I have been so busy that I missed my blog-iversary. Yes, Saturday, my blog turned one. It has been a good time to be busy because there is nothing to read on the blogosphere. What is everybody doing that they can't keep my 15 minutes-to-waste filled with interesting things to read?
So, I will post about all I have learned about blogging later, when I have more time, but I thought for now, I will share something I wrote last week.
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One night, I am eating dinner a little late because I was writing. My husband had already eaten, but was accompanying me at the table. It was spaghetti and I had heated up some corn because I am weird and that is one of my all-time favorite combinations. I was happily chewing (and talking with my mouth full—how rude!) and I kept coming across little pieces of the cob on the bottoms of the corn kernels. It was a little like chewing straw so I took it out and put it on the edge of my plate (oh shoosh, it's not like I was in a five-star French restaurant).
A few minutes later, hubs points to it and says: “You do that a lot, why don’t you just eat it?”
I told him that it was inedible. He says: “You do that with oranges too, peeling off all the white stuff” (he looks at me like I am so neurotic). I kindly offer that if he doesn’t want to waste the corn cob, he could eat it, and I hold it out to him. He says: “You know me, I’ll eat it.”
Yes, I know, he will.
So I turn it around and say: “Yeah, what is up with that? You talk like I am some neurotic eater, but you eat the entire apple—core and all. I don’t know why you even bother to peel your bananas or oranges at all.”
When he eats something with bones, his prey looks like those fish bones that cats eat in the cartoons—where they put an entire fish in their mouth and pull out just the skeleton. When he eats a chicken leg, the bone is sucked clean—there are no ligaments, cartilage, gristle, nothing. It is impressive and a little nauseating.
Then I added, “But if we polled one hundred people I bet my eating habits would be closer to the norm than yours.
He says: “How many standard deviations away would you be?” (note: SD is the average distance from the average score)
Me: I would be pretty close to the mean (the average). YOU on the other hand, would be on one extreme… you’d probably be an outlier actually (one of those points far away from “normal”).
He is one of those people who will eat things, just so they don’t go to waste. I am all for not wasting, and I don’t think I am “a typical wasteful ‘American,’” but I have food standards. I try to use up what we have and to be conscious of waste etc. But I have limits. I generally don’t eat something past the expiration date. Most leftovers that have been in the fridge past about 5 days are questionable. (I know some people who won’t even go that long.) I’ll go up to a week with something like spaghetti sauce. He’ll eat meat from over a week ago or half-rotten grapes, just so we don’t throw them away. I understand that it probably won’t kill me, but I just can’t do it.
So where are you on the neurotic eating habits? How long are leftovers safe? Do you peel all the pith off of the orange? Will you eat something after the expiration date?
So let's poll my three readers: Are you more like me or are you more like my sweet freak of a husband?
Monday, October 12, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Eye tacos and our new business plan
The other day in the Spanish class I teach, we were looking at the vocabulary section for the chapter we are covering. It is sports vocab (yawn yawn snooze drool). I asked my students if they like watching certain sporting events, like say a swim meet. One of them said she only likes it if there are “dulces de ojo”. At first I had no idea what she was trying to say, until one of the other students figured it out: Eye candy.
She asked me if there was a way to say that. I told her that I hadn’t heard a good equivalent. One of the other students, who is Mexican-American (and totally doesn’t belong in a beginning Spanish course) said that she had heard of “Taco de ojo” a.k.a. Eye taco.
I almost had a comically induced fit. That is hilarious.
I was telling my hubs about it today, and after I told him about my student saying “dulce de ojo” he said, ah, Taquito de ojo. I should have known he would have heard it before, not because they say it in Chile, in fact, tacos are not even eaten there. (A taco in Chile is a traffic jam… and “traffic jam-eye” is probably something else entirely)… But he works with some Mexican guys.
That got us talking about how to say it in Chilean. All he could think of was “recrear la vista” which is essentially “visual recreation”. For some reason that brought him to how perverted Chileans were with their “Cafés con piernas.” (See how progressive he is).
Café con piernas (coffee/café with legs) is basically a coffee shop where the girls are very scantily clad. It is a strip club for your morning coffee. They are all over downtown Santiago and filled with men in business suits sipping their “café cortado” (coffee and milk). There is one that reportedly has a “million dollar minute” where the girls take off their tops.
Nice. Huh?
So I told him my theory that these joints are basically society and work sanctioned daytime strip-clubs. Since you can’t go to a night club and drink a cocktail at 9:30 a.m., they have invented coffee shops with a cheap thrill.
I told him I was surprised there weren’t more kinds of places like that:
Panadería con piernas (bakery with legs)
Verdulería con piernas (veggie stand with legs)
Carnicería con piernas (butcher shop with legs)
...where you could get your cheap thrills as you run all of your errands.
And he suggested that that might be our business plan when we move back there.
