scared of hair or tomatoes or people named Bernie. The things I'm afraid of are, in my mind, legitimate and justifiable.
Like tornadoes. I can't imagine why people choose to live in Kansas, Oklahoma, or anywhere else defined as "Tornado Alley" (hello? would you live in a place called "City of Torrential Floods"?), but I guess that's their choice, and they're willing to take that chance. I, on the other hand, will never visit any of those places, let alone park my mobile home in the middle of the potential melee. I am terrified of tornadoes, and the shock of seeing one would kill me before the funnel cloud ever could. But tornadoes, while a legitimate fear, aren't a present threat.
Same with rats. Wet rats, specifically. I had the occasion to see a giant, wet wharf rat when I was young (thanks for taking that picture to school, Mitchell Burke), and the horrifying image has been seared into my mind for over 20 years. To make matters worse, shortly after seeing that picture, a rat darted out from under our shed, ran up my leg, and jumped off my shoulder. By rights, I should still be in intensive therapy. But, while rats are a legitimate fear, I don't live near enough to any notoriously rat-prone areas to consider it a present threat.
Sharks, too. Though I would never go past my ankles in the Caribbean (ask my travel mates), I don't loose sleep over an impending Cape Breton shark attack. You get the point, I'm sure.
June bugs are different, they're a present threat. They arrive in late May, like clockwork, and there isn't a single thing I can do about it. There's nothing I can spray and nowhere I can hide, unless I want to leave North America all together.
A friend said to me, "They say there's a purpose to everything under God, but I haven't found a single good reason why June bugs exist", so I decided to research exactly what they contribute to our ecosystem.
I found out the, ahem, phyllophaga is a New World scarab beetle with three sets of legs and a penchant for deciduous trees. Not only do they attack the roots of garden vegetables, causing poor and stunted growth, but since they live underground, they've been known to cause lawns to turn yellow and die, with such severe damage to the grass from their subterraneous munching that said grass can be rolled up like a carpet.
In as much reading as I've done about June bugs over the past few days, nowhere have I found a single useful characteristic or positive attribute, unless you count "medically harmless" (which you shouldn't, since it's not true, if you consider heart attacks caused by one unexpectedly flying into someone's hood).
All the reading and venting in the world won't do me a bit of good, since these hateful, hard-backed creatures will still be infesting the Strait Area for the next month. Hitting the side of my house with the force of a meteor; flying around my porch light like a possessed swarm of locusts; stomping around my patio at night, waiting for an unsuspecting Gina to wander outside, all for them to leap forward into my long hair and lay eggs...heaven help me, I'm going to have nightmares just from writing this article.
June bugs were put here to scare us, people. Get used to it, and may the force (or the heavy shoe) be with you.
Eleven Down
My oldest son just turned eleven this past week - I know, where does the time go? How is it possible that I am old enough to have an eleven-year-old child?
I could write a book about the lessons I've learned and facts I have gathered since his birth, but this is a short list of more recent revelations.
One, boys have their own little world that I'm not completely welcome in. There are no more playdates as boys get older; now, I hear a knock, I see a figure bolt by me, I hear a door slam, and they're gone. As long as they're behaving, I suppose I don't need to know exactly what they're doing, but it's reached a point where my daily inquisition is met with eye-rolling and "I dunno, just stuff. Skateboarding, whatever." Whatever indeed.
Two, boys' hygiene is a complete contradiction. The same kid who will flat out refuse to wear the "lame" shirt I just bought him, will walk around with a four-inch wide mustard stain on the front of one he likes. He'll beg me to let his hair grow out to a certain style, but would go to school with epic bed-head if I didn't thrust a brush in his direction every morning. He saves his money for cool sneakers, only to let them disintegrate on his feet without the least bit of concern. I can't comprehend how someone so picky about their appearance in some areas, can be so unconscientious about it in others.
Three, as he gets braver, I get more scared. The first day he strapped on his bike helmet for a solo spin around the block, I wanted to chain him to the house. Frantic questions screech through my mind every time he wants to push the boundaries of his current permissions: will he remember the hidden driveway? does he know my cell phone number? what if something happens? Most of his new ventures leave me swallowing my fear, giving him the chance to prove himself and earn my trust, and then holding my breath until he walks back through the door.
Four, I will most definitely be a monster-in-law. With girls entering the picture as of late, I'm fairly certain he can see the terror in my eyes every time I see "her" (whoever "her" might be that particular day) number come up on the call display. I used to think it was so cute when girls would be around, the ones he claimed, with genuine disgust, were "gross". Now, girls are the enemy, but only to me. The future does not look bright in that department, and I'm afraid I might have to search around for those chains I mentioned, from the bicycle days.
