I’m Two-Faced About Facebook

Social networking is a phenomenon that is clearly not going to go away. And Facebook – with how many registered faces now? more than 65 million? – is the biggest party in cybertown. It will get bigger, too. No doubt about it. There are no capacity issues when the party is taking place in a virtual dance hall.

I resisted signing up for a long time. The concept didn’t hold much value for me. Besides, I have enough trouble keeping up with the friendships I could be enjoying in person or over the phone. Do I need this added sense of social responsibility?

But when the prep school I attended created a Facebook community, I began to flirt with the idea of joining. Part of the draw was the fact that the prep school no longer exists, so the virtual alumnae association had no competition off-line. The dealmaker, though, occurred when I realized that – in lieu of a picture of my actual face – I could associate my profile with the cover of my novel. Anything to help market The Somebody Who.

So I joined Facebook probably a year and a half ago. And for a while, I visited somewhat regularly. I don’t regret my early activities in that most popular cyberland. Last April, I reunited with a friend I hadn’t seen in thirty years and hadn’t been in touch with for probably fifteen years. And in October, while I was in Virginia, I had lunch with one of my best buddies from elementary school and junior high. I had last seen her at my wedding, in 1987.

I’m grateful that I have found both these friends. But I also know that I probably could have found them without Facebook.

I should also mention, as long as I’m just a paragraph away from the subject of my marriage, that yes, my ex (since 1994) has a Facebook page. And yes, I’ve perused it.

This is the part of Facebook that makes me feel particularly uncomfortable. I am able to look at photographs that have nothing to do with my current life. I am able to see which friends belong to whom. I am participating in a collective surrendering of privacy, and so I am part of the problem.

But, when you think about it, the surrendering of privacy in this realm is fairly tame. There’s just not a lot of highly personal stuff revealed in most of the postings. Take, for example, some of these comments I’ve seen in the News Feed:

“It’s Friday!”

“I’m so bored.”

and (drum roll, please)

“Fixing dinner...”

About five or six months ago, I stopped visiting Facebook on a regular basis. I still occasionally (very occasionally) get a direct message from someone, and when I do, it appears in my email. I’m cool with that. And I’m even inclined to respond.

But the postings that show up on a daily basis? I don’t know that this is our greatest moment as a species.

…Chances are I already know it’s Friday.

…If you’re bored and you choose to announce it, I will likely remember what my mother used to say to me: “Katie, bored people are often boring.”

…As for your dinner? Gee, I sure hope you take pictures when it’s done!

I realize that, in sharing these comments, I might lose a few “friends.” But in the world of Facebook, I’m actually not even sure what it means anymore to have a “friend.”

Observations from the Niche-Free Zone

Back in the mid-‘90s, when the Internet was in its infancy, I got a call from someone representing the Barnard Alumnae Association. He was calling regarding a directory they were putting together. He was seeking information for my entry in said tome.

Yes, I said it: tome.

You see, this was to be an actual book with actual pages. Something alums would order so that they could access information regarding women, like themselves, who had experienced higher education at the venerable college that attracts tough, independent New York types and is affiliated with Columbia University.

After answering the man’s questions as to “what I do,” he said something that filled me with pride: “You don’t really fall into any category.”

My response? “And if I ever do, please shoot me.”

It will seem unrelated for me to suddenly bring up American Idol, but I’m kind of entitled, what with my no-category status. Besides, there actually is a reason to bring it up. I first should confess that, yes, I’m one of the hooked masses. I love American Idol for all kinds of reasons, and I’d detail them here, but a character in my second novel (not yet published) already has done so, and I really want you to hear it from her mouth. Regardless, something I’ve noticed this season is the judges’ desperately wanting to home in on a contestant’s niche. Is she country? Is he blues? Should she go the pop route?

Recently, Siobhan Magnus (the refreshingly quirky glass blower from Cape Cod who can somehow scream without being “pitchy”) defended herself against the judges’ comments as to “who she is.” I can’t quote her verbatim (and I’m too lazy in the moment to Google it), but essentially, she conveyed that she wasn’t interested in being pigeon-holed.

Good for Siobhan!

