Managing Facebook Friends: It’s an Art, Not a Science

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

Facebook friends are AWESOME. (Insert smiley face, emoticon, tag, etc.)  Until they’re not.

My FB friends list, probably much like yours, includes old friends, new friends, friends of friends, friends I’ve never met and likely never will but we somehow got connected on FB friends, work friends, and so on.  Most of these connections are rewarding.  Some are practically nonexistent (Uncle Joe who signed up because his kids told him to and then has never returned).  Some are thought-provoking and even challenging.

And then there are the almost unbearables.

Younger people seem more comfortable with blocking someone on Facebook, sending them to that nowhereville where even their incessant Farmville updates won’t reach you.  I have only ever blocked one person, and that was for personal attacks that I won’t tolerate in any forum.  But, blocking seems so complete and permanent and . . . well, mean. 

I have a few Facebook friends that I wish I could soft-block.  They aren’t annoying or pissy so much as they just don’t get me.  I have annoying and pissy friends who get me, and I really don’t mind them so much.  They can disagree with my politics or views on religion or sexual mores, but they understand who I am and we keep a safe distance or tango only as a dance and not a war.  It’s the ones who interact with me as if they haven’t a clue about any aspect of my life that cause me irritation.

These are people I can’t block for various reasons.  Perhaps they’re connected to far too many other people in my circle, or they are professional colleagues, or they’re family. (I can hear the buzz now — “Is she talking about me?”  Just to set the record straight, no.  No, I’m not.  I’m not talking about you.)  For some reason, I just can’t drop them on the chopping block.

Mostly, I keep them around because I figure it says more about me than it does them if I can’t tolerate them.  And I guess that’s the beauty I find in Facebook; it is teaching us to interact with each other in completely new ways.  My little inner communications major observes this like a sociologist studying mob mentality.

We may piss each other off.  But, we’re connected.  And somewhere in that is a truly beautiful gift.

Why Doctors Should Rethink Smoking

~ Deb ~ 2 Comments

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I went to the doctor recently to get my hormones checked.  I was positive I was beginning the long, slow descent into the black hole of menopause.  That HAD to be it.  I was moody and angry and depressed.  There were so many good things happening in my life, and yet I had this big ball of intense crying just behind my eyes waiting for the slightest provocation to burst forth.

I mentioned all of my symptoms to my doctor, plus I added that I had quit smoking (again!) about a month before.  He nodded, ordered blood work, referred me to a gynecologist, and scheduled me for a transvaginal ultrasound.

The labs came back within normal limits.

The gynecologist will be seen in two weeks simply because I’m due for a Pap smear.

The ultrasound was cancelled.  I thought it was overkill, and since I consider myself to be the primary player in my own healthcare, I get to trump the doctor.

I knew what the truth was.  I was jonesing.  I’ve tried to quit smoking at least 746 times . . . diligently.  I have rarely made it through an entire month stretch.  The symptoms that drove me to the doctor were simply brought on by moving through another threshold of withdrawal.  The key to my issues was completely overlooked by my well respected primary care physician.

A few years ago, a friend of mine was in the hospital.  I was visiting her when the doctor came in the room.  In the course of their conversation, he asked, “You don’t smoke, do ya’?”

“Sure do,” she replied.

“Oh,” he said.  “I thought you were smarter than that.”

It took me a few minutes to process this conversation.  By the time I determined a reply, he was down the hall.  I should have chased him.  I should have grabbed him by his white-coat lapels and said, “How dare you?  How can you call yourself a medical professional and belittle your patient in this way?  If she had just declared that she was an alcoholic or a heroin addict or a little too dependent on prescription painkillers, you would have addressed her issue with the gravitas expected from a medical professional.  You would have considered that information in her treatment plan.  You would never dare look an Oxycontin addict in the eye and say, ‘I thought you were smarter than that.'”

Nicotine addiction is a serious issue, and the approach that doctors and nurses usually take desperately needs to be reconsidered.   Belittling your patient is neither effective nor professional.  Ignoring that aspect of a patient’s overall health picture is perhaps missing the easiest path to a diagnosis.  Doctors need to have honest conversations with patients about smoking without that undercurrent of moral judgment.  Save the guilt trip for my mother.

Smoking isn’t a wise choice.  Most smokers I know wish they could go back in time and never start.  But, belittling someone is not likely to help her abandon an addiction that some say is one of the most difficult to conquer.

My next step is an e-cigarette.  I’m hearing good reports about the success of this transition and the vastly reduced health risks.  But, for now, nicotine is my Paxil.  You can start nagging me about it when you get off your anti-depressant and stop drinking coffee.

132 Friends Have Posted to Your Wall

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

Birthdays sure aren’t what they used to be.  The birthdays of my childhood were like mini-Christmas, and I was the babe in the manger.  There was usually a party, and the wisest among us would come bearing gifts.

These were not the bouncy-place, pizza-for-everyone, invite-the-whole-class, pink-and-purple princess parties of today.  No, I’m old enough to remember when your birthday meant primarily family gathered for dinner; the leaf placed in the dining room table to accomodate aunts, uncles, and cousins; the nice table cloth used on a Tuesday.  My mother had a red plate with white letters around the edge which spelled out “You are special today.”  The plate only came out for good report cards, opening nights of the school play, and, of course, birthdays.

Despite the generational difference between those relatively spartan celebrations of the 70s and the stop-the-presses clusters of these modern times, there is an aspect of the childhood birthday that has remained the same: the child feels special.

