What Are Unfriends For?

Of all the bad things Facebook hath wrought, the degradation of the concept of friendship tops the list. This morning, having awoken in a sour mood owing to my brother-in-law's recent accident and a particularly obnoxious waitress at dinner out with my family last night, I took a bold step and "unfriended" those Facebook "friends" I cannot count on for anything. Naturally this leaves me woefully depleted in the Friends department, a statistic which, oddly enough, pops up when you search someone's name, as if that very fact is the most important thing about them. I suppose it's better than if it said Weight 139, but just barely.

Amassing tons of friends on Facebook is now a real goal for many people! What really irks me is when someone I have never met in the flesh becomes my "friend," or worse, two "friends" of mine who have never met become "friends" with one another because they both know me. This is quite common.

I want so much to hone my list to those people who would give me blood but I am addicted to playing Words With Friends, and while a couple of my opponents might actually come through with a pint, I'd rather bleed to death and play the game than not play at all. Still, seeking honesty in all my relationships, and armed with a cold heart that has grown colder thanks to Mark Zuckerberg, I went through my Friends list and deleted anyone who A, I have never met or B, presents themselves falsely (is full of crap) or C, has not posted in months or D, refers to people as "my peeps."

I feel better.

Non Sequitur

I will spare you the details, but let it suffice that I recently loaned someone money and learned the truth of the adage, "neither a borrower nor a lender be." Having never been a borrower I can't speak from experience, but if it's as unsatisfying as being a lender, I'll certainly never do it. The problem is this: One wants to feel appreciated, one wants to be thanked appropriately, and one wants to be repaid pronto. (None of this applies to relatives, by the way, so any of my kin out there reading this, relax and fugggedaboutit.) If one of those conditions--or God forbid all three--are missing, you are left feeling like you actually did something bad even though you did something good, which is crazy. Maybe it's got to do with the balance of power and having the upper hand or having no hand at all, or feeling inferior or superior, who knows, not sure, but it's a bad business all around.

That being said, I was sad to read about the death of Annette Funicello, the former superstar who catapulted to fame and fortune on the back of Mickey Mouse during the 1950s and 60s. I personally never liked Annette--her eyebrows were just too damn heavy, and when she went on to star in all those beach party movies, her breasts were ridiculously pointy and torpedo-like. But it was fun saying her name--we called her Annette Fullofjello--and I was sorry she suffered from such a debilitating illness for the last part of her life. She seemed like she was a very sweet woman in her later years, quite pretty in fact with perfectly normal eyebrows, and I bet if I had loaned her money she would have been really nice about it.

Gearing Up for Old Age

Old guy blading in Florida. He's obviously confused.

A 17-year-old girl has gotten a million dollar contract to write three books for Random House after her first one, which she self-published online, got 19 million hits, or something like that. Anyway, according to the famed publishing company, the author is a hit because "she is a teenager writing for teenagers, and so she has an authentic voice." And therein lies my problem: While I am actually an old lady, I don't write like one. Old ladies do not say things like "fuck" and "WTF?" and "effing this" and "effing that." They don't talk about smoking pot or baking marijuana brownies. When they do it at all, they write about arthritis medicines and compression stockings and diabetes and shit like that.

I suppose can't find my voice because I am floating, adrift between generations. This is all because my husband is 11 years younger than I, and he is still a hot guy. He is not old at all. I am, but nobody notices when I stand next to Mitch. The last time I felt truly anchored in my generation was at Woodstock, and that was in 1969. Just two weeks ago I was the oldest person in a tour group, traveling with women ten and twenty years my junior, and I totally forgot to act my age! In fact, I found a few of them quite fuddy-duddyish, and besides my best friend who came with me on the trip, I related most to our tour guide, a kindred spirit almost three decades my junior.

I guess if I want my new novel, which is almost sort of nearing not-quite-completion, to attract readers, I should aim at my own demographic for that "authentic voice." I'll have to make all the characters a lot older, and replace all the sex scenes with Alzheimer support group meetings, and change the setting to a nursing home. And finish it damn quick, God knows.