So there you have it, we will be the proud owners of a bakery where you can get some sweets with your sweets. (I had tons of little metaphors to put in here, but I don’t want you to think I am being crass).
She asked me if there was a way to say that. I told her that I hadn’t heard a good equivalent. One of the other students, who is Mexican-American (and totally doesn’t belong in a beginning Spanish course) said that she had heard of “Taco de ojo” a.k.a. Eye taco.
I almost had a comically induced fit. That is hilarious.
I was telling my hubs about it today, and after I told him about my student saying “dulce de ojo” he said, ah, Taquito de ojo. I should have known he would have heard it before, not because they say it in Chile, in fact, tacos are not even eaten there. (A taco in Chile is a traffic jam… and “traffic jam-eye” is probably something else entirely)… But he works with some Mexican guys.
That got us talking about how to say it in Chilean. All he could think of was “recrear la vista” which is essentially “visual recreation”. For some reason that brought him to how perverted Chileans were with their “Cafés con piernas.” (See how progressive he is).
Café con piernas (coffee/café with legs) is basically a coffee shop where the girls are very scantily clad. It is a strip club for your morning coffee. They are all over downtown Santiago and filled with men in business suits sipping their “café cortado” (coffee and milk). There is one that reportedly has a “million dollar minute” where the girls take off their tops.
Nice. Huh?
So I told him my theory that these joints are basically society and work sanctioned daytime strip-clubs. Since you can’t go to a night club and drink a cocktail at 9:30 a.m., they have invented coffee shops with a cheap thrill.
I told him I was surprised there weren’t more kinds of places like that:
Panadería con piernas (bakery with legs)
Verdulería con piernas (veggie stand with legs)
Carnicería con piernas (butcher shop with legs)
...where you could get your cheap thrills as you run all of your errands.
And he suggested that that might be our business plan when we move back there.
So there you have it, we will be the proud owners of a bakery where you can get some sweets with your sweets. (I had tons of little metaphors to put in here, but I don’t want you to think I am being crass).
Monday, October 5, 2009
Who doesn't like a little blink blink?
When my husband and I first met, I spoke Spanish pretty well and he spoke very little English. He was actually a student of mine at an English Institute in Santiage. Though, as soon as we were seriously dating, I could no longer really instruct him--as it often goes with couples. Our first 4-5 years together were "conducted" nearly all in Spanish.
(btw I never let him live down the fact that though he rarely corrected my Spanish, because he said it was perfect, he corrected my grammar once during a small tiff we had--which made me even more annoyed: He says "oh and after 'intentar' you don't use 'a'--it is hilarious now, but in the moment... not so much)
So when he came to the U.S. our modus operandi as far as communication started changing. As he learned more English, we spoke a more balanced amount of the two. Until we could finally argue, each in his/her native tongue--which must sound funny. But seriously, few things are more frustrating than getting angry in a language that isn't yours.
We spent many evenings during his first few months having conversations about vowel sounds and discriminating between words, like this:
He: Say "bicho" in English
Me: bug
He: Now say "bolsa"
Me: bag
He: They sound the same
Me: No they don't--look, bug/bag
He: ok, you said bolsa then bicho
Me: no I said bicho then bolsa
He: Ok, say them again... say one of them
Me: bug
He: you said "bolsa"
Me: no that was "bicho"
....... and on and on. It was endless.
Now, his English is nearly perfect. And he has a cute little accent to boot. But he still makes amusing little mistakes. One day I asked him what he thought of a new pick-up truck that was passing. He said he didn't like it because there was too much "blink blink" I said, you mean "bling, bling." Too funny. That is one of those things you hear but not necessarily see often, and the endings do sound really similar to a Spanish speaker.
He also says some expressions a little off. Like "Jeez, Louise" where Louise ryhmes with Jeez (loo-eez). Well for the longest time, he'd say "Jesus Louis" where Louis is pronounced (loo-iss) Doesn't ryhme at all.
(Which reminds me that when I was little I couldn't say "jee" because it was too close to Jesus--which was considered sacriligious to say like that. I couldn't say "gosh" either.)
He has also picked up on expressions here in Texas, that even I don't say. Once we had guests and I was in the bedroom with the baby. Hubs comes in and says "I think they're fixin to leave." The only logical response is: "did you just say fixin to". That just seems so Southern.
I love the language learning process, so it has been cool to see him go from beginning to fluent, picking up all the slang on the way.
(btw I never let him live down the fact that though he rarely corrected my Spanish, because he said it was perfect, he corrected my grammar once during a small tiff we had--which made me even more annoyed: He says "oh and after 'intentar' you don't use 'a'--it is hilarious now, but in the moment... not so much)
So when he came to the U.S. our modus operandi as far as communication started changing. As he learned more English, we spoke a more balanced amount of the two. Until we could finally argue, each in his/her native tongue--which must sound funny. But seriously, few things are more frustrating than getting angry in a language that isn't yours.
We spent many evenings during his first few months having conversations about vowