Update: Chicago Haunts Me

I am being haunted by the city of Chicago. Seriously. The entire city – or at least the spirit of the city – haunts me nearly daily. I thought I was imagining it, but now it’s become so blatant and commonplace that I find it amusing. At first, these sightings would have abrupt physiological effects on me, my heartbeat would quicken and I would gasp. As the apparitions became more regular, I would have a momentary pause of disbelieve, my eyes would bug out and I would tsk. Now the manifestations are so frequent that I find it funny, I roll my eyes and snort. While it used to be creepy and spooky, now I embrace it. Chicago is haunting me.

These ghostly meetings probably aren’t what you’re picturing right now. It’s not like a sheet-covered Sears Tower walks down the hall saying, “Oooh! Oooooooh!” (I know it’s not called the Sears Tower anymore, but I am not ready to refer to it by the name of a British insurance bloke. Call me old-fashioned. You’ve probably called me crazy already, so one more round of name-calling isn’t going to hurt.) The poltergeist takes more subtle forms, which is how I know it’s a genuine apparition. You see, folks, I see Chicago. When I open the local paper, there is a story about Chicago. If I glance at the football game my husband is watching, the score for Chicago flickers by at the bottom of the screen. Chicago comes up in fictional books I read, people mention it out of the blue, I hear it on the radio. If I’m watching a sit-com, there will be a poster of Chicago in the background. These Midwestern manifestations appear all around me.

That’s not a haunting, you say, that’s just coincidence. Chicago is a big city, it’s in the paper a lot, people talk about it, our fair president lived there for goodness sakes. Yeah, it’s true. I’ll give you that. Believe me, I’ve reminded myself of these facts many times. If it were any other city – say New York, Los Angeles, or even Boston or San Francisco – I wouldn’t give these encounters with this urban spirit world another thought. Perhaps it’s merely the fact that I’m noticing the mysterious appearances in my life of the Windy City that have created a snowball effect. I’ve considered all these possibilities. Do you think I want to be haunted by Chicago?! Look, do me a favor, take the next couple days to notice it in your life. Please let me know if you read, see or hear the word “Chicago.” Please post your experiences on my blog. Hey, maybe the city is haunting everybody, and it’s not just me!

Why would Chicago be haunting me anyway? That one is easy. You may know that I am a hopeless improv comedy addict. And you also may know that Chicago is the mecca of improv comedy. In the 1950s and 60s, modern improv was born in Chicago through the loins of Viola Spolin, David Shepherd and Del Close. It came of age at ImprovOlympics (iO,) The Second City, Annoyance Theatre. The usual first-string players, New York, L.A. and Toronto, merely are the comic children of Chicago. When Lorne Michaels wants to adopt a new comedy SNL baby, he checks in at the delivery rooms of Chicago. As you plainly can see, on a professional level it makes perfect sense that Chicago would call to me.

On a personal level, there are several old friends who I haven’t seen in a long, long time for no good reason whatsoever. I find it impossibly ridiculous that twenty-five years can speed by without looking into these friends' eyes. This life error must be rectified as soon as possible. Many of these friends live in Chicago.

If you believe in respectfully attending to messages sent by the Universe (and I do,) then you know as well as I do that this haunting should not be ignored. Rest assured, my wise friends, that plans are in place to for me to go to Chicago in late April 2010 during the Chicago Improv Festival. I shall pay homage at the shrine of Del Close. I shall selfishly over-imbibe in gallons of top-shelf improv.  I shall fondly look into the eyes of old friends.

I thought that making these plans and announcing them to the Universe (by way of Facebook, primarily,) the spectral encounters with Chicago would cease. However, I must confess the phantom appearances have only increased. So perhaps in putting the facts of my haunting on virtual paper the Universe and Chicago will get the message that I get the message. Okay, already, I get it! I get it, Chicago! Don’t make me go all Ghostbusters on your ass. I see you, Chicago. I welcome your presence into my life, Chicago.

Essay: Can You Tell Me How to Get to Sesame Street?

As I am slightly behind the curve here (my news cycle is blessedly far from 24-hours,) I still am reflecting on the fortieth anniversary of Sesame Street. This show hit the air only a few weeks after my third birthday, the year that my memories begin, and in reflecting on the anniversary this week I realized that my consciousness was shaped by lessons I learned from Sesame Street.

Back when TV sets were powered by tiny dinosaurs running on treadmills, there were only a handful of shows for the youngest set. I remember loving Mr. Rogers, The Shari Lewis Show, and Bozo. But Sesame Street blew them all away with its hipness, its overt pro-literacy stance, and its multi-cultural nirvana.  Growing up on a steady IV drip of the idealized life dispensed by Sesame Street, I now realize that I have spent much of my life seeking out the most Sesame Street-like environments. I wanted to live in a place where people were predictable and neatly classifiable. (“Oh, never mind him. Oscar is always grouchy.”) I wanted to live in a place where cookies and letters and friendship were reason for celebration.  (“C is for cookie. That’s good enough for me!”) I wanted to live in a place where an uptight femme-y man and his chubby hubby can live together in universal community acceptance. (“Not now Ernie, I’m trying to sleep.”)

Imagine my excitement when I first emerged from the F-train station in Park Slope, Brooklyn in 1988. “Holy cow,” I remember saying as I looked up and down the brownstone-lined street. “I’m going to live on Sesame Street!” Now imagine my disappointment to find the guy on the corner in the trench coat was not a friendly frog interviewing people on the street (and that most definitely was not a microphone in his hand,) and the local bodega was not owned by the eternally grandfatherly Mr. Hooper, but a gruff Korean man who sprayed water on my shoes. Sadly, Brooklyn walked the walk but failed to talk the talk of The Street.

Though I could not find it in physical form, as an adult I have tried to live true to Sesame Street’s moral lessons. With more or less success, I aim to practice tolerance, patience, caring and a love of words. (And even when I don’t achieve my aim, I know that it’s okay because everyone makes mistakes, oh yes they do.)  Like on Sesame Street, friendship is a major theme in my life. And as far as idealized lifestyles go, the Pioneer Valley in western Massachusetts is as close as I could manage to get to the hand-in-paw-in-hand, heads-thrown-back, singing chorus of happiness as expressed on Sesame Street.

Naturally when I grew up and became a mom, I regularly sat my kids down in front of Sesame Street so they could carry the same idyllic world to aim for in their lives. One morning when my daughter Sierra was one week from her third birthday, she was happily seated in her tiny toddler-sized chair, ready for her dose of The Street. Instead we turned on the television to see the World Trade Center on fire. I called my husband up from his downstairs office. “Look, honey,” I said numbly pointing to the television. “The plane hit exactly where you used to work.” Before we could make sense of it, we three watched together in disbelieve as the second plane crashed into the other building. We stood there for several seconds of stunned silence while our minds try to comprehend the incomprehensible.

Then we heard Sierra’s tiny, sweet, little girl voice say, “This isn’t Sesame Street.”

No, this isn’t Sesame Street. Our world is so far from Sesame Street that sometimes I wonder if it’s fair that we hold these idealized notions of the creed of The Street. Workplace shooting rampages, the existence of Fox News, and the recent small-minded, homophobic vote results in Maine all remind us that we don’t live anywhere near Sesame Street. But in the end, I have to believe that if a place like Sesame Street can exist in our collective imaginations then it surely is something that can be realized. Or at the very least, Sesame Street gives us a direction in which to aim, on the way to where the air is sweet.

She-Lion Power Pride, Episode #2: Chamomilia

SHE-LION POWER PRIDE is an improvised web series about six characters (played by two actors) in a women's empowerment group. In this episode, DeeDee (that's me!) comes to terms with the power behind her Power Name. She-Lion Power Pride, Episode #2: Chamomilia.

If you'd like to see the first episode, check it out on FunnyorDie and please vote "funny" for it! She-Lion Power Pride, Episode #1: Ellen Chooses Her Power Name.

Update: My Birthday Time Travel Machine

I received a call from my 14-year-old self on Sunday morning. (She said to say hi.) She spoke in this familiar voice that is not my own. She talked about a mysterious penny, the Rose Bowl and a Leonardo da Vinci report. I could tell her (my?) mouth was full of braces and illicit chewing gum even before she/I fessed up at the end of the conversation. (Even then, I could never do the wrong thing without at least admitting it.) I remember her but I don't remember her. I can picture her but I can't picture her. I know her but I don't know her. In any case, being given the opportunity to shake hands with 14-year-old Pam Victor was quite...oh jeez...what the hell was it? Weird - yes, obviously. Emotional - sure. Disconcerting - check. Magical - without a doubt.

The conduit to my time traveling adventures was a birthday present given to me by a boy (presumably now a man) named Jeff with whom I was friends in seventh grade, and beyond. Turns out that for a brief time in 1980, after I moved from Michigan to California, Jeff and I exchanged audio letters via a K-Mart brand cassette tape. For you youthful readers, this was back in the day, before personal computers and when long distance phone calls were too expensive. Letters took over a week, sometimes two, to get across the country. And I missed my friends. So we made tapes. Turns out that Jeff saved a tape. I imagine he shoved it in the back of a drawer and promptly forgot about it. Like I did. Turns out that the tape still was intact and audible when Jeff happened upon it TWENTY-NINE YEARS LATER.

On the morning of my 43rd birthday, I open an email from Jeff containing a two minute section of said audio tape. Surprise! Happy Birthday from 1980.

You know when you wake up to find you've been sleeping on your arm for goodness knows how long? And your arm feels like dead weight. Then you start poking at it, and you can't feel it. You know it's your arm, but it's not your arm. It's attached to you, but it doesn't feel like part of you. That's what I felt like listening to the tape.

I also felt much gratitude, like the hand of a friend reached through time and cyberspace to touch my heart and say, "Hey, I was there. I remember too. You were not alone."

Happy Birthday from 1980!

Harbor Dolphins, Not Ill Will

Today I was remembering my favorite harbor on Anna Maria Island. You see, there is this long, old pier, I believe at least some of it is the original pier from the 1920's when folks started ferrying themselves to this tiny haven. I may be wrong about this. Though the island is only about one mile wide and at most seven miles long, it still has a very modest historical museum guarded over by old-timey grandmothers, so we learned something about the pier during our visit there. Something that I've apparently forgotten.

No matter. You don't have know anything to take the long walk down the wide slatted boards, passing shrimp netters and fishermen, -women, and -children. There is a restaurant at the end of the pier. Like most of the restaurants on this slightly off-the-beaten path island, it's rustic but good enough or better. Actually, if you're hungry we should bike up to the other pier, which has a really great restaurant. My favorite kind of place, very come-as-you-are. No putting on airs there. When you walk in some brusque but good-hearted woman might bellow, "Hey darlin's. Sit anywhere you like." She doesn't smoke anymore, but it sounds like she still does. That's real seafood there. Get your fingers messy food. But we're not here to eat. It's still early, sunset, and we're here for the view.

There does happen to be an outdoor bar on this pier, so we might as well grab a frosty drink. Like I said, on Anna Maria you won't find the fancy-shmancy, pristine sheen of Long Boat or Siesta Keys, so don't expect much from this bar. Actually, that's what I love about this place. It's real. So the outdoor bar looks like a bar should look that has been exposed to the elements, years of resting elbows and beer being slid over the peeling counter. Drink in hands, we can sit on one of the rough wooden benches that circle the end of the pier. It's warm with a nice breeze, and the view over the Tampa Bay is pretty close to postcard perfect. (This is Florida, though, not the Caribbean. It's not paradise, but it's still damn nice.) If we sit here awhile - and why the hell not - we might get lucky and see some dolphins.

The first time I came out here, I was by myself. My family and I had all been biking together, but the rest of them sped up ahead of me (as usual.) In their haste they missed our destination, which was the post office across from the end of the pier. So, feeling somewhat abandoned and very “I’ll show them why the tortoise wins the race,” I wandered down to the end of this pier. I heard a little girl on the bench (the same one we're sitting on right now, in fact) looking out into the water and counting. I watched and waited, but couldn't figure out what she was talking about. So I asked her, all friendly-like, what she was counting. "Dolphins!" she said. Sure enough, there were three or four dolphins cresting out of the water now and then. I sighed, "Darn. My daughter would LOVE to see this. Too bad she is not here." (Sierra's big goal for our visit was to see her first dolphin.) Another big, disappointed sigh.

Not thirty seconds later, a head pokes out from under my arm, and I find my arm around my daughter. Somehow they had found me on this pier!

So Sierra and I sat there a while and watched dolphins. A couple times the dolphins actually jumped out of the water. It was excellent. But please, I'm going to have to ask that you go ahead and forget that story though because I'm probably going to tell it every time I find myself on this pier. The story is just too magical not to.

I'm pretty sure we'll see a dolphin if we sit out here long enough. It's so quiet and peaceful. Just you and me. And even if we don't, there's always tomorrow.

Update: Parallel Circles

Yesterday I found a stash of old photos from my 7^th grade at Roeper School. It was a important year in my life, and the friends I made there are ones I continue to cherish to this day, even the ones who are no longer in my life. My time at Roeper School was a charmed existence. The miniature people we were in those old photos lived in the moment in a blessed ignorance and unwitting bliss.

Life has a way of say, “Hey, check this shit out.” For on the very day my formerly 13-year-old friends and I are marveling over these lost photos online, my kids (11 and 13 years old) are playing out the same be-here-now game of blessed ignorance and unwitting bliss. Returning from “homeschool skate” time with a mini-van (please refrain from snide comments) full of 11-13 year old kids, I hear the echoes the same refrain, songs once sung by my young friends and me. That atonal blending of awkwardness and puppyhood hummed by kids who know each other so well but are now finding themselves spurred by the push of hormones to become re-acquainted in a new and different way.

Part of that 13-year-old girl takes up plenty of square footage in my soul, nevertheless I remain nonexistent in the mini-van. An Adult. An Other. So as I drive through town I’m able to listen in on their conversation as they navigate the terrain between them in the car. One boy says into the air, “Can somebody please explain to me why ‘Twilight’ isn’t the dumbest book ever?” But really he’s saying, “Can one of you girls please notice me?” The ol’ Obnoxious Comment as Girl Bait Move. I remember it well. I had plenty of girlfriends who took the bait, “He’s such a jerk…in a kind of cute way.” Personally I preferred the Goofy Comments as Girl Bait Move, like the sweet boy who would come up behind us, poke us with his knee, and proclaim, “I ‘need’ you.”

(Kneed – need, get it? Get it?)

At home now, the girls prepare the mac and cheese (the boys preferring clean up duty), purposefully scampering around the kitchen, making everything just so. Then the boys stumble in and make a disproportionate mess while spooning out their lunch. Girls at one side of the table, boys at the other. Girls jabbering away, picking over the minutiae of the book-to-movie transition process. The boys shoveling food into their mouths, grunting silly nonsense in an attempt to get a foothold into the girls’ conversation. Suddenly, the yammering stops and for the first time one of the girls directly addresses one of the boys.

“What are you doing?” she asks with genuine wonder and a twinge of contempt.

We all look over to see the boy is literally examining his elbow, poking at it here and there.

“I have a bruise, but I can’t find it,” he says simply, continuing to prod his elbow.

The girls are too sweet to make fun of him, but I can see their wheels turning as they tabulate the value of boys in their lives.

We go around disguised as adults walking in the footsteps of our memories. And our kids run ahead of us, looping back around to the past again. Parallel circles.

Update: She-Lion Power Pride, episode one

This week, my creative efforts went into editing the pilot episode of the improvised web series I'm doing with Christine Stevens called "She-Lion Power Pride." Chris and I each play three of the six members of this women's empowerment group. In the first episode, we meet Ellen (Chris) and DeeDee (me) as Ellen is announcing her chosen "power name."

Check it out! SHE-LION POWER PRIDE, Episode One: Ellen Chooses Her Power Name.

Update to the Update "Big Coop in the Sky"

I have a friend. Her name is Sarah. She currently is studying veterinary medicine, which judging by her Facebook posts involves lots of multi-syllabic concepts, tedious classwork, and stints in frigid barn with one's hand up to the shoulder in a large animal's nether region. Sarah also is a comedian. I suppose she skimmed my last update because I received a lengthy email from her, choice selections of which is listed below. Because I have a highly refined, self-protective defense mechanism, I choose to read her advice as excerpts from a comedy sketch rather than actual, practical instrutions. Think "Monty Python as you read this."

Sarah wrote the following (hilarious bits highlighted by me - I wrote the snarky rejoinders in brackets as well):

"i think the best recommendation for you is around page 13 in chickens- carbon monoxide poisoning. if you have a fish tank with a lid that you can seal well and tape up the edges and a vaccuum style hose, you could connect your car's exhaust pipe via a long hose to the fish tank containing the chicken. [I can just picture this scene, with me screaming instructions to my husband in the car, the sick chicken in a FISH TANK, and my animal-loving daughter weeping profusely and yelling "I hate you! I hate you both!" in the background.] it seems pretty quick, and it's a "good death"- just inducing sleep, drowsiness, and eventual brain death. you just need probably 4 to 6 feet of hose to ensure the exhaust has enough time to cool before reaching the bird. [Or else flaming chicken?!] if you do put them down this way, you need to ensure death, usually by stabbing into the thorax to hit the heart or lungs, or if you can chop off the head after the animal is completely still and practically dead, that would be the best way. [Sarah knows how squeamish I am...plus didn't she read the blog?! I'm such a wimp I can't even look in a stern way at my chickens. Can you picture me STABBING my carbon monoxide-steaming chicken in the THORAX?! I'm peeing my pants right now imagining it.] a second kill method is necessary because the carbon monoxide will depress the breathing rate and heart rate so much that you will probably think they're dead when they are not, and you will be very distressed when they wake up again in a couple minutes. and i have seen rats wake up in a trash bag and it was very disturbing. [Hahahahahahaha!!!! Seriously, I'm really hoping you're still in the Monty Python state of mind. This is so friggin' genius.] i think they also recommend prefilling the chamber with before you put the bird in [Okay, and who is going to raise my children when I commit suicide by mistake while doing this? You bet Sarah isn't going to even volunteer to babysit!] to cut down on the convulsions as it transitions into death. [O. M. G. ROTFLMA)] (this is a normal bodily response as the brain loses control over the nervous system, but it can be very difficult to watch, so we try to cut down on it)."

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I swear, I have tears running down my face from laughing so hard. Thank you, Sarah. You are friggin' hilarious. If you, dear reader, are not laughing then you can turn away from your computer with some significant sense of psychological well-being. Clearly you are not as disturbed and warped as I. (And thus I salute you.)

Update: The Big Coop in the Sky

I've been mulling over my conflicted feelings for Farmer Dan. Last week, I asked him to mercy-kill ol' Crossbill, my deformed chicken who has a twisted beak and a badly infected eye. I couldn't stand watching her slowly starve to death. And when I saw my favorite old hen, Diva, pecking at her oozing eyeball, I decided that enough was enough and ol' Crossbill would be better off in the Great Coop in the Sky. I said goodbye and thanks to her as I dropped her off in a cat crate at Farmers Dan's house.

A few days ago, while at his house for dinner, I learned that instead of putting ol' Crossbill out of her misery, Farmer Dan decided that she wasn't that bad off and plopped her in with his flock. I am pretty peeved at him for letting ol' Crossbill linger longer, compounded by the anxiety of being in an unfamiliar flock. But there is not much I can do about it.

Except learn to kill my own chickens.

And that's where I get stuck, contemplating a palpable way of killing a sick hen. I've been in the situation before (twice in the last month, including the bobcat-mutilated hen) and I just haven't figured out how to do it in a way that I am capable of. (No, I can't chop off their heads.) I'm working on getting used to the idea of drowning a chicken, but it's a high hurdle for me.

So while you city folk are out there going through your neat and tidy days in the temperature-regulated, sterile, wall-to-wall padded maze, there are other people out here in the cold, windy world with the grime of guilt on their paltry poultry souls getting paid zilch to fail at killing a chicken.

This is a picture of Mama Hen and her chick, who grew up to be a naughty rooster, one of the three chickens I have had to ask Farmer Dan to rid us of. Despite their comic appearance and peaceful demeanor, chicken rearing is not for sissies.

[Note to readers: A version of this update originated in an email to a friend. As I'm pretty sure my friend is too busy in a cube-like world to peruse my blog, nevertheless I beg forgiveness from cyber-space for the redundancy. There are only so many hours in a day, ya' know? The above-mentioned friend suggested this "euthanasia bag." But if I use it, how can I ever look at a model volcano at a science fair with joy and geeky abandon again?]

[One more note: I am honored to count "Farmer" Dan among my friends. He is one of my favorite people. He also is an incredibly intelligent man, and probably one of the best farmers in the world. (I'm not even exaggerating there.) So although I was a tad peeved at him for not killing my chicken, I still love him dearly.]

Update: It's Been a Bobcat Week

Life is full of unexpected lessons. Sometimes I'd say that with child-like glee, but most of time it's with a sigh of resignation. Today, I am sighing. Big, deep sighs. When I was very little (maybe six or seven), we used to visit my mom's grandmother in a cramped, stuffy, old lady-smelling apartment. I remember that she always complained. And she sighed. LOUDLY. A LOT. In our wiggly boredom, my brother and I noticed that she had all these cracks in her ceiling. We decided that those cracks were caused by her sighs. Today, I am sighing a ceiling-cracking sigh.

It's Fall. Our home education full schedule thudded into our lives a couple weeks ago. Gone are the long days of summer with few plans and luxurious expanses of nothing to do.

"I'm bored!" the kids cried.

"Enjoy it," I tartly replied. "It won't last."

Of course, mother knew best. Now we have classes, events, meetings, playdates and captured learning opportunities crammed in between daily chores necessitated by eating and standards of good hygiene. Non-friggin-stop, I tell ya'. Plus I have all these Things To Do, but Life keeps taking up all my time. So I'm running in place, and getting nowhere. Not that I'm complaining like a smelly, old lady, but my days are full of driving, catering to needs, cleaning, messing up, cleaning, watching other people mess up, cleaning, teaching, guiding, facilitating learning, working on my sundry, piecemeal jobs, procrastinating on Facebook, and yelling, "Stop bickering you two!!!"

Oy.

I'm a smelly, old lady.

So I did not need one more thing taking up my painfully limited time. And I did not need a stupid-assed Life Lesson.

Enter the Bobcat.

A couple weeks ago, my sweet flock of gossipy but good-natured hens alerted me to a danger. It could have been a lot of things. As we live on the top of a hill, nestled in the woods of western Massachusetts, we are blessed with visits from Mother Earth's creatures. Fox, wild turkeys, deer, moose, bear, and a lovely collection of birds all have been seen on our hill. In fact, as I write this I'm listening to a barred owl ask over and over "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?" Fox and turkeys have been the most regular visitors to our yard. Thus I assumed a fox had struck terror on my flock when I found a mangled but still living young hen tangled in the fence. (The electric fence that my husband had neglected to turn back on, I might add through gritted teeth. My fault for not correctly his fault though, I add with yet another smelly, old lady sigh.) I am not a particularly stoic or tough woman, but since I was the only adult home at the time I had the displeasure of detangling my hen friend, and figuring out what to do with her. She was not dead, and I had seen another hen recover from a nasty fox attacked, so I gave her what I call the Nyquil Cure. I use a syringe to squirt a couple doses of Nyquil down her gullet in hopes that she goes to sleep, and does or does not wake up. Hopefully in the happy, dreamless sleep of Nyquil. Sometimes it works. This time it did not. She languished. It was gross. I'll spare you the details. Unhappy ending.

When my hens started freaking out again, I ran out to scare off this predator once and for all. Was I surprised when a bobcat slowly slunk away from the coop at my approach! It stopped, turned to gaze cooly at me in that fabulously uniquely feline superior way, gave a hiss for good measure, and sauntered on back into the woods. Though bummed about my poor hen, I was kind of psyched to see a real, live bobcat. Beautiful creature. A naturalist friend assured me not to worry. Bobcats don't like people. It wouldn't return.

Turns out bobcats don't confide in naturalists all the time. He returned. And returned. And returned. And returned. And returned. And returned. This week, he visited us five days in a row! I watched him slam him rather hefty body into the coop fence. Yes, yes, yes, I ran out there screaming like a banshee every time he visited. (Apparently, bobcats don't find me suitably scary.) My hens were a wreck. They stopped laying eggs from the stress. They stopped coming out of the coop for fresh air. They took on the heavy trod and helpless appearance of PTSD sufferers.

I scoured everywhere for answers. Here are a selection of the well-meaning and appreciated suggestions: motion-sensitive sprinkler, man piss, a bag of hair (makes me need to clear my throat excessively just to write that,) bacon hung on a strong electric fence, a "bobcat-proof bubble" (from my friend who watched too many Movies of the Week starring John Travolta in the '70s), coyote urine, a promise to send hair from the tub drain (thanks again, Andrea,) a can of pennies, an air gun, and a paintball gun. To those last few, my husband kept asking incredulously, "YOU'RE supposed to hit a moving target? [cruel laughter] You?" He implied that I throw like a girl, a phrase that is offensive but in this case sadly apt. I learned about bobcats. I learned to respect them too. Just to pass some advice on to you, don't try the coyote urine. It will attract coyotes, according to the fur-bearing mammal biologist at our Fish & Wildlife department.

By the way, I love the fact that someone owns a business card that describes their title as "Fur-Bearing Mammal Biologist." If my daughter ends up with that job, I wonder how I will describe it at cocktail parties.

"She's a scientist," I will say proudly.

"Oh? What kind of scientist?" my friend will inquire.

"A biologist!" I shall crow.

"Really? What type of biologist?" the Noisy Nora will drill me.

"Uh, a mfifuui," I say into my hand.

"What?" that bitch will jab my chest and shout.

"Fine. Fine." I'll exhale. "A fur-bearing mammal biologist! A fur-bearing mammal biologist! Are you happy now, you cow?"

I probably won't be invited to many cocktail parties when I'm older. Though come to think of it, the last time I went to a cocktail party I was wearing bell-bottoms. Whatever.

As for the bobcat, I took matters into my own hands, as I am wont to do. I drafted my grumbling son to help me surround our entirely fenced-in coop with the electric fence (sans bacon thus far.) A fortress. My hens have not been thrown into a blinding panic since then, so I have my fingers crossed that the Great Bobcat Lesson is over.

What did I learn from it?

I learned that no matter how busy you think you are - even when you feel like you're drowning in to-do's - there always is time for bobcats.

Update: Boston Improv Festival 2009

I am in the process of recovering from my Boston Improv Festival hangover. No, I didn't drink a lot. I think I just over-imbibed on improv, which is technically an impossibility for me but tell that to my aching head and rumbling belly. No matter. I had a BLAST! Improv shows, improv workshops, improv friends. It was - quite literally - all good.

My buddy Laura and I touched down at ImprovBoston on Saturday afternoon. Although we missed the first three nights of the BIF (woe were we, living two hours from Cambridge!) we quickly became caught up in the hubbub and delight. We took a terrific workshop on two-person improv shows from Jesse Parent and Joe Rogan of JoKyR and Jesster from Utah. First of all, they were totally nice guys, who were very supportive, informative and easy laughs. After enjoying the hilarious two-person (but multi-character!) Scheer/McBrayer show at the Del Close Marathon last month, I totally appreciated how Joe and Jesse broke down the structure into digestible chunks. (Ew, gross metaphor, but I'm exhausted and that's the best you're going to get out of me tonight.) The worst part about the workshop was that it ended way too quickly. Laura and I were both jonesin' to get more time with Jesse and Joe in order to try out our own two-person stuff.

Saturday evening was our gluttony of improv shows. We saw shows from 5pm until midnight, with a brief dinner break. Heavenly! Some highlights of the evening included the improvised musical troupe Veal from Upright Citizens Brigade (we all wished they could have had a whole hour to do their show,) Mrs Esterhouse from People's Improv Theatre in NYC, and MC Mr. Napkins who does comedy rap. He did a rap about a toy birthing pet pig that had my friend Maile and I pissing our pants. Just get a taste of him at Five Minutes of Napkins. You've never seen anything like this before.

Without a doubtiest doubt, the hands-down flaming favorite of our night was the troupe M.A.D. from UCB Theatre. Three women who were just that side of sane in all the best ways. Friggin' BRILLIANT! When we weren't doubled over in laughter, I was trying with all my might to analyze what made them so absolutely drop-dead funny and skilled, but I couldn't put my finger on it. They made it look so easy, I couldn't find the seams that held it all together. They are goddesses of comedy. When I had my I'm-not-worthy moment with them at the party later that night, they were still hilarious. One of them threw up her hands, proclaimed me her "best friend ever" and gave me a big hug. Drunk on funny, that one was. (The photo, below, of these comedy queens is courtesy of ImprovBoston's official photographer.)

On Sunday, Laura, Maile and I partook in another fabulous improv workshop. Dave Marino, of ImprovBoston, taught us about "environment," typically the forgotten essential element in improv. (We're supposed to talk AND mime at the same time?! Even Marcel Marceau didn't try that shit.) We began the workshop going through a tell-all confessional of our environment crutches. (Dave didn't ask, but collectively we felt we had to get it off our chests.) Some folks always "grab a drink" in an attempt to do environment in a scene. (Me, I take it only a mere step further by pouring a drink from a Britta filter in the fridge. I'm not saying I'm better. I'm just saying I'm a different version of lame.) Some folks "make soup" when they don't know what to do with their hands. (How many "carrots" have I "cut" in a scene? Ugh.) One person's fall-back was a helium-filled balloon though he said when he was trying to shake things up he goes for a periscope. My personal crutch is the ol' empty box. For some reason, I feel like I need to start scenes by picking up an "empty box" and carrying it over to the other side of the stage. Oftentimes, I'll build a wall of boxes; though Laura shared with the group that sometimes when I'm getting fancy I'll open the box and take something out. (So stupid.) If you ever get a chance, be sure to ask Dave to talk about his Universal Rules of Improv. In particular, I appreciated his guidance in how to use the environment to funnel the emotional intent of a character or a scene. If I do my homework well, I hope to never lift another "empty box" on stage again.

Like my time in NYC last month, the highlight of my improv weekend was the people. I enjoyed getting to know better the folks at ImprovBoston for sure. But my time with Laura and Maile was the part of weekend that I will truly treasure. Maile and her husband Sean provided me with deluxe bed-and-board (not including the breakfast they tried to kill me with) which included great conversation and two awesome cats. Laura, my sister-of-the-heart, was the perfect weekend companion. Our hours of luxury with the New York Times on a pleasantly sunny day in a Cambridge park will be a touchstone for me that I'll come back to when I need to remember a moment of great peace and happiness. With friends like these, I feel like the richest woman on Earth.

Update: I Hope We Don't Suck

Update: I Hope We Don’t Suck

Bad rehearsal, good performance. Bad rehearsal, good performance. I just keep saying that over and over. Hell, a little sucky improv at rehearsal fuels my adrenalin for our show at the Boston Improv Festival this Sunday. Usually I don’t get nervous before a show. I used to have butterflies, but I mostly don’t anymore. I just love performing so much, it’s more like I AM a butterfly when I’m on stage, opening up from being cooped up in a chrysalis. That’s what performing usually feels like to me. A relief. A release. I’m spreading my wings. Flying!

But here’s the thing, The Ha-Ha’s have been a vacation for most of the month of August. We’re, uh, perhaps a wee bit rusty. In fact, I think I forgot how to do improv. Has this ever happened to you with anything? It’s like when you’re with someone for the first time who you are really attracted to, the lights are dim, Kenny G is on the stereo, wine has been sipped, fondue consumed. And this gorgeous creature is looking deep into your eyes, and you just know what’s coming next. Then all of the sudden, as if whispered in your ear by a masochistic devil, the horrifying thought occurs on you, “Holy crap. I think I forgot how to kiss.”

Well, it’s like that every now and then with performing for me. Sometimes I worry that one day I’ll wake up and – bam – I will lose my funny. It will just be…gone. “Well, it was a good run,” I’ll think. “I should feel fortunate I got the laughs I did.” And I’ll hobble off, spending the rest of my bleary days in a blanket of bland humorlessness.

Hey, you never know.

Could happen.

I’m just sayin.

But just to be on the safe side, please wish me luck.

And just to be on the super safe side, don’t actually SAY “good luck” for heaven’s sake. Say “break a leg” or “good show.”

And don’t whistle in the theater either. Or say any lines from the “Scottish play.” Or bring peacock feathers on stage. Just to be on the safe side.

Oh, and on Sunday evening please send me happy thoughts with pleasant wishes of much funny and fun and sincere applause and laughter.

Holy crap. I think I forgot how to blink.

Update: My Niece is a Cockapoo!

As you may have guessed, there is a special poodle in my life. He is the "son" of my BFF and Ha-Ha Sister Laura Patrick and her dear wife Martha. (No, I am not too old to have a BFF, so shut up.) My nephew's name is Bailey, and he is a love muffin. Perhaps you my recall that I have a dark secret about my own resident canine stalker. The aversion I have toward my buggy-eyed predator does not extend to all dogs. On the contrary. I am very dog-friendly, and often carry treats around in my pockets. So please call PETA and tell them to stop throwing red paint on my clothes.