I get it that there are reasons to claim a niche. If you focus on one thing, you will likely devote all your energy to it, and you will therefore improve within it and have a better chance for success. Undoubtedly, had I claimed a niche by now, I wouldn’t be constantly wondering if I’ll make ends meet on a month-to-month basis.

But, if I were stuck in one place, I’d also not discover new places.

I love my nonprofit work, which I “happened into” back in 1987. I had grown tired of waitressing by then, and so I began temping. When an assignment landed me at the Ford Foundation, I gained a new perspective on “office world.” Who knew there were kind, altruistic people doing the nine-to-five grind? (I didn’t.) Now, after many nonprofit staff positions and loads of amazing, Kodak-moment experiences, I do fundraising and program development work on a consulting basis. My clients are awesome, and what they do for folks in Los Angeles is life-changing.

I love my fine art work, which began when I “happened into” a bead store. For almost 10 years now, I’ve been seduced by what I call the unbearable lightness of beading. I’ve made jewelry, mobiles, and wall hangings. And without beads, I’ve made original greeting cards using recycled materials. Most recently, I’ve opened a shop on etsy.com. This means I’m in the process of moving my independent website inventory to a more well-traveled location. Sure, I’m competing with about 50,000 other jewelry designers, but I love my work, and so I believe in it.

I love my creative writing. In fact, I love nothing more than making sentences. I am even happy with that one. And this one. And the next one.

So what “do I do?” the Alumnae Association wants to know.

I look for joy. And when I find it, I look for more.

Funny that these musings reference Barnard. I remember, when I first arrived there (me, a 17-year-old from rural Virginia), I was so struck by my classmates and what I heard during informal freshman orientation conversations. The most common answers to peer-posed questions were two-syllable hyphenates: pre-med; pre-law; pre-med; pre-law; pre-med; pre-law… I was shocked, but I never felt pressured. Even then, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing from the mouths of babes. These 17- and 18-year olds had their whole lives figured out.

I hope it’s gone well for them. I hope they like their niches.

As for me, I’ll keep confusing the judges. And although I may scream at times, I’ll try never to sound pitchy (or… something that rhymes with that).

Please visit my etsy shop at www.KatieGatesDesigns.etsy.com . And tell your friends.

If you haven’t done so already, pick up a copy of my novel at Amazon. Just do a search for The Somebody Who. You’ll see it.

Know any nonprofits who need help with their fundraising? Send them my way.

I’m here.

I’m the one without a niche.

Confessions of a Non-Stalker

Back in the 60's (or maybe it was the 70's), a couple who are among my mom’s and my late dad’s contemporaries traveled from Virginia for their annual experience in New York. One night, they went to a Broadway show. The wife noticed a man sitting in front of them (or perhaps in their row), and this is what she said to him: “I know you’re someone famous, but I don’t know who you are.”

“My kids don’t think I’m famous,” he replied, kindly.

The man, not famous to his children, was Sidney Poitier.

I share this little anecdote because I just had to do some Googling. I wanted to make sure I got the actor’s name right.

Not Sidney Poitier's name. I know who he is, but rather, I wanted to check on the name of the actor I'm about to talk about.

It's Edward Burns.

Edward Burns has been around since the mid-90’s. In 1995, he made the scene with his indie film, The Brothers McMullen. He wrote it, directed it, and starred in it. A guy from Long Island, he had a tri-state tale to tell, and he told it well. He’s been busy ever since.

And one night, about ten years ago, he went to the movies.

So did I.

I had driven over to the Laemmle 5 on Sunset. Don’t remember what I saw. When I left the theatre, I entered the elevator to return to the underground parking structure that was designed by sadists. (Sidebar: is it any wonder there is now a Trader Joe’s within that complex? But I digress…)

Edward Burns joined me on the elevator, pressed the button for his parking level, and together, we rode down to the lower levels, each of us looking somewhere else.

About twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the Mayfair at Franklin and Bronson, as I had decided to pick up a few groceries on the way home. It must have been winter (if L.A. can be said to have one), as I recall I was wearing my royal blue, sort of all-weather jacket – a noticeable color among the more common, muted shades of winterizing Angelenos.

When I had filled my basket and approached check-out, I saw that my elevator mate was waiting in the most available, fastest-moving line. Yup. Edward Burns. Seven or eight zip codes ago, we were sharing an elevator. Now, we were both at Mayfair.