A Public Apology

It never pays to say what you mean. You have simply got to edit everything or someone is bound to be offended. Sadly, most people do not want to hear the truth, or even anything that sat next to the truth in grade school. The problem is that I am such a bad liar, and the truth seeps out even when I am trying to hold it in. But I can change, and I will start today, right now in fact. I will rewrite the preceding paragraph so that it is more user friendly to any reader who might find it hurtful:

I love all my friends. They are the kindest, sweetest and most intelligent people on Earth. I am so lucky to have them as friends, especially since none of them have any faults at all. I am the one with all the faults, in fact I suck. I am mean and hateful and sarcastic and certainly undeserving of their friendship, or any friendship for that matter. I am so sorry I ever said one bad thing to anyone. Sometimes I am sorry I was ever born.

How's that?

Playing God

Perhaps you've seen those TV ads for Christian Mingle.com, a dating service for religious types, that end with the tag line, "Find God's match for you." Who knew God was trolling the Internet? Anyway, I figure if He can be in the matchmaking business, it's certainly not beneath me.

Keeping that in mind, I have introduced two dear friends with the hope that a spark will ignite and they will like one another as much as I like each of them individually, and run off into the sunset and find eternal bliss together, or at least have a nice evening. This action on my part, called a "fix-up," which is dumb since it implies that both parties are broken and that's not the case at all, is not without peril, and brings several key questions to mind: What if they hate each other? Okay, hate is admittedly a strong word, but what if she likes him and he doesn't like her? Or what if he likes her and she doesn't like him? Or she likes him, but not that way? What if they like each other and talk about me and discover that what they have most in common is that neither of them likes me very much at all?

I was only trying to help.

Empathy Sucks

I am fine. Nothing hurts me at the moment, I'm well-fed and clothed, and I don't need surgery, at least not today. I guess you could say I'm "happy." Except I'm miserable: I feel dizzy whenever I try to sit up, and feel nauseous constantly, and haven't eaten in two days so I'm hungry too. Worst of all, I can hardly hear, and I can't remember why or how I got in this hospital bed. Oh wait, that's not me, that's my brother-in-law, who suffered a fall two days ago and cracked his skull and now has blood in his brain. No wonder he feels so bad. What's my excuse?

Apparently I am suffering from a severe case of empathy, which is defined as "the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another." In fact, my husband has it too. I sure wish something fabulous would happen to someone close to us so we could get some relief. If you have any good news to share, email me at andreajrouda@aol.com.

Hey God, Lay Off!

Neil has the beard.

In the "You Never Know" department, which has always been my favorite department but now not so much, yesterday I hopped aboard a time machine and went back to the year 2008-- and not to a good place.

Exactly four years and two weeks ago but who's counting, my husband and I moved to Maine after his identical twin Neil had a bike accident that put him in a coma for six weeks, then a rehab hospital for several months, followed by years of therapy for a traumatic brain injury and a host of related ills. It has been a long road back, but ultimately Neil has made an all but complete recovery, one in which he can drive, purchase and renovate a new home, get a puppy and enjoy social engagements with friends and family, although working again in his former profession was deemed out of the question and he's not that good at the movies or a play. Nevertheless, he escaped the jaws of death to live fully and eat pizza, even if he doesn't always remember he ordered it and can't really taste it. Things were bubbling along just fine.

Then along comes yesterday. Neil was attending a high-school fundraising auction--he has two teenagers--when, by all accounts, he simply fell straight backwards onto the hard wooden floor in the cafeteria and cracked the back of his skull. There was blood. People screamed, an ambulance was called, and presto, he's back in the very same hospital room where he lay comatose four years ago. And so were all of us, huddled around him lying still in his neck brace under a pile of blankets attached to many machines and surrounded by doctors and nurses and interns.

It sucks, I tell you. God in his infinite wisdom? WTF? Anyway, if you are reading this and you are not in a hospital with a fractured skull and bleeding in your brain, thank your lucky stars and have a great day. You never know where you'll end up tonight.

Today's the Day

Mary, me, Joyce and Nancy, circa 1982.

Today might be the day. In fact, it had better be since who knows how many are left? This one day is already here, with me in it. I better do that thing right now, that thing I've been planning to do forever, that thing that will make me happy and fulfilled. In fact I would go and do it, if only I could remember what it is. I knew once, but then I looked away for a minute, and now all these years later I am completely mystified as to what the heck I ever set out to do or be. Everything sharply in focus so many years ago is now a blur, and all my once best friends are complete strangers. (See photo.)

Exactly two weeks ago today I went to Haiti, hoping a giant leap outside my comfort zone might land me closer to my goal. One week ago I came back, apparently to the exact same place, and although several seeds were planted, I still don't know. So I gobble up books about how to get where you're going, and marvel at others who claim to have already arrived, but still I'm clueless. It's frustrating since time is running out, and not just for me. (The eroding planet, the crazy dictators, poverty, disease, etc.)