Yesterday, I received the happy news that Bailey will be getting a little sister...and I will be getting a new niece! Her current name is Lady Bug, though Laura and Martha are determined to find her a new forever name to match her new forever home. I'm voting for Lucille Ball, Miss Kitty or Bug. (Not that I get a vote. I'm just the auntie. What am I, chopped livah? Don't mind me - big sigh - I'll just be over here sitting in the corner slowly rotting.)

When I found out that my new niece is a cockapoo, it reminded me a recent comic by my acquaintance Hilary Price who creates "Rhymes with Orange," and gave voice to cockapoos every where with this funny comic strip.

No only is my nephew a poodle, and my niece a cockapoo, but you should know that my first born son was a fat, evil-looking tabby cat. I loved him DEEPLY, and I still miss him terribly. His name was Jokes because when he sat on your lap we could say, "Ha, ha. Joke's on you!"

Groan all you like. I can't take credit (or blame) for that joke, for it's a Melissa Tell Ott special. Missy is one of the many very funny women who lived in Jordan House at Smith College with me (Yay Smith!) Our humor focused primarily around our love of linguistics (...and penises, if you want to know the truth.) We found words funny. For example, long before "Dubya" bastardized a perfectly good letter of the alphabet, we found the word "shrub" to be hilarious. I don't know why. Perhaps it was the tongue-feel of the word. We simply were drawn to the playground of words.

Thus when many of us were taking Smith's famous Art 100, Missy became intrigued by the great ancient work of art in which an ode was inscribed in a descending spiral down a massive cylindrical column (Extra credit goes to the person who can name this work of art.*) Somehow Missy procured a six foot tall cylindrical cardboard tube. I can't imagine how or where she got it. Missy was miraculous that way. You didn't question her genius (mainly for fear of abetting a crime.) At the top of the tube, she inscribed (in Sharpie) the words: "Ode to a Roo Called Jokes." If I remember correctly, she had a nice accompanying illustration of a kangaroo. And thus for weeks and weeks, during our long, luxurious sessions in Missy's room, one or another of us would pick up the tube, and compose the next section of this on-going, collective story. I wish we still had that tube. I can't remember what the story was about, probably because there may or may not have been certain memory-affecting influences in Missy's room. If you were one of the authors of "Ode to a Roo Called Jokes," please post your memories of its plot! But I am quite sure the story was extraordinarily "random" (another of our favorite words. Everything was random in the late-80's in our corner of Jordan House.)

Fast forward a few years to the time when my boyfriend (now husband) and I need to chose a name our first child, an impossibly tiny and adorable kitten who insisted on crapping on our pillows for the longest time. "Jokes" was the only name on my list. My husband is either a saint or very suggestible, but either way he agreed with mild eye-rolling. I really do miss Jokes quite a bit. I always will.

But I'm looking forward to meeting my new niece, the cockapoo, Miss Buggaboo!

(I'll call her whatever I damned well please. It's my auntly priviledge. So there.)

*We have a winner to our art history pop quiz. Drum roll please. Click on “comments” to see who will be named Ms. Art Smarty 2009.

Essay: My Personal Studio Audience

Wouldn’t it be fun to have a studio audience follow you where ever you go? I’m thinking about an Oprah-styled audience here. Very supportive. Very pro-you. I haven’t watched Oprah in years, but one of the parts about her show that always intrigued me was her ability to say to her audience, “Isn’t that right, folks?!” And the studio audience would cheer enthusiastically in eager reply. Wouldn’t it be so satisfying to have that kind of immediate and unconditionally supportive feedback from rows of adoring on-lookers?

Imagine if you’re having an animated discussion around the dinner table, and you’re making a particularly astute point, deftly pounding your companion’s argument into the dirt. You say, “Am I right or am I right?” and the studio audience would cheer loudly, clapping and stomping their feet. “You’re right! You’re right! Yay!”

Your personal studio audience could also give advice. You’re at Trader Joe’s. You hold up a jar of Basil Guacamole el Diablo dip, turn to your private studio audience, and look questioningly. They roar a very definitive, “Get it! Go for it! Good choice!” Slam dunk goes the dip into the cart. 1,2,3, and you’re off to the dairy section.

Or what if you were ordering in a restaurant, and there is really only one thing on the menu that interests you in the least. But the server unapologetically tells you that they’re all out of the Buffalo Burger Picante. The audience boos and hisses until the server ducks down and promises, “Let me just go into the kitchen and see what we can find. Maybe there is something the chef can do for you.” The audience cheers appreciatively, but one fat lady in the back row (bless her heart) shouts out, “You best be bringing back one of those Picante Burgers pronto, bitch” just menacingly enough to put a little giddy-up in the server’s step.

When I was on stage at the Del Close Marathon with all those eager audience members surrounding us, I realize that I was pulling an Oprah with the studio audience. “I went to Smith,” I told my Jason Mantzoukas. Then to the audience, “Hey shout out for Smith, yo!” Jason Mantzoukas was like, “WTF? You’re breaking the fourth wall here.” “Oops, my bad,” I apologized. But I kept doing it anyway. I was just trying to take advantage of the rare opportunity to have a studio audience in my back pocket during a stage date.

Now if a first date wouldn’t be the perfect opportunity to have a studio audience, then I don’t know what would. Am I right or am I right?!

Let me hear some noise out there, folks!

Update: From the Back Room blog about comedy

Our "First Date" (ok, ok...it's our only date if you want to get technical)

Pam displays her "nice object work"

Jason Mantzoukas "First Date"

Jason examines my tattoo

taking off my wedding ring...with my mouth

Check out Sherilyn Johnson's blog "From the Back Room," her great photographs (above) and review of the Del Close Marathon '09. It's a bummer that UCB stiffed her for her time and efforts (20+ hours of work and sticky butt cheeks to boot!) I certainly hope the matter is rectified by next year's marathon. By the way, you can check out her website is called Sherilyn Plugs Comedy.

Oh, did I happen to let it slip that she kindly mentioned me in her review? I'll paste it here, but make sure to check out the whole review and the photographs (yes, that's my foot.) "Pam Victor did a fantastic job of keeping things just awkward enough, while being open to whatever direction Manzoukas nudged her in."

Anytime anyone needs anything kept awkward, you know who to call!

Update: The Taste of Heaven

I had the most astoundingly awesome time at the Del Close Marathon at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theatre in NYC last weekend. Over two days, I clocked about ten hours of improv viewing pleasure. My idea of heaven! Although the yumminess is all a blur of quick wits, awe-inspiring retorts and great belly laughs, some shining moments burn brightly in my mind: Jenni’s happy face and “Baby Wants Candy.” Oh, and “First Date.” Can’t forget that.

Starting in the middle, the improv troupe “Baby Wants Candy” create a rock musical on the spot. Musical improv always makes my jaw drop (DC’s “iMusical” was another stand-out,) but these guys are true artists. And, yes, that guy who plays Kenneth the page in “30 Rock” (Jack McBrayer) was in it. Baby Wants Candy is the closest thing to authentic magic you’ll ever see on stage. Check them out: www.babywantscandy.com. Go see them if you can. You’ll thank me.

But then there was so much amazing improv kickin it on Sunday, particularly from 1:30pm on at UCB, like Scheer-McBrayer, Omelette Vision, Let’s Have a Ball. Delta Force (where the part of Rob Riggle was performed by Jason Mantzoukas) deteriorated wonderfully into a hilarious water fight on stage. My new heartthrob is Becky Drysdale. She was in Three on One (“Three Lesbians ... and One Very Scared Straight Girl”) and Baby Wants Candy. She can improvise AND sing! Sigh. That woman is an improvising goddess

Moving on.

“First Date” is described as “Join Jason Mantzoukas (Baby Mama, We Used to Go Out, Mother) and Jessica St. Clair (ABC's In the Motherhood, We Used to Go Out, Mother), the duo Variety called "the next Nichols and May," as they improvise their way through a series of first dates. It's a 30-minute single scene experiment in finding love. How many bad dates have you been on? Trust us – these will be worse.” But Ms. St. Clair was absent, so her partner turned to the audience for a replacement. The Goddess of Comedy must have been smiling down on me that day because I was the lucky girl who got to have a first date with Jason Mantzoukas on stage in front of 400 sweaty people for thirty glorious minutes. Because I’m trying to keep this blog PG-13, I won’t go into much detail here about our improvised conversation, though if you invite me out for tea, I’ll be only too happy to give you all the steamy particulars. I’ll say this, if you ever have an opportunity to go out with Jason Mantzoukas, take it. As for me, I never want to go on another date that doesn’t involve being on a stage in a major improv theater. I have tasted heaven.

Last and most, the weekend in New York afforded me the opportunity to leisurely reunite with my old pal Jenni. In 7^th grade, Jenni and I used to stomp around school in our Sassoon jeans and Candy clogs singing “Look at me, I’m Sandra Dee! Lousy with virginity. Won’t go to bed til I’m legally wed. I can’t I’m Sandra Dee-hee-hee!” Thanks to the glory of Facebook, Jenni and I have been enjoying much virtual singing, but this was the first chance in over two decades to spend a significant amount of time face to face. I’m not sure what to attribute this gift to – our connection at Roeper School, a magical place certainly, or perhaps it was timing, or just plain luck – but being with Jenni was pure, effortless joy. I hope you are lucky enough to have at least one person in your life with whom you feel absolutely comfortable being with. Months or years can go by, but once you see them again it’s like you just pick right up where you left off. These friendships are gifts. Re-finding a friend like that in Jenni, especially at my age, is a triple special gift from heaven. One that I will treasure for sure.

Blog transition

Up until this point, I have used my blog as a space to share my essays, but after consulting a few blogophiles, I've decide to use the blog in a more traditional way as well. That is, I'll try to post my musing here at least once a week. The whole concept of musing-posts makes me shake my head and roll my eyes a bit, I must admit. Sort of the 21st century equivalent of "Pam was here" graffiti. How does this make the world a better place? It's like that gold LP that is floating somewhere in space full of train noise, Chuck Berry and Bach. A lick and a prayer sort of endeavor.

But, then again, I'm a 'lick and a prayer' sort of gal, so the shoe seems to fit.

I've just finished up a run of "Pinocchio" with PaintBox Theatre. I've been working six days a week for the last two weeks. Very physical work with lots of running around, typing people up, chase scenes, lifting heavy sets, and lightning quick costume changes. It was a BLAST! I worked with some wonderful people. We laughed a lot. I learned a lot. I performed a lot. Performing every day for four days in a row was just my cup of tea. Now it's just back to the "Pam Show," in which I star naturally. However, the audience is small and unappreciative. And they hardly ever applaud.

Don't you think the definition of low self-esteem would be someone who feels like they play only a walk-on role in their own show?

The Tale of the Dung Beetle

My daughter Sierra, her friend Hope (oh! how this name foreshadows our tale!) and I were walking the dog early one summer morn. The weather was, for once, lovely. Not too hot. Not too cool. Not too buggy even. The girls brought a carrot each, a treat for our neighbor's fine equine companions. Birds chirped. Wind whispered. Girls giggled. All was well in our little piece of the world.

My little nature girl, Sierra, cried out in delight! "Look!" she said, pointing to the middle of the road. "A dung beetle!" A scarab of lore.

Sure enough, an industrious hard-shelled, black beetle labored loyally on her front feet, using her back ones to roll a small ball of dung up the hill. Our very own dung beetle! Right in the middle of the road! We didn't even realize they existed in America, for I had only seen them in Africa on TV. (No, I didn't not watch TV in Africa. The TV was state-side but the video showed Africa. But I digress.)

How exceptionally perfect her little ball of dung was formed! A more perfect sphere of poo there never was. We later found out that the female dung beetle lays her eggs in the ball of poo, and she rolls more dung, like a child building a snowman, around her offspring. Then the larvae eat the dung as they grow. One man's trash is another man's treasure - the dung beetle life motto! A green tale for the ages. The original recycler.

The girls and I marveled at this dung beetle, as we crouched by the side of a country road agog with admiration. For Sierra and Hope, this beetle’s journey was a PBS nature special brought to life at their very doorstep. However to me, this dung beetle’s remarkable devotion to the Sisyphean task before her encapsulated the very essence of the immeasurable sacrifice and toil of motherhood.

Suddenly, in the distance, a deep-throated rumble came from down the road. Our eyes locked. We were shocked to the core. Oh no! Our dung beetle was right in the middle of the road. I’ll admit, I was flummoxed. Sure, I wanted to help the poor dung beetle, but...how? Would I have to touch the dung? What if she got separated from her ball of poo? What if the dung beetle survived, but her manure-marooned offspring did not? I was struck senseless by the dilemma.

Fortunately, Sierra sprung into action! She fetched a leaf, and attempted to sweep the dung beetle from her destiny. However, her mere 10-year-old courage faltered as the rumble became a roar when the truck turned the corner. Sierra shrieked, running to the edge of the road.

"Perhaps it will go between the wheels!" Hope yelled optimistically, remaining until the end of our tale true to her name.

We held our hands to our mouths in fear as the truck lumbered past. The workers smiled and waved a neighborly high-ho as they passed, unaware as the drama unfolding beneath their tires.

Six eyes shot to the middle of the road once the truck cleared. The birdsongs silenced. The wind fell suddenly. An impossibly humid heat bore down upon us. Horror! A flawlessly flat, perfect circle studded the road. (A sphere no more!) We gasped. We swooned. We moaned. Sierra blinked away tears, fearful lest she let on to her friend Hope, one whole year her elder, how deeply she felt the loss of that honorable dung beetle.

"At least she died doing what she loved to do," I said weakly, bowing my head in excruciating shame.

Oh, the guilt! The guilt! Why had I not leapt to the dung beetle's rescue? As my daughter teetered upon the edge of adolescence, the opportunity to gallantly save the dung beetle may have been the last gasp of my superhero status in Sierra’s eyes. I shall never tire of thrashing my soul for allowing my prissy instinct to avoid touching foreign poo to interfere with my own maternal devotion. What heathen power tied my feet to the ground, forbidding me from playing the hero before my daughter's eyes? Alas. I shall never know. And I shall never forget the lesson of the dung beetle.

A more perfect sphere of poo there never was.

Sneak Preview of the next episode of FACEBOOK REHAB...

Samantha sets a goal for tomorrow's Facebook usage. Does she have what it takes to break free of its insidious grip? Tune in to FACEBOOK REHAB, Episode #3 to find out!

Here's a sneak peek:

Preview of the next FACEBOOK REHAB

Facebook Rehab (Episode #2): "The Siren's Call"

The latest video release of Samantha Greene's struggle with her Facebook addiction. In this episode, Sam bemoans her inability to resist her Wall's singsong seduction: FACEBOOK REHAB Episode #2: "The Siren's Call"

New to video! Facebook Rehab - Episode 1

The "Facebook Rehab" series is coming to video! Episode #1, "Goodbye My 'Friend'" has just been released: Facebook Rehab #1.

Facebook Rehab 6: The Epilogue

Facebook Rehab 6: The Epilogue

By “Samantha Greene”

Michael Corleone and I have something in common besides a love for Diane Keaton: “Just when I thought I was out….they pull me back in.” Facebook is my Mafia godfather, forcing me to prostrate myself and kiss his ring daily in the form of status updates and socializing with people tens and a hundreds and thousands of miles away.

I made it all of twelve hours off Facebook. To my chagrin and secret pleasure, I have removed my “I’ll be deactivating my account” post because it’s just a reminder of how lily-livered I am. Who are we kidding? I’m not going anywhere. Know what? I think I’m okay with it too. To end with another quote of a powerful man: “I yam what I yam.”

See you on Facebook, my Friends!

Love,

Samantha

---

Thanks to all my Friends and friends who inspired me with their Facebook foibles. Samantha Greene is me. Samantha Greene is you. (But mostly she is me - times a thousand.) She is a cautionary tale for those of us who confuse the virtual with reality. As the delineation becomes more blurred before our very eyes, Samantha Greene has helped me take a magnifying glass to this new socialization phenomenon, gazing at wonder and fascination at its strange newness.

Is it a fad or a trend? I guess we’ll find out together.

See you on Facebook, my Friends! Love, Pam

---

To read more first person essays that are not about Facebook, read

“My Nephew is a Poodle (and Other Random Thoughts)” at www.pamvictor.blogspot.com.

Facebook Rehab 5: The Group Therapy App

Facebook Rehab 5: The Group Therapy App

By “Samantha Greene”

Clearly, I hit a bump in the road last night, and it bounced me right off the wagon and flat on my ass. It was more than just a slip - I was glued to Facebook until the wee hours of the night. Besides posting umpteen Status Updates, I took the following quizzes: What is Your NPR Personality? The Kitchen Gadget Quiz, What Kind of Mask Do You Wear?, When Will You Die? (but I didn’t look at the answer because I got freaked out,) and three different IQ tests (one of which I kept taking until I scored well, and then I posted those results to my Wall.) I added six Pieces of Flair and voted in a dozen Polls (the toilet paper one was included in that count, naturally.) I downloaded the Fortune Cookie app. I played Texas Hold Em Poker and created a virtual restaurant in Restaurant City. I sent seven Growing Gifts and a bunch of Friend Hugs. I also had my Profile Photo turned into a sketch with the Sketch Me app. In short, the integrity of the dam was compromised, and a tsunami washed me out deep into Facebook waters.

I woke up this morning with the imprints of the keyboard on my cheek, a throbbing headache and reeking of shame. It took my eyes twenty minutes just to regain the ability to focus long distance. I had come so far in my FB detox, and now I am back on square one. I’m so disappointed! I had finally gotten to the point where I wasn’t thinking in Status Updates and referring to myself in the third person. Now I’m right back in the thick of it, stuck in the Status Update groove. Samantha Greene feels day-after regrets. Samantha Greene sometimes sort of craves a good éclair. Samantha Green wants to marry Tina Fey just to get on “30 Rock.” Samantha Greene cries “Hot summer streets.
And the pavements are burning.
 I sit around trying to smile, but the air is so heavy and dry.”

After an emergency email to my Cyber Addictive Personality Syndrome therapist, I finally took her advice to Fan the CAPS group therapy circle. I went to my first meeting an hour ago. It actually was quite eye opening. And I thought I was messed up - you should see these people! There were five of us communicating there on the page, but I could sense there were dozens just watching and hundreds more who needed to be there.

This one woman, who called herself “Tristan’s Ex,” had developed localized arthritis from hitting the refresh button so often on her ex-boyfriend Tristan’s Profile Page. Now she has to use a specially designed wand held between her teeth in order to type. Turns out, Tristan dumped her last month, and she can’t figure out why. They seemed to have it so good. (I saw the photos from their house party in March. It looked like a lot of fun. They were a cute couple.) Then all of the sudden, he stopped posting to her Wall. The truth of the matter didn’t hit her until he de-Friended her. That’s how she found out they were broken up! That’s cold, man. Next thing you know, Tristan’s Ex wasn’t invited to parties anymore, but she would see pictures of Tristan and his new girlfriend (who looked a lot like Mike Tyson according to her, and I gotta say I agree) on their mutual Friends’ pages. Last week, Tristan’s Ex ran into a Friend at the mall, who informed her that Tristan had changed his Relationship Status to “Engaged.” Poor, poor Tristan’s Ex!

And there was another guy called Lonely Boy. He is a serial Friend collector. He wouldn’t tell us his current Friend count, but I’m pretty sure it’s in the four digits, at least. Lonely Boy posted, “I need to think I have friends! Even if I am a voyeur and only sit and watch all the fun other people are having, living vicariously. When I’m on Facebook, I feel popular.” Oh, Lonely Boy, how many Friends will it take to make you feel worthwhile?

Shop ‘n Cry was this chick who was in total denial about her problem. Even though there wasn’t an application she didn’t use, she still rationalized being fired from her job for being online too much. “Everybody does it!” she posted defensively. “Everybody spends seven hours a day on FB. They pretend to be doing work when I walk by, but I can tell they’ve been posting stuff to their Walls.” Shop ‘n Cry was a big finger pointer, “I consider my FB usage to be appropriate, but you guys definitely have a problem.” I think she needs to hit rock bottom before she can start healing.

Random Dude was there too, but he was so ambiguous that at first I had a hard time figuring him out. This guy couldn’t even post regular sentences anymore. Every single thing he wrote was either some arbitrary collection of words, or else song lyrics or quotes from movies and TV shows. It was hard to get a read on Random Dude when he posted stuff like, “Trident gum,” but I sense it was a cry for help. As were his other contributions to our therapy session, like “I'm going to take a pillowcase and fill it full of bars of soap and beat the shit out of you!” and “Oh, you may stray, but you'll always return to your dark master... The cocoa bean! And only the purest syrup nectar can satisfy you. If you could, you'd guzzle it by the gallon... Ovaltine!? Hershey!? Nestle Quick!?" But nothing was more heartbreaking than Random Dude’s final post of the session, “Chiquitita, tell me the truth. I’m a shoulder you can cry on. Your best friend, I’m the one you must rely on. You were always sure of yourself. Now I see you’ve broken a feather. I hope we can patch it up together.” I feel like Random Dude and I really made a connection today. I’m definitely going to Friend him if he requests it. Together, we took one step closer to our recovery. I think he’s going to make it. I really do.

I guess what I really got out of the group therapy session today was that the only way to break my addiction to Facebook is to completely cut the cord. Yes, it’s terrifying. Yes, I’m not sure if I have the gumption it takes to return to a world devoid of online social connections. Surely, the face-to-face interactions will see paler and shallower in contrast to my previously vivid, Technicolor lifestyle. But I don’t want to end up in my parent’s basement, using a pencil in my mouth to hunt and peck on a keyboard. Random Dude is right that I’ve “broken a feather,” my soul feather that is.

Therefore, I have posted the following final message on my Facebook page:

“Samantha Greene has decided to go off Facebook. Thanks for all the joy and the tears, the pleasure and the pain, the good times and the bad. You will always be my Friends 4ever. I love you guys! My Page will be disabled officially in three days. See you in the real world.”

How will Sam fare in the real world?

Stay tuned for the final installment of Facebook Rehab!

To read more essays by Pam Victor, check out “My Nephew is a Poodle (and Other Random Thoughts)” at www.pamvictor.blogspot.com.

Facebook Rehab 4: Strike of The Enabler by "Samantha Greene"

Facebook Rehab 4: Strike of The Enabler

By “Samantha Greene”

It’s my usual time to Facebook. I’m wearing my favorite FB sweats, sitting in my comfortable chair, got the incense and a glass of red by the computer. In short, I’m in full frontal Facebook mode. But I’ve absolutely squandered my allotted 15 minutes earlier today, so I’m not supposed to log on. Grrrrrr!!!!

Earlier this evening, my friend Farrah asked me today why I’m doing this Facebook detox, so I gave her the line we’re trained to give: “Because Facebook has more control over me than I have over it.” I felt so high and mighty as I was saying it, but then she had this confused look, and she looked me right in the eye and asked me how else we were going to hang out if not on Facebook. And I started thinking, She’s totally right! How are we going to hang out? Why AM I doing this stupid detox?

The truth is, I had to go into therapy for my CAPS (Cyber Addictive Personality Syndrome,) and my therapist ordered me to go on immediate FB detox. It wasn’t my idea at all. And now I’m kind of pissed at my therapist because what if she’s wrong? What if I don’t really have a pathological case of Cyber Addictive Personality Syndrome? Maybe I’m just suffering from just a low-grade, passing virus which antibiotics can’t cure anyway. Maybe I just need to wait it out. Maybe I’m someone who just needs to moderate a little.

Everyone else can go on Facebook without limitations. Why can’t I be just like everyone else?

Sonofabitch. I swear to you that just as I was writing the previous sentence I heard my FB Chat noise make that lovely bubbling pop. It was my Friend Farrah. We just hung out this evening, and now she wants to talk about the stuff we talked about while we were hanging out. She KNOWS about my FB diet, but she totally doesn’t take it seriously. She thinks it’s a joke. (I think she’s denial. She is the one who really has a problem. I mean we just hung out a half-hour ago, and she totally wants to Chat now!) She’s an enabler, that’s what she is. I’m just going to take a quick peek on to FB, just to tell her that I can’t Chat now.

Damn, that was hard. Now that I got a little whiff of it, I totally want to go back on Facebook. I got the FB jimmies something fierce right now. So what if I’ve already used up my 15 minutes? That’s such a random number. Ok, the therapist specifically put me on “The 15-Minute-A-Day Diet,” but maybe that’s just an arbitrary number. Maybe someone else’s 15 minutes are like my 30 minutes or even one hour. Maybe one hour per day of Facebook time is the right amount for me?

I actually do think I can be like everyone else who can use Facebook recreationally. My therapist was totally off the wall. She probably sees so many patients that she gets us confused. There is probably somebody named “Sam Groon” who is completely fucked up addicted to Facebook, and she gave me Sam Groon’s 15-minute time restriction. Probably she meant to tell me that one, maybe even two or three hours a day is appropriate for me. I can handle Facebook, man.

I’m not even a true addict, despite what my kids say. Damn kids. What do they know? You should see their Facebook pages. Crap. Utter crap. No matter how much I encourage them to work on their Pages, they still won’t settle on their Favorite Quotes or even do something normal like play Scramble, “Send Coffee” to someone, or join Mafia Wars. They used their photos from friggin’ Picture Day at school for their Profile Photos! How lame is that?! Can’t believe those cretins came out of my uterus.

Anyway, this is all to say that it is fine, just fine, for me to go on Facebook for longer than 15 minutes today. Furthermore, I am NOT going to download that stupid-assed Facebook Rehab Group Therapy App tomorrow like my therapist suggested. I don’t want to hang out with some fucking losers who can’t handle their Facebook like I can.

I gotta go. And screw that therapist who says I can’t use chatspeak:

L8r 4 U

---

Will she succumb to The Enabler? Stay tuned tomorrow for Day Four in Samantha Greene’s Facebook withdrawal program! Same time! Same channel!

To read other humorous essays, go to

My Nephew is a Poodle (and Other Random Thoughts)

at www.pamvictor.blogspot.com.

"Facebook Rehab 3: Cruel Mistress by Samantha Greene

Facebook Rehab 3: Cruel Mistress

By “Samantha Greene”

Warning: The following is a diary of one woman’s Facebook withdrawal program. Because of the intense nature of this endeavor, material in here will not be suitable for young readers and those with delicate sensibilities. Reader discretion is advised.

Today is Day Two of my self-imposed withdrawal program from Facebook, and I’m afraid I have not used wisely my 15 minutes ration of FB time today. I squandered opportunities at real social connection in favor of mind-numbing applications in search of self-knowledge in a no-man’s land of perceptiveness. Apologies for my verbosity. The FB D.T.’s render me esoteric.

However my ruminations have led me to this succinct conclusion: Facebook is a cruel mistress indeed. (I am pretty sure I’m not the first one to say that. In fact, I’m almost positive I stole the phrase “Facebook is a cruel mistress” from one of my Friends. If it was you, please post a Comment onto this Note to garner the credit you so deserve. If nobody posts, then clearly I made it up myself.)

Yes, as I so wittily and originally remarked, Facebook is a cruel mistress indeed. She takes and takes and takes until you find yourself huddled in a dark, cold room at an hour far past when all decent humans go to sleep with your eyeballs bleeding as you’re hunched over the computer with a self-inflicted case of osteoporosis, and you’re taking the “What Happy Days Character Are You?” quiz for the fourth time, hoping against hope that you don’t get Potsie. Again.

I believe Day 2 is the time for “taking inventory.” Unfortunately, I don’t know what that “taking inventory” means exactly, but it sounds appealingly like list-making and Mama loves her some bullets. So here it goes…

Excuses I’ve used for in the past going on FB for obscenely long periods of time:

·    Professional Networking – This one is my favorites. In my defense, I did get a gig from Facebook, so this excuse is a valid one. Plus I am able to spy on other people in my field to make sure they aren’t getting better gigs than me.

·

     Re-Connecting with Old Friends – What a joy to be back in touch with people from preschool! I loved those folks so much, and I love the fact that FB has allowed me to get back in touch with those old friends…who it turns out don’t really care too much about staying in contact with me or they WOULD HAVE BEEN IN MY LIFE ALL ALONG! (Seriously though, I still am psyched to have reunited with my old friends, whether or not they return the sentiment. You guys rock…Call me?)

    · Honing My Craft – I fancy myself a comedian and FB is a great place to make funny to a wide audience. Hopefully, my cyber-community shares my sense of humor when I post “What is that funky smell in here?” at 2:01am and then “Oh, I found the source of that smell!” at 2:09am and then “How did that get in my underwear drawer?” at 2:23am and then “Who would have thought a cheese sandwich still tastes good after spending two weeks in an underwear drawer?” at 2:31, and then “Stomach. Ouch,” at 3:10am. Hopefully, my cyber-community is not thinking, “Don’t hire Samantha Greene for any comedy job. Ever.” But you never know. Comedy means pushing the envelope.

     

     · Socialization –Facebook is a great opportunity to socialize with “adults” during the day. Ok, forget it. Even I am not buying that one.

  

·     Support System – Facebook is a great place to get support from Friends when you’re going through a hard time. Although now that I think about it, anybody who has posted anything of actual significance knows that’s a crock of shit. There seems to be a direct correlation between amount of pain your Post reflects and the level of sarcasm and ridicule in the responding Comments.

·     Stalking People – There, I said it. I am not proud.

So there you go, folks. A list of the reasons why Facebook is an important part of my life.

Hmmmm. That was inventory taking?

I don’t get it.

---

 Will she stay on the FB wagon? Stay tuned tomorrow for Day Three in Samantha Greene’s Facebook withdrawal program! Same time! Same channel!

To read other humorous essays, go to

My Nephew is a Poodle (and Other Random Thoughts)

at www.pamvictor.blogspot.com.

Facebook Rehab 2: Day One of the Rest of My Life by "Samantha Greene"

Facebook Rehab 2: Day One of the Rest of My Life

By “Samantha Greene”

Warning: The following is a diary of one woman’s Facebook withdrawal program. Because of the intense nature of this endeavor, material in here will not be suitable for young readers and those with delicate sensibilities. Reader discretion is advised.

Ok, I spent 17 minutes on FFB (Fuckin’ Facebook) today, which is barely enough time to do anything, but it was great. I didn’t even post once! (Pretty much only because I couldn’t think of anything suitably witty and smart to represent my entire day. But still, it counts.) And I only responded to one person’s post, and even then my response was uninspired and banal enough to fend off any potential banter or repartee.

Full confession: I did allow myself to read the emails of postings and Inbox messages sent to my Gmail account. Is that cheating or deal-making? I’m going to go with “no” on that one. After all, email is fair game.

Is that like saying I can drink beer but no alcohol?

Whatever.

One day at a time, bee-atch.

---

Later that night…

The whole house is quiet, tucked away in their bedrooms. The dog is snoring. And I got da itchy fingers and I got dem bad. See? I’m even slipping into Buckwheat in a racist attempt to divert your attention from my jones for the FB.

I wonder who is online right now. I wonder if someone wants to Chat with me. Sometimes my sound alert doesn’t work on the Chat, so maybe someone is on there right now saying “You there? I see you online. Where are you? Why aren’t you answering me? Are you mad at me, Samantha? How dare you! I hate you, and I’m de-Friending you right this second if you don’t answer me. Ok. Here I go. Bam. You’re de-Friended. How you like them apples?”

Crap. Now I just lost an imaginary Friend thanks to you and your stupid-assed, holier-than-thou idea to get control of my FFB usage. Yes, I’m blaming it on you, you skank. Why? Because of all the virtual sneers you’ve been making at your computers. You think I can’t sense that? There you are on your social networking throne, sooooo judgmental about my FFB posts. So what if I post a lot? You should talk, you non-poster you. Judge. Judge. Judge. You think you’re so blameless, you judgy Judge Judy? Well, if it weren’t for you being so in control of your FFB time, then I wouldn’t look so empty and pitiful in contrast. Oh, and you non-FB users think you’re so much better than me? Well, let me tell you something. You can’t handle the truth. Guantanamo, my ass. Try getting out of Facebook!

Oops.

I believe you’ve just witnessed the anger phase. Sorry you had to see that.

And sorry for calling you a skank.

---

Stay tuned tomorrow for Day Two in Samantha Greene’s Facebook withdrawal program! Same time! Same channel!

To read other humorous essays, go to

My Nephew is a Poodle (and Other Random Thoughts)

at www.pamvictor.blogspot.com.

"Facebook Rehab" by Samantha Greene

Facebook Rehab

By “Samantha Greene”

Warning: The following is a diary of one woman’s Facebook withdrawal program. Because of the intense nature of this endeavor, material in here will not be suitable for young readers and those with delicate sensibilities. Reader discretion is advised.