Five, he's a child and a teen in equal parts. While he makes his own toast, prefers a shower over a bath, and watches pg-13 movies, he's also mommy's baby when he's sick. He loves to give hugs and play, yet he's quickly closing in on the height of his dad. Pretty soon he won't have a bedtime on the weekend, but I can always be sure he's going to tell his little brother "I love you" before sleep. (I'll have to try to remember that when they're wrestling each other into submission.)
Six, in some cases he knows more than I do. At his birthday party, we had decided some Wii and a movie would occupy most of the night's agenda. I took the liberty of popping a DVD into the player, only to see a blank screen remain on the television. In my defense, the electronics in my living room would, for most, require a Harvard degree in Information Technology and Engineering, but to my surprise, he had the movie up and running in mere minutes. Those darned kids and all their fancy doo-hickeys. Tarnation.
And finally, seven, drugs are the scariest things in the world. All you can do is talk and talk and talk and hope something you say sticks, but when it comes down to it, they're going to do what they're going to do. The worst part: short of holding their hand in the halls of the high school, there isn't much you can do about "the drug situation" except pray that your stories and explanations have led them in the direction of saying no. I have been having the drug conversation for years with my son, and I think I have him convinced that drugs are for the kids who don't have the confidence to be themselves, and that sooner than later, they'll be the stoners who all the cool kids make fun of. Keep your fingers crossed that my brainwashing will pay off.
Wish me luck. I hear the next eleven are even harder.
I could write a book about the lessons I've learned and facts I have gathered since his birth, but this is a short list of more recent revelations.
One, boys have their own little world that I'm not completely welcome in. There are no more playdates as boys get older; now, I hear a knock, I see a figure bolt by me, I hear a door slam, and they're gone. As long as they're behaving, I suppose I don't need to know exactly what they're doing, but it's reached a point where my daily inquisition is met with eye-rolling and "I dunno, just stuff. Skateboarding, whatever." Whatever indeed.
Two, boys' hygiene is a complete contradiction. The same kid who will flat out refuse to wear the "lame" shirt I just bought him, will walk around with a four-inch wide mustard stain on the front of one he likes. He'll beg me to let his hair grow out to a certain style, but would go to school with epic bed-head if I didn't thrust a brush in his direction every morning. He saves his money for cool sneakers, only to let them disintegrate on his feet without the least bit of concern. I can't comprehend how someone so picky about their appearance in some areas, can be so unconscientious about it in others.
Three, as he gets braver, I get more scared. The first day he strapped on his bike helmet for a solo spin around the block, I wanted to chain him to the house. Frantic questions screech through my mind every time he wants to push the boundaries of his current permissions: will he remember the hidden driveway? does he know my cell phone number? what if something happens? Most of his new ventures leave me swallowing my fear, giving him the chance to prove himself and earn my trust, and then holding my breath until he walks back through the door.
Four, I will most definitely be a monster-in-law. With girls entering the picture as of late, I'm fairly certain he can see the terror in my eyes every time I see "her" (whoever "her" might be that particular day) number come up on the call display. I used to think it was so cute when girls would be around, the ones he claimed, with genuine disgust, were "gross". Now, girls are the enemy, but only to me. The future does not look bright in that department, and I'm afraid I might have to search around for those chains I mentioned, from the bicycle days.
Five, he's a child and a teen in equal parts. While he makes his own toast, prefers a shower over a bath, and watches pg-13 movies, he's also mommy's baby when he's sick. He loves to give hugs and play, yet he's quickly closing in on the height of his dad. Pretty soon he won't have a bedtime on the weekend, but I can always be sure he's going to tell his little brother "I love you" before sleep. (I'll have to try to remember that when they're wrestling each other into submission.)
Six, in some cases he knows more than I do. At his birthday party, we had decided some Wii and a movie would occupy most of the night's agenda. I took the liberty of popping a DVD into the player, only to see a blank screen remain on the television. In my defense, the electronics in my living room would, for most, require a Harvard degree in Information Technology and Engineering, but to my surprise, he had the movie up and running in mere minutes. Those darned kids and all their fancy doo-hickeys. Tarnation.
And finally, seven, drugs are the scariest things in the world. All you can do is talk and talk and talk and hope something you say sticks, but when it comes down to it, they're going to do what they're going to do. The worst part: short of holding their hand in the halls of the high school, there isn't much you can do about "the drug situation" except pray that your stories and explanations have led them in the direction of saying no. I have been having the drug conversation for years with my son, and I think I have him convinced that drugs are for the kids who don't have the confidence to be themselves, and that sooner than later, they'll be the stoners who all the cool kids make fun of. Keep your fingers crossed that my brainwashing will pay off.
Wish me luck. I hear the next eleven are even harder.
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