Friendship - should it virtually matter?

I just read about someone complaining that they were tired of reaching out to friends, doing all the work and getting nothing back. Another bemoaned that they couldn’t believe people couldn’t take the time to “like” a picture or post or wish someone a happy birthday. Others stated that they weren’t interested in being friends with people who didn’t comment or interact with them as it was viewed as spying – be it family or friends. 

I almost nodded my head in agreement and was than horrified. At myself.  Have we really come to that?

I consider myself a good friend. I value the friends I have and am grateful that they are a part of my life. Does it bother me when I don’t hear from them? When they don’t just ring up to say hello or text a quick “how ya doing?”  To be honest, sometimes…but then I got to thinking. Why on earth would that bother me?  Should they be bothered if I don’t check in with them as often as they would like? If I don’t ask “how ya doing” often enough? I sure as shit hope not.

What I love about my friends is their humor, their wit, their ability to say just the right thing, pour the perfect drink or just go along for the ride. I am grateful for their shoulder when I cry and their strong backs when I need a lift. Their potty mouths, their ability to talk me off the ledge, or laugh with me. I love when I can help them – and return the favors so often bestowed on me. I value their willingness to accept me in all my imperfection – including my sometimes lax communication.

With all the Facebooking, texting, Instagramming, and Tweeting, we have this mistaken belief that every single thought we have, opinion we voice, picture we post, or “meaningful” quote we share must be acknowledged for us to feel valued. Trust me – that dinner you made last night – well, I hope it was great but I can assure you it did not change my life. If I didn’t “like” the picture, it doesn’t mean I’m not impressed by your culinary skills but that I simply didn’t click a button.  Don’t take it personally.  Some folks have hundreds – even thousands - of social networking friends. Do we really need to wish each one a “happy birthday” on their big day and comment on each post?  I don’t know about you, but I have a job, a family and a real life that isn’t online.

I’m a Facebook regular. I post, I share, I upload. I appreciate the interaction with those who respond – I’ve learned a lot about my friends both old and new. It’s a quick and easy way to communicate.  But, if I look at my friend list of 250, I can count a handful of really good friends, some long distance friends and many acquaintances or folks from my previous lives.  Facebook allows us to peek at each other’s lives and feel a modicum of connection.  Yes, even to be a bit nosy – but admit it, there are friends on your list that you never communicate with – you just look at the pics and maybe snicker about something you don’t agree with.  Yet there are others -  good friends who rarely, if ever, log on and I have to connect with them offline and in the real world.  Sure, a comment on a post or anecdote is nice; but when we get our knickers in a twist because someone didn’t like or comment – well, seriously? Do we have such an inflated sense of self?  I have a couple of sisters – both lurk around on Facebook with nary a comment or like.  I can see one sister like other pictures or comments – but never mine.  Never. It never even entered my mind to hold it against her, unfriend her or use that to gauge her love for me. Why? ‘Cause she’s my fucking sister. I can call her up and tell her about my life. She’ll call me and tell me about hers.  She knows if there is a picture I really want her to see, I will email it.  Because honestly, and this may be shocking, but monitoring posts, liking or replying to a comment posted to the world is not a priority for everyone.

I recently joined Instagram – not because I’m so popular or because I have even more to share but to monitor Mini Me as she starts to navigate social networking.  I immediately had people “following” me and I laughed so hard I nearly peed my pants. I don’t even know how the fucking thing works – I’m really just trying to practice a modicum of responsible parenting. I’m honestly not that interesting.  I have no intention of Tweeting. Frankly, no one is that interested in what I can say in140 characters or less. Even this blog – I write because I have things I want to say but I don’t need anyone to hear me.  Writing is cathartic for me. I was a journal keeper and now I’m a blogger. Sure, I hope folks read – even enjoy it - but I’m not offended if they don’t. Hell, I’ve got some family members that don’t even read it.  But, it doesn’t mean they love me any less. At least I don’t think so.

Keep it real - not virtual.

But reading that Facebook exchange really made me think. I’m sorry that folks are placing so much value on social networking interaction. I want the people in my life to think better of themselves, to focus on real connections – not just those online. To invite a friend for coffee, to arrange a playdate at the park with a group of mom friends you haven’t see in a while. To call that friend you haven’t heard from and ask how they are – even if you leave a voicemail that isn’t returned. Find value in the real world and not the virtual one. Stop keeping score – it’s a friendship, not a game. You either both win or both lose.

You see, my friends (and sisters, brothers and sisters-in-law) – well, we’re friends despite our busy lives, crazy schedules and time spent apart. We’re close in spite of our inability to chat often enough or even finish an entire conversation. All those things make our time together sweeter.