Day 0: Goodbye My “Friend”

Tomorrow is Day One for weaning myself off Facebook. Well, actually, today was supposed to be Day One but I failed miserably, so tomorrow will be a do-over. If they say the first step is admitting it, then I guess I’m admitting it.

Hi, my name is Samantha, and I’m a Facebook addict.

I should have known better. The signs were there from the beginning, but I ignored them because I didn’t want to think I was the kind of person who had such a weak character. Officially, I don’t have an “addictive personality.” Or so I thought. I knew that Facebook was a heady drug, but I thought I could handle it. I thought I was strong enough to play with the big boys. (And by “big boys” I mean other adolescents at heart.)

The first day I signed on to Facebook, at the dawn of 2009, a friend tried to warn me. She posted on my Wall, “Welcome to the jungle, Sam. Be careful.” Tra la la and hardy-har-har, I thought. I was arrogant enough to shoot off a response that assured her that I promised myself not to even fix up my FB profile until the February, when I would have more free time. What a farce. Within the week, I had my Facebook Profile adorned with bumper stickers and Flair buttons. By the time February rolled around, I was already so neck-deep in the Facebook quicksand of time- and spirit-suck that there was no way I was getting out any time soon. Little did I know that I hadn’t even hit bottom yet…

I think I’m also supposed to admit that I don’t have control over my Facebook usage. It has control over me. It even has a voice, my Facebook page, which you will only appreciate if you watched a lot of quality bad television in the 1970s. My Facebook page sounds like the alien temptress from the “Lost in Space” episode when the hot, green alien tries to lure Dr. Smith out of the spaceship. “Doctor Smiiii-iiith,” she sang as she floated by, “Doctor Smiii-iiiith.” Likewise, my computer sings to me, “Saaaa-aaaam. You have updaaaaa-aaates. Friends have posted funny stuff on your Waaaaa-aaaalllll.” So, yes, I admit it. I am adrift in a pathetic sea of incapacity, lame clips of people falling down, and repulsive Youtube links. I am morally feeble, like a sailor destined to slam on a rocky coast helplessly abiding the siren’s call.

Today I promised myself not to check my Facebook page more than three times. Like a medicine taken at mealtime, I swore I could abide by this generous deal. But, no, it turns out I couldn’t. Not even close.

I am powerless over Facebook, and my life has become unmanageable.

Perhaps I should go cold turkey. But not until tomorrow. Or the next day, maybe the next day. But what is “cold turkey” anyway? Does it mean I can read but just can’t post? Can I read the updates sent to my email? Just not take any quizzes for a day? Yes, my friend – or worse, pity for you if you are my Friend! - I hear the desperate deal-making going on here. I disgust even myself.

Goals for tomorrow: Spend no more than 15 minutes IN TOTAL on Facebook. I can divvy the time up as it suits me. No more than one post of my own. No more than three responses to other people’s post. (Even now, already, I am brokering for more. Originally, I typed “two responses” but then quickly deleted it to amend it to three. Ugly, ugly, ugly.) Tomorrow, I will start cutting away at the control Facebook has over my life.

Right after put up a funny Status Update I just thought of….

---

Stay tuned tomorrow for Day One in Samantha Greene’s Facebook withdrawal program! Same time! Same channel!

To read other humorous essays, go to

My Nephew is a Poodle (and Other Random Thoughts)

at www.pamvictor.blogspot.com.

---

My First Session with Dr. Facebook

My First Session with Dr. Facebook

I’m just going to come right out and put it on the table here. I suffer from C.A.P.S. (Cyber Addictive Personality Syndrome,) and I am seeking help for my Facebook addiction. This confession is the first step of my therapy with Dr. Facebook.

Ironically, I heard about Dr. Facebook online. Typically, I try to ignore those insulting advertisements on the right side of my screen. Wondering if the sinewy grasp of Facebook’s invasiveness extended into assessments upon my appearance, I used to take offense to the constant ads about losing weigh, looking younger and challenging my I.Q. But now, thanks to Dr. Facebook, I know “they” can’t see me through my computer screen.

But I could tell Dr. Facebook’s ad was different. It spoke to me. Directly. (Literally, it said my name. Spooky, huh?)

“Pam Victor, take a moment to answer these questions:

1. Are you spending too much time on Facebook?

2. Does your family complain that you’ve abandoned them for Facebook?

3. Do you easily confuse Friendship with friendship?

4. Do you have control over your Facebook usage or does it have control over you?”

Since I do like taking FB quizzes, I took the bait.

1. Yes!

2. Yes (damn them)!

3. There’s a difference?

4. Uh….

The ad continued, “If you answered ‘yes’ or ‘uh’ to any of these questions, please immediately consult Dr. Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dr-FB-Cyber-Addictive-Personality-therapist/105829912603?created”

As I always seek to better myself, I made an appointment for a consultation with Dr. Facebook. She was not at all the way I expected. Judging from her Profile Photo, I could see that she was a dedicated, intelligent and extremely hot woman. (I find Profile Photos to be an excellent way to judge character. Nobody can lie to a camera, right?) We held the appointment on her FB page, which I thought was pretty clever. Right away, Dr. Facebook jumped into the throbbing pulse of my FB addiction.

Dr. FB: I’ve been reviewing your “25 Random Things” list, Pam. Would you like to talk about #11, where you say you deeply regret that weekend at Club Med?”

Pam: Oh, Dr. Facebook, please no. Can we start with something easier?

Dr. FB: It’s your dime, Pam. Fine, let’s look at #8. “I regret 57% of the things I say (yet I keep on talking.)”

Pam: Thank God she didn’t go to the one about thinking Scott Baio was my soulmate. Ooops. Did I say that out loud?

Dr. FB: Do you think someone like you, with a preexisting self-filtering issue, should be on Facebook?

Pam: Uh…no?

Dr. FB: Moving on. Your Friends list. How do you determine who goes on your Friends list?

Pam (excitedly): I only allow people I have met in real life to be on my Friends list! I attempt to maintain a pure Friends list.

Dr. FB: “Pure.” Interesting choice of words.

Pam: Well, I’m not a Friends list slut.

Dr. FB: Ah.

Pam: Give me a break, doc, I only have 96 people on my Friends list.

Dr. FB: So you’re kind of a loser? An online social pariah?

Pam: I wouldn’t go that far.

Dr. FB: We can agree to disagree on that. Have you ever been de-Friended?

Pam: Well, one time, but it was a mistake.

Dr. FB (writing a new Note): I see…. Let’s address the matter of your posting patterns.

Pam: I post about once a day, and only if it’s something really good.

Dr. FB: Once a day, Pamela?

Pam: Ok, twice.

Dr. FB: This is a safe place, Pam. You can be honest here.

Pam: Twice a day, doc! I swear! Three times max! Four times if it’s really, really important!

[At this point, I break down in a sobbing heap. Several minutes go by.]

Damn, you’re you hit a trigger point there, doc.

Dr. FB: Thank you. Let’s look at the quality of your postings. It seems as though you have a history of passive-aggressive postings. On May 12, 2009 you made a comment that seemed directed at a Friend you were peeved with. It read: “Some people are big doody heads and I wish they would stop.”

Pam: I might have written that.

Dr. FB: So we need to work on that. Hypothetical situation: If you have issues with a friend, where do you think the best place would be to work them out?

Pam: Not on a Wall-to-Wall?

Dr. FB: Good. So…

Pam: In an Inbox message?

Dr. FB: No.

Pam: A chat session?

Dr. FB: Please, Ms. Victor. Do you want to heal or do you want to stay trapped in the same twisted, unhealthy place?

Pam: Heal! Heal! Ok, hang on. Maybe an important conversation would be good to have on the phone?

Dr. FB: Now we’re getting somewhere.

Pam: Or in person?

Dr. FB: Ding, ding, ding! Bingo!

Pam (basking in the light of success but secretly unconvinced): Whew.

Dr. FB: In analyzing your postings, I’m glad to say you don’t suffer from P.V.P.S.

Pam: P.V.P.S.?

Dr. FB: Purposely Vague Posting Syndrome.

Pam: That’s good.

Dr. FB: No, Pamela. That’s great. There is nothing more annoying than fuzzy, ambiguous postings.

Pam: But song lyrics are Ok, right?

Dr. FB: In moderation. Speaking of moderation, let’s talk about your Poking history.

Pam: I read your Note on Poking, and I put myself on a Poking diet like you suggested. I only Poked two people this week.

Dr. FB: And how many times did you Super Poke people, Pamela?

Pam: [Insert blushing icon]

Dr. FB: Now let’s discuss Your Farm.

Pam: Oh, oh.

Dr. FB: In examining Your Farm, I see that you have a habit of planting things that you never water and you rarely harvest. I think that is an apt analogy for the way you parent.

Pam: Damn, doc, you’re good. Really good.

Dr. FB: And let’s examine the fact that last week you sent Good Karma a Friend. Let’s be frank. Surely you realize that Good Karma is an outdated application. What were you really saying about your feelings toward that Friend when you choose to send that app.?

Pam: That I think he’s an outdated, out-of-touch person?

Dr. FB: Now we’re getting somewhere. And speaking about unsaid feelings, let’s talk about the fact that you didn’t comment on your Friend’s photograph of her new puppy.

Pam: I did comment. I said, “Ooooh!”

Dr. FB: Exactly.

[Lengthy pause in which the depth of Dr. Facebook’s wisdom sinks in.]

Pam: Ah.

Dr. FB: Another matter I’d like to cover. Two weeks ago, it was someone’s birthday, and you sent her a “gift” of two penguins hugging.

Pam: They were so cuuuuute!

Dr. FB: Please remember there is no need for repeated letters here. This is a sacred space. But more to the point, you spent actual money on that gift.

Pam: Well, she is a good Friend. She responds to my postings a lot.

Dr. FB: Number one, you haven’t laid eyes upon her in 25 years which begs the question of your definition of friendship. Number two, you realize you laid out cold, hard cash on a gift that doesn’t exist except as an icon on a computer screen?

Pam: But they were so cute!

Dr. FB: ::Sigh::

[Dr. Facebook sends me a link to her essay entitled “Virtual vs. Real: A User’s Guide.”]

Dr. FB: Our time is almost up, Pamela. I like to end my sessions with a quiz. You can choose from the following:

· Which kind of f-ed up nutjob are you?

· What breed of subhuman species are you?

· Which supermodel would you regret sleeping with the most?

· What mood-altering medication should you be on?

Pam: I have to choose just one?

Dr. FB (furiously writing on her notepad): Just as I thought. We did good work here today, Pamela, but clearly with have a lot of ground to cover. Next session, I’d like to discuss your decision to Friend your mother.

Pam: Thanks Dr. Facebook. You’re da bom.

[Dr. FB posts a link to her Note “Top 10 Reasons Why Middle-Aged White People Should Never Talk Street on Facebook.”]

To receive your free, initial consultation with Dr. Facebook, please click here:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dr-FB-Cyber-Addictive-Personality-therapist/105829912603?created

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To read more essays by Pam Victor, please become a Follower of "My Nephew is a Poodle (and Other Random Thoughts) at www.pamvictor.blogspot.com.