Self-conscious in my royal blue outerwear, I chose another check-out line.

The non-stalker line.

How I Got Out of Jury Duty… without even trying

As a self-employed person, I’ve bristled whenever I’ve received a jury duty notice. I would like to perform my civic duty, but the financial ramifications prevent me from getting enthusiastic about it. Two weeks with no billables is simply not affordable. A lengthy trial would bankrupt me. So for years, I submitted my excuses, and they were accepted.

When I received a summons in November of 2002, however, I had a different response. I was coming out of some extremely lucrative consulting months, and I knew that if I could ever manage the financial constraints of jury duty, this was the time. So I showed up on that designated Monday morning.

Within a few hours, I was called into a courtroom. Along with 12 other “auditioners,” I was placed in the almighty wooden box, and I listened to the judge’s brief description of the case: a young man had made an extremely threatening telephone call and so he was being prosecuted.

The prosecuting attorney sat at her place, tightly dressed in a power suit. At the other table, the defendant sat alone. He wore dark cargo pants, and his white shirt -- partially unbuttoned -- was in desperate need of an iron. As the judge explained, the young man who had made the phone call had been offered a defense attorney but: he had chosen to represent himself.

My eyes grew wide as these details were revealed. After years of avoiding jury duty, I was stoked. I couldn’t wait to participate in this trial. It would provide some fascinating insights into human nature, and as a creative writer, I crave any opportunity to study character.

The next step in the process began with the judge assigning numbers. Among the prospective jurors, I was “number eleven.” The judge then described basic aspects of the legal system and followed that with general questions that would elicit the raising of hands from “we, the would-be jury.” He also directed specific questions to individuals in the box.

It had been a while since I had engaged in something this close to a classroom experience, and I took great pride when I answered a question correctly. I also paid close attention to my fellow auditioners… their stories, their perspectives, and their answers to the judge’s questions.

I was fully engaged.

This initial process went on for well over an hour. Then, we were given a break.

After ten or fifteen minutes, we were called back into the courtroom. The other prospective jurors and I returned to our assigned seats. The prosecutor and the self-representing defendant returned to their opposing posts. And once the room had settled, the judge let us know that, per the system, each side had the right to dismiss any prospective juror without an explanation. The judge also stated that if anyone were dismissed, they should not take it personally.

He then turned his head to make eye contact with the prosecutor.

“Is there any juror you would like to dismiss at this time?” he asked.

“Number eleven,” she said.

“Yeah,” the self-representing defendant echoed. “Number eleven.”

I left the courtroom in disbelief. After all the years of wanting to get out of jury duty, I had changed my tune. Not only had I accepted the summons, I couldn’t wait to get started. But… it was not to be.

It took me a day or two to realize what probably happened. But I think I know what I did in that jury box. It’s about my face. And actually, it’s a bit remarkable that I figured this out. After all, if you combine me with all the people with whom I’ve had contact, I’m the one who’s seen my face in action the least. Still, though, I think I know what happened. Through my facial expressions, I indicated that I was thinking. Constantly. And through the nods I inadvertently shared while others expressed their experiences, I indicated that I had feelings and opinions.

It’s too bad the prosecutor and her opponent chose to interpret my expressiveness as they did. Because, yes, I do have feelings and opinions. But I also am capable of being unbiased.

I’ll never know how I might have viewed that case. I never got a chance to hear the facts.

And, since that November eight years ago, I’ve never received another jury summons.

I don’t believe one can get dismissed from service by “trying,” so I’m not recommending anything here.

Just sharing what happened.

Just sharing my unbiased opinion of what happened.

Quite Possibly the Youngest Soul on the Planet

He so easily could have been a brat.

The fifth child in a Virginia family, he was born to three older sisters and an older brother. And because the family was so very Virginian, the girls ruled.

They ruled.

Oh my gracious, how they loved their “Bob-o-link!”

Were he alive today, my dad would grimace, scoldingly, at the nickname. (He also probably would curse.)

Were he alive today, that scolding grimace (and accompanying four-letter word) would probably be the only time you’d recognize something other than childlike wonder emanating from his face.

My dad died two years ago yesterday, and in writing this, I’m not seeking either to expel personal emotions or to solicit condolences.

I’m just writing to honor his life.

I also should say that I was relieved when he died.

I was relieved because, for the last few years of his life, he was very frail. His needs were taxing my mom. He needed to die.

As for the years that came ahead of those? I have one vision: Dad, with eyebrows raised and a jaw dropped just enough to create an “O” with his mouth.

My vision is Dad, amazed.

I’m not kidding.

Robbins (“Bob-o-link”) Gates was born – and probably died – amazed.

I remember one time when he and Mom visited me in New York. We were having dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue , and my parents were expressing curiosity following some bad vibes that had just occurred with friends of theirs – friends with whom they’d shared a rented house on Cape Cod.

I had been in that house for one week of the two-week rental. I knew the players. And so, after listening to Mom and Dad’s description of events, I shared my perspective.

Eyebrows raised, mouth slightly opened, my dad looked across the table at me.

“How did you get to be so wise?” he asked.

I smiled, shrugged, and offered that I had simply observed.

I don’t know that I got my wisdom from Dad, but I know I got some serious DNA. My soul may be older than his, but I think a part of me still inherited that beautiful wonder.

It is because of Dad that I want to learn.

It is because of Dad that I am never sure.

It is because of Dad that I feel the world is my oyster.

I may have been born old, but because of Dad, I get to feel young.

So, Dad?

Wherever you are.

Keep being amazed.

It is your sense of wonder that keeps us all going, and we need that.

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POSTSCRIPT: Gratitude to my sister, Martha, for providing the first line.

Remembering Busy

When I was a kid, I was hell-bent on interpreting everything literally.

At bedtime, my mom would sweetly ask, “Want me to tuck you in?”

My reply was not so sweet.

“You don’t tuck me in, Mother,” I’d say. “You tuck the sheets in.”

Somehow, and in spite of my flippancy, Mom maintained her smile and exuded her love as she performed the ritual.

The next morning, after a sound sleep (thanks, no doubt, to being properly tucked in), I’d head off to school, where the day would begin with roll call. The teacher would go through the class roster, reciting names in alphabetical order. As each name was called, the appropriate classmate would respond.

Some would say “present.” Others would say “here.”

As for me, I always said “here.”

Okay, not always… There was one exception. On that last school day before the Christmas break, I said, “present.” Why? You guessed it. I’d brought the teacher a present.

Is it any wonder I went through an I-wanna-be-a-teacher phase? I mean, what kid can resist the prospect of so many presents every day?!)

I grew out of being tucked in when the age was appropriate, and by the end of first grade, I’d become wise to the meaning of “present” in response to roll call. It took me a bit longer, though, to comprehend fully the telephone’s “busy signal.”

I should mention, at this point, that if you’re a young person reading this piece, the rest of what I’m about to say may go over your head. Which is to say, if you’ve never lived with a “busy signal,” you need to do a little research before reading on.

As for those of you who remember that tone-tone-tone, I’ll pick up my story now.

I recall sitting in our kitchen, dangling my legs from one of the tall stools that surrounded the half-oval counter. Dad was probably sitting on one of the other stools. I don’t know where my sister was at the time. I imagine it was a before-dinner hour. It was relaxed and anybody’s.

My mom had just dialed her friend’s five-digit number on the rotary phone. Several seconds later, she returned the phone to its cradle. “They’re busy,” she said. Then, she crossed to the stove to continue dinner prep.

Although I’d personally experienced the tone-tone-tone of the busy signal, my mother’s wording really threw me off. Her stating “they’re busy” gave the signal new meaning.

As I sat there with dangling legs, I felt truly perplexed. All I could think of was, How does the phone company know they’re too busy to talk on the phone?

What a concept today, huh?

“Too busy to talk on the phone?”

No way!

You can drive, shop, have a meeting, get your nails done, do your laundry, prep your taxes, check out craigslist, change the kitty litter, sign up for Netflix, consult your horoscope, remember the Alamo, and you still are not too busy to talk on the phone.

… Recently, when speaking with a friend (on the phone), I referred to what I was doing as “juggling.” It’s true. That’s what I do. I never say I’m busy. I say I’m “juggling.”

And you know what?

I’d rather be busy.

Hormones from Hell

The first symptom of menopause came early to me.

I was not quite 39 when I started having hot flashes. And while they were tremendously uncomfortable, I gradually learned how to deal with them. It’s about dressing in layers. It’s about getting ahead of the surge.

By my mid-40’s, I was nonplussed by my body’s unique sense of seasons, and I had no qualms about making public adjustments. Onlookers be damned, I’m going to take this jacket off and put it back on as many times as I please.

The next symptom presented itself as what I call “word issues.” While I rarely had challenges at the keyboard, I would find myself frequently stumped in live conversation. I’d be in the middle of a statement, and I’d feel compelled to stop.

“The next word,” I would say to my listener, “is an adjective. It has three syllables, and several R’s…”

A few more years passed and another manifestation of menopause became apparent: insomnia. Now, I must admit that for me, this symptom is a bit hard to detect. Fact of the matter is, I am relentlessly nocturnal. (I have been since I was a kid.) Particularly when I am on a creative jag, my productivity soars when everyone else is sound asleep.

For right-brain activity, I love the nine-to-five shift that begins after most people have had dinner. BUT, if I would rather sleep during the nighttime hours, I deeply resent my inability to do so.

(Moreover, as I watch late-night television, which features countless commercials for sleep aids, I apply that resentment to the ad copy. I don’t know which of the drugs boasts enabling one “to sleep in a non-habit-forming way,” but whenever I hear that line, I absolutely want to scream. I already sleep in a non-habit-forming way!)

Speaking of wanting to scream, this is where it’s become dicey. A couple of years ago, when I was dealing “only” with the hot flashes, the word losses, and the insomnia, I thought I was doing okay with menopause. I figured those symptoms were my cross to bear, and I was glad that no one else was suffering.

But then, SHE returned. The PMS bitch. The woman with absolutely no patience for anything.

I have a favorite anecdote that best describes the PMS bitch. It comes (as so many favorite anecdotes do) from my years as a waitress. Okay, so picture this: I’m working my station at my midtown Manhattan lunch place. It’s the informal, burger-in-a-basket type of restaurant, and the day in question is one of the month’s majority of days – which is to say, I am not in need of an exorcist. I pleasantly approach the party of four who are sitting in one of my booths. I deliver the four burger baskets, and one of the gentlemen looks up to catch my eye.

“Could I have a slice of raw onion?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I reply, smiling. “I wouldn’t think of enjoying a burger without a raw onion!”

I then skip merrily to the kitchen where I retrieve the succulent garnish, and I deliver it to him quickly and cheerfully.

Okay. Same scenario on one of two days during that same month:

I pissily approach the booth where four obnoxious, irritating people are taking up space in my station. I slam their burgers down in front of them.

One of the jerks looks up at me and asks for a raw onion.

I sneer at him, make an abrupt about-face, and stomp back to the kitchen. En route, I mutter, “Fucking asshole should have asked for the onion when he ordered the burger.”

Notice the difference? (I realize it’s subtle; feel free to read those paragraphs a second time…)

Needless to say, I never liked that hormonal so-and-so who used to possess my body and spirit on a monthly basis for anywhere between 24 and 48 hours. But at least I knew when to expect her, and I knew that she would leave fairly shortly. I also knew that she wasn’t me, and that I could control – to a degree – how much she interacted with others.

That bitch is still not me, but she has become the fourth manifestation of menopause. The problem now is that she has absolutely no schedule. Soy as I might*, I cannot control or anticipate her arrival. She just shows up (most recently, in Rite Aid, when I was trying to find cotton balls).

The good news, I guess, is that she doesn’t seem to stay for very long. For that matter, I sometimes go an entire two months without a visit from the hormonal hellion.

But still… I don’t like her, and I am so over this stuff!

My sister once theorized that all these menopausal issues prove that God is a man. Her reasoning? A woman would not do this to another woman.

I don’t know… it might depend on that woman’s “time of the month.”

But I shouldn’t imply that I’m at odds with my sister’s sense of feminism. In fact, I share it. In fact, I have my own theory around the same general subject area. I believe that if men had periods, tampons would not only be free, they’d be delivered. And by now, the boys in charge undoubtedly would have found a “cure” for menopause.

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*Yes, I meant to say “Soy.”