I will now go wash the kitchen floor. And while that won't make my whole life worth living, at least it will make me feel better about the kitchen floor, at least for this one day. By tomorrow it will look just as dirty. Black is so wrong for a kitchen floor.

I'm No Party Animal

Illustration by Gordon Studer

Considering the possibility of another visit to Haiti sometime in the distant future, I've been doing some reading and recently came across a description of a certain street carnival that sounded like it might be fun, until the very last line that promised the festive proceedings would eventually evolve into "a rum-soaked evening where everyone parties til dawn."  Hmm, maybe not such fun after all, at least not to me. While I like a good party, I have never been prone to partying, be it til dawn, dusk, mid-morning or whenever.

It all got me wondering what the word even means, so I looked it up and found that the verb to party means, "to enjoy oneself thoroughly and without restraint; indulge in pleasure." Aha! No wonder. Indulgence is certainly not something I engage in publicly, but rather in the privacy of my own home, either alone or with a chosen few. What's more, I certainly don't want to be around total strangers abandoning all restraint--think The Who concert--which is why I've never made it to Mardi Gras, although I do like New Orleans. As for the rum-soaking, that's also a no, although a substitution beverage can help me unwind enough to hang around for a little while.

I don't know how or why I'm no party animal, but here I be and I won't apologize. As the late, great Janis Joplin said sometime before she overdosed on booze and pills, "Never compromise yourself--you're all you've got."

Haiti Today, Maine Tomorrow

"Happy Orphan with Sewer Garbage"

A few friends have asked me, "How was Haiti?" They suggest I write about it. The thing is that for me, Haiti is so last week. Remember--all we have is now, and right now I am in Maine, and it's still cold--in fact it's going down to 20 degrees tonight. Whereas Haiti was so hot, but that hot feeling is totally gone. Like all the other stuff, which is sort of sad, really.  Anyway, this blog is supposed to be funny, and I can say for sure that while Haiti is many things, funny is not one of them. (Some not funny things: lots of garbage in open sewers, rubble in the streets, houses half gone to ruin, hundreds of orphans.) Besides, the places we visit are colored by our unique personal experiences, so it's impossible to tell anyone anything about anywhere, really.

For example, I spent the week with my dearest friend, met a few special people who scored a 10 on the Rouda Likeability Scale--which hardly ever happens--and learned a new art form I plan to pursue. So of course, for me, Haiti was great! Besides, that was then. Still, before I forget, here are some things I noticed that are worth mentioning:
1. My high blood pressure was gone. I felt great physically. Much better than here.
2. The people all seemed happier there.
3. My flight to Haiti from Florida was half as long as the one from Maine to Florida. It's so close to the States, yet so foreign.

Discuss.

Please, No Pictures!

Hey, there I am somewhere else!

My recent trip to Haiti was a first in several ways: First visit to somewhere with no McDonald's or Starbucks, which was quite refreshing although honestly I could have used a skim latte on several weary afternoons. Another first was being part of a tour, which involved traveling on a bus with a group of like-minded individuals. Usually I travel with just my husband and we wander around discovering things, often not even knowing where the heck we we are. While that's fun, this particular tour provided several benefits, like safety, instant friends, and a whole lot of knowledge about local history and politics I never would have gotten otherwise, since our outstanding Haitian guide was not only quite chatty but smart. It also afforded me a microscopic view of the behavior of the typical U.S. citizen abroad, a species known to scientists as groupus photographus Americanus.

A burning need to capture a beautiful moment on film, usually with a bunch of bedraggled women in front of it, was in evidence last week. Had I participated fully, there would now be roughly 1,000 photographs in which I appear circulating the globe. Instead, after about the third one I begged off, claiming it was against my religion, or that I was wanted by the FBI, or that I was simply too tired to get off the bus and stand and wave at the camera. (One of the rare ones that snagged me is shown above.)

The silliest thing about travel pictures is that often the best moments are never captured on film, yet they remain seared into our memory anyway. Once back home, though we may organize our photos and show them off proudly to our friends, a fleeting undocumented moment will stick out forever. Over time it might be all we remember, regardless of the scores of pictures taken in front of this particular wall or inside that particular restaurant. If I suffer a brain injury all will be lost, but until then, I'm set.