The Hilarious Book I Did Not Write

The Hilarious Book I Did Not Write

Catherine Newman wrote the book that I should have written, and I’m trying not to hate her for it. “Waiting for Birdy” is the hilariously neurotic tale of the year she was pregnant with her second child. I’ve passed around the book to every woman I know, saying “If you’re not laughing out loud by the second page, then just put it down,” under my breath adding, “and get a sense of humor.” This author represents Everymother, and even people without kids laugh in recognition of her maternal angst. In fact, my friend Laura passed the book along to me with her “You gotta read this!” recommendation, and she doesn’t even have kids yet. (Though she and her wife do have a poodle, which I think counts.)

After turning the last page, I was delighted to read that the great author herself lives in my town. Thus the bizarre hand of fate gave me a push, and I promptly decided that I just had to meet this woman. I fantasized we’d share an instant connection which lead to collaboration on well-received projects until destiny plopped us across the desk from Jon Stewart on “The Daily Show.” Not to mention walking the red carpet at the Oscars with Julia Roberts and flirting strategically with George Clooney, the stars of our fabulously successful and artistically rendered screenplay.

But really I just wanted to thank her for writing such a true story that enabled me to laugh at, and perhaps forgive myself for, my second pregnancy paranoia, guilt, and general kookiness. And then as I got to know her better, I might do something mildly passive aggressive like use chicken bouillon in her vegetable soup, just to get back at her vegetarian-self for writing the book that I should have written.

So I set about trying to find my connection to her. I live in such a wonderfully big small town where we’re all connected by, at maximum, two degrees of separation. Strangely enough as soon as I started asking around, I suddenly found myself surrounded by people who had had their own sightings. One friend met her when their kids were in the same choral group. Another friend turned out to be her husband’s client. Someone else ran into her at the top of Skinner Mountain. Everybody was meeting this woman but me!

But I plodded on, finally inspired to ask was my jolly CSA farmer friend if he knew her. Turns out she’s a member of the farm! I shyly asked Farmer if he would assist me in my effort to make this funny woman my new best friend. (I don’t think those were my exact words, but he got the picture.) The very next week, the stars aligned just right, and Farmer found himself socializing with her. So he asked the great author if he could give her my number. (She said yes!)

I was horrified! I had envisioned a more casual, not-so-stalkerish introduction. I thought Farmer could just point her out to me. Then I could begin by handing her a stalk of broccoli one day at the farm. Maybe the next week, I would lend her my scissors in the flower patch. And perhaps in the dog days of summer, we could share a laugh about global warming among the tomatillos. But to have her actual phone number! As if I would just call her out of the blue, and say, “Hi. I’m funny. You’re funny. Let’s be friends.” Having graduated from kindergarten, that’s just not the way I meet friends these days.

Weeks stretched into months, and I just couldn’t bring myself to cold-call this woman. Months have stretched to years, and now it’s too late. If it were meant to be, it would have happened already, right?

Plus I’m afraid she’ll take out a restraining order on me.

Damn, I just realized something. Do you think she reads online blogs? Don’t you dare forward this entry to her. I swear, don’t you dare. Now I’m really embarrassed.

-------

Post script: Just one week after I posted this blog, I was at a dear friend’s 50^th birthday party shooting the breeze with a very cool woman named Nicole. Suddenly, Nicole turns to greet two kids who just arrive on the scene saying, “Hi Ben! Hi Birdy!” If you’ve read Catherine Newman’s book, you know as well as I do that there can only be one Ben and Birdy.

I do a pirouette (in my mind) and ask with no hope of containing my excitement, “Are those (gulp) Catherine Newman’s kids?”

“Oh, sure,” Nicole breezily replies. “Catherine is one of my best friends.”

So basically, I plotz right there in my friend’s lovely garden surrounded by his closest friends with Bob Marley playing in the background. Like a total jerk, I confess how much I adore Catherine’s (oh yeah, we are SO on a first name basis now!) book, and I summarize this blog entry. Nicole laughs and promises that Catherine would get a kick out of it. (There may or may not have been fear in Nicole’s eyes. Hard to tell since she was wearing sunglasses. Perhaps she took a couple steps backwards and crossed her arms defensively. But I’m pretty sure that was just my imagination.)

Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting next to Catherine Newman at a raucous table of laughter, shouting and general glee. We’re talking about parenting and writing and comedy. She was delightful. Her husband was charming. Her children were adorable.

It occurs to me that perhaps I need to confess that not only have I read, and greatly enjoyed, her book, but that I wrote in my blog about it. It’s one thing for her to read the blog written by a stranger. But now, it seems awkward that I spend a lovely evening chatting her up in a garden, all the while having written this essay. Alas, she left the party before I got up the courage to confess. So here it goes…

Catherine, if by any chance you’re reading this, I’m sure you understand that – as I am first and foremost a comedian – this essay was written with my tongue fully inserted in my cheek. Nevertheless, I admire the hell out of your writing style, and I’m glad to have you as a literary role model. It was a pleasure to meet you, and you seem like a fun and funny woman. Although I was totally kidding about us being BFF’s, I look forward to handing you a stalk of broccoli some day at the farm. –Pam

(P.S. Please reconsider the restraining order on me, kay?)

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Pamela Victor is the author of the not-nearly-as-hilarious but still really good children’s book “Baj and the Word Launcher.” Her blog "My Nephew is a Poodle (and Other Random Thoughts)" is at www.pamvictor.blogspot.com.

Do yourself a favor and buy

"Waiting for Birdy"

for yourself and moms you know and love!

Nobody Sings About My Life on the Good Stations

Nobody Sings About My Life on the Good Stations

by Pamela Victor

For some reason I’ve been drawn even more to music lately, and I’ve been listening carefully to lyrics. I noticed that the vast majority of songs are about – yes, you knew this already – love and loss. It’s all so heartfelt and tragic. Extreme. Exciting. Emotional. Full of nerves and sexuality and rapidly beating hearts. Longing looks. Regret. Sadness and heartbreak.

This morning, I was listening to my favorite local station, WRSI, in particularly noticing the lyrics. This is Tracy Grammer’s “Disappearing Man,”

at the end of the year when the cliffs rise up behind you


and the stream runs in circles from the chasm to the core


and the sun comes in tears 'cause the gardener did not find you


will you bloom bright and fierce,

will you know you don't need him anymore

It’s lovely, right? Touching and beautiful.

However, I must note that there is nothing in those lyrics that represents my average day. Although I walk daily along a stream, I am accompanied by a snorting pug, and I’ve never noticed the stream running in circles to the core. (The pug, however, does have occasion to run in circles in a vain attempt to catch his curly tail. I’m thinking that’s not what Tracy is getting at though.)

Here is another great song. I thought since it was called “Old Brown Shoe” The Beatles might be singing about something routine, something more representative of my usual, feeding-fixing-and-futzing daily life.

You know you pick me up from where some try to drag me down

And when I see your smile replace every thoughtless frown

Got me escaping from this zoo, baby, I'm in love with you

I'm so glad you came here, it won't be the same now when I'm with you

For some reason, I’m thinking that they’re not talking about a shoe. Needless to say, that song also doesn’t speak to my typical day. Although there is picking up in my day, it’s usually me picking up socks from behind the couch. So far, nobody has come in to pick me up. Now I’m left wondering: Why don’t they sing about my life on the good stations?

Because life is mundane. And mundane is boring. Nobody wants to listen to a boring song. I don’t care how great the beat is, but these lyrics just wouldn’t sell:

Woke up to dirty dishes in the sink,

I think I’ll have cereal for breakfast.

Then I’ll drive to Montague to pick up my daughter.

Shit, the cat puked on the carpet.

Gotta clean that up.

Nobody else is going to clean that up.

Better do it before it hardens.

Somebody is calling my name.

The dog just ate a fly.

Did I remember to rinse the conditioner out of my hair?

Booooring. Most of the time, life is tedious, dull, and repetitive. (Maybe it’s just me? I’m betting not though.) Sure, there are those high moments when something exciting happens, or low moments when something bad occurs. Certainly, I’m just boo-hooing in a bed of flowers. I am blessed with great joy, and I make an effort to feel gratitude for all that is good in my life. Please don’t think I’m taking that for granted. I’m a lucky dog. Still, I look around and see everybody stuck in the tracks of the day-to-day. Most of the time, we’re just chugging along on automatic. Same shit, different day.

Is mundane a bad thing? I have a dear friend who is going through a hard time in life right now. She says she would kill for “boring” right now. I get that, and perhaps the monotonous routine of my life is a gift. But when I listen to music, I can’t help wondering what it would be like to enjoy days of which great lyrics are made.

There comes a point in one’s life, smack in the middle when you’re knee-deep in caretaking, careering and catering, when entire months and years go by in a blink. There is nothing much to write home about, except that you are successfully raising great kids and doing a good job at work, neither of which anybody wants to hear more than a sentence about. The majority of the time, my life tends to be a cocktail party conversation snoozer.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a stay-at-home-mom.”

“Wow. That’s great. What a hard job.”

“Yup.”

(Significant pause.)

“Have you tried the bean dip? It’s great. I’m going to go get more.”

As much as I would never in a wadzillion years be a teenager again, there is something enticing about the passion of those days. It was so wonderawful. I loved my friends and hated my friends. Everything was “the worst ever!” or “the best ever!” We were badly behaved, we questioned authority, we thought deep thoughts, we mistook it all for real life.

You pull my pin and you trip my wire

You come in and set my heart on fire

You knock me out, you rock me off my axis

You and me are gasoline and matches

(From Buddy and Julie Miller’s “Gasoline and Matches”)

By the same token, although I am happy to be two decades off the dating circuit, still sometimes I contemplate what it would be like to feel the first-date butterflies. Or, even better, the third-date butterflies, when you know there is a connection, and your head is all full of “Is this the one?!” And there is nothing the other person can do that is wrong. It’s all laughter and eyeball-to-eyeball and kissing with your whole body. Just weeks after meeting the man who was to be my husband, I remember taking an absurd amount of delight in running my finger over the books on his shelves. Each book represented a different façade to his personality, and I took deep joy in them all. Even “Discrete Mathematics and Applied Modern Algebra” made me smile and swoon. (I have a serious weakness for geeks.) These are the waters that fill the well where lyrics pour forth.

The Rascal Flatts sing about it in Long Slow Beautiful Dance,”

A deep breath and baby steps

That's how the whole thing starts

It's a long slow beautiful dance

To the beat of a heart

I am starting to understand why some people create drama where ever they go. That style has never worked for me. The bottom line truth is that I find predictability to be comforting, but now at least I get it. I understand why people my age get their noses pierced or buy big ticket items or have affairs or keep having babies. That all keeps the waters swirling at least. For still waters folks like me, instead of representing the present, maybe music is supposed to be for remembering and imagining? Maybe.

Me? I shall endeavor to relish the mundane. Although drama gets the creative juices flowing, in the end it is just too taxing. Feh. Who has the energy? Let’s just eat a slice of cake, watch a movie, and go to bed early. Sure, it’s not an evening rife with lyrical possibilities, but at least it’s cozy, pleasant, and provides a good night’s sleep. Somebody should write a song about that.