The shift in the birthday experience which took place as I entered my 20s was a true shock to the system.  I had moved away from my family, so the dinner and the cake went the way of the pterodactyl.  Presents became less . . . well, convenient at first, I suppose, and then just not even considered.  That wasn’t too horrible.  I sucked so badly at remembering others’ birthdays that I was grateful to be let off the hook by the benign treatment of my own.  I settled into the acceptance of birthdays marked by a card in the mail from my mother, a call from my sister, perhaps a casual acknowledgement at work, and a possible gathering of a few close friends, if one of them remembered and put forth the energy to spearhead the event.  Not bad.  And some of them were even quite nice.  But, somehow, birthdays as an adult had become somewhat of a disappointment.  The anticipation I felt by force of habit far outweighed the reality of the day.

Then came Facebook.  Yes, I said, “Facebook.”  The first year I was on Facebook, it was a total shock to see post after post on my wall wishing me well on my birthday.  At first, I was kind of, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”  I mean, Facebook tells them it’s my birthday.  It’s not as if they have it circled on their calendar with a red sharpie.

And Facebook tells me when their birthdays are as well.  Thus, I conversely felt a bit shallow and pathetic when I would send well wishes to dear, precious, old friends who really deserved better than for a social network to nudge me to do so.  But, I didn’t know the birth dates of many of my Facebook friends to begin with.  And everybody needs a reminder.  (I contend it is the primary role of a partner to remind your circle of friends that your birthday is coming.)

It took a couple of years to get used to the social implications of this new way of celebrating a birthday.  But now when my birthday rolls around and the timeline posts start stacking up, I am absolutely THRILLED by it.  I LOVE that my friends, both close and casual, are reminded and then care enough to send me their best.  It is such a tidal wave of positive energy that my entire day seems elevated.  It’s far better than the annual feeding of my messiah complex in my youth.  It beats the hell out of the bouncy place.

No, birthdays aren’t what they used to be.  They’re much, MUCH better.

One Thing I Learned in Sunday School

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine and I were having a chat when she asked me a question I had some difficulty answering.  We were discussing race relations/equality/justice and so forth, all issues about which I am infinitely passionate.  My friend asked, “Where did you get your intense devotion to issues of racial equality?”

Hmmm. . . where did I get it?  I can think of oodles of examples that nurtured it along the way, but the initial springboard seemed a bit of a mystery.

My friend asked, “Did you come from a liberal family that cared deeply about social justice?”

After L-ing a bit too OL (thanks for the line, Modern Family writers), I said, “No, that would not have been it.”  My family was about as equality minded as any other conservative white family in the 60s and 70s.

“Do you think it has something to do with being a lesbian?  You know, your own experiences with inequality naturally transferring to other minority experiences?”

I think that certainly has an impact on my ability to understand the pain of being on the shorter end of the “equality” stick, but still not the source.

I pondered this question further on my own over the next few weeks.  I wondered if, in the words of the sage philosopher Lady Gaga, I was simply “born this way?”  I’m sad to say that probably wasn’t the case either.    So, what was it?  Could I go back and discover the seed?  I pondered this question in depth, as I am wont to do with just about any single thing one can imagine.

Then I thought of Mrs. Soper.

Mrs. Soper was my first grade Sunday school teacher.  If you had told me then that she was 112 years old, I would have accepted that without reservation.  I’m pretty certain she had taught the first grade Sunday school class for 86 years already by the time I arrived.

One Sunday morning, Mrs. Soper was asking for a volunteer, probably to lead the prayer.  No one jumped at this golden opportunity, so I started pointing my pudgy six-year-old fingers at each member of the class and reciting, “Eeny-meeny-miny-mo, catch a nigger by the toe . . . ”

Mrs. Soper pointed her gnarled, 112-year-old finger at me and snapped, “We don’t say that word.”

I slunk back into my chair, cowed and embarrassed.  There is no greater humiliation for a budding comedian than to learn that an attempt to be funny is not only not funny but horribly inappropriate.  Besides, I had enjoyed the protected status of preacher’s kid my entire life.  It was the rare and courageous adult who dared chastise me publicly.  Well, Mrs. Soper was both rare and courageous (in addition to being the mother of the church treasurer, the woman who wrote my father’s paycheck).

Until that time, the little engine in my spirit that could contemplate issues of social justice had only followed the track laid by my family.  In an instant, Mrs. Soper threw the switch and sent me in a new direction.

I have no idea if I ever said that word again in my childhood (I know that I haven’t as an adult, with the rare exception caused by academic or narrative necessity, as evidenced above, and usually not even then).  I would not be surprised if I did, but I can tell you one thing with certainty: I never said it again without thinking how disappointed Mrs. Soper would be with me.  In fact, every time I hear that word to this day, whether coming from the mouth of one of my students or in a rap song, I think of Mrs. Soper.

It’s not an easy responsibility for an adult to undertake, to transform a child’s ignorance into a choice they can never make again without knowing it is a poor one.  I have done it in the past when my nieces were younger, and let me be the first to tell you, I didn’t enjoy it.  It was embarrassing for them and unpleasant for me.  But, I also know they remember those instances as clearly as I remember Mrs. Soper.

The writer of the Proverbs said, “Train a child in the way (s)he should go, and (s)he will not depart from it.”  I think the part of the verse that gets most overlooked is the concept of the true way to go.  I learned lots of stuff in church that I have long since abandoned, but I have never departed from the track Mrs. Soper switched me to.

From now on, if anyone should ask where I get my passion for social justice and equality, I know exactly what to say — “Mrs. Soper.”  She planted the seed which my life experiences have watered and nurtured.  But, she planted the seed.  Would that we all  contributed to the gardens of the young people in our lives in such a profound way.