So my friends, let’s pour a glass of wine and catch up. When we find time. In the meantime, don't hold it against me if I don't "like" or "comment."  Know I love you and you matter. In the real world.

Another F&*$ing Post

I have a confession.  I have a potty mouth.  It may be slightly worse than that - I can have a mouth like a sailor. Big Susan would be horrified, my mother would fake being shocked (that woman could stretch the word “shit” out into three syllables) and my father would be proud. Go figure.

I am very professional at work and do not use profanity. At least not openly.  I will admit to muting the phone to stifle my laughter when a colleague muttered, “This is fucking useless,” during a conference call. I called him afterwards to let him know just how much I appreciated it.

They say profanity is the sign of ignorance and I beg to differ. My damn friends and I are simply brilliant. I don’t drop the curse bombs around all of them but those that know me well, well – this post won’t shock them.  My Big Susan, T aka Neiman, rarely if ever cusses. But when she does, it’s usually the f-bomb and I always applaud and completely lose track of whatever point she was making because she had a potty mouth.  My other Big Susan, the Geek, has been known to cuss – but talks so nicely most of the time you scarcely notice it. Now, the other Big Susan, L aka Brenda Starr doesn’t cuss. She’s so good about it that it’s kinda sickening. I commend her but she had great role models. I can’t imagine her parents, aka the Cleavers, ever uttering any word that the Pope would not approve of.  I think I’ve dropped the f-bomb in front of Mrs. Cleaver but she hasn’t held it against me (or is too polite to say so.)

 

I’m reasonably cautious about cursing around mini-me.  My word of choice around her is “crap” and she has used it once or twice. At least she uses it correctly.  This past week, mini-me was lucky enough to be part of a television promo featuring area camps – and the barn where she rides was included. She got to participate (as young girl brushing pony). While I was yakking with Legs, mini-me and Pistol (daughter of Legs) were pretending to be interviewee and interviewer. This is when I hear mini-me say, “ucking, pooping,” and get whiplash saying, “What did you say?”  Mini-me repeatedly refuses to tell me (she says she know she will get in trouble) so I can only assume, she has dropped the f-bomb.  Play date cancelled and a tearful mini-me trails behind me when we walk home from the bus stop.  Fast forward 20 minutes and I learn the first letter that I didn’t hear was a “b” – as in bucking.  Bucking and pooping. She thought I would be mad at her for saying “pooping.”  WTF? She rides horses multiple times a week. My car sometimes smells like horseshit.  Pooping is simply part of our lexicon.  Where did this child come from? I take this as a sign that I have properly instilled “do as I say and not as I do.”  Legs found this whole thing hilarious.  She wouldn’t be laughing so fucking hard if it were Pistol dropping the possible f-bomb.

My friend Lips has two boys who could not be more different. You have Jobs, as in Steve Jobs in the body of a 4^th grader and Steve-O as in well, jackass.  These are two of the funniest and sweetest boys ever but Steve-O loves the words “nuts.” As in, “Ohhh, he hit my nuts,” or “Careful, don’t hit my nuts” and “Gotta be careful, that could hurt my nuts.”  It’s as if his nuts are so large they can’t be missed or avoided. He’s in third grade.  Often, Lips rolls her eyes (‘cause really, she’s been known to drop an f-bomb or three – especially if we have drinks.) Sometimes I shoot him a look.  But, since Legs and I have little girls (Legs is also mom to sweet Rider, a fourth grade boy who can often be the big brother of the group), this was creating possible lessons in anatomy and slang that we weren’t ready to face. So, we’ve tried to clean up our (fine, my act. And Steve-O’s) act and have language rules. No nuts. No crotch. No body parts or potty talk.  I swear you can see these kids literally biting their tongues.

Now my dear friends Belle and Handy rarely – if ever – cuss. And, if they did – they have such sweet southern accents you’d swear they were complimenting you.  Same with my sister-in-law Beach. Honey drips from her mouth when she says “shit.”  My sister’s don’t really cuss – Dad’s Favorite may not know what all the dirty words mean and Mini-Mom tries to hold back – though trust me, girlfriend has it in her. Thank goodness for my brother – we’ll call him Patron. He knows how to drop the f-bomb.  Trust me…..rewind a few years and we’re at my brother’s house, Beach and I are cleaning up and mini-me has been trying to get the tiny baby into its tiny highchair with her new dollhouse. The room is quiet and I hear my recently turned four-year old say, “I hate this fucking baby.”  Thanks Patron. Job well done.

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You know, I choose my friends carefully. It’s like choosing the right cuss word – choose wisely and choose well and keep it to a select few. Too many and someone gets hurt. Not a good fit and tempers may flare. But just the right one – it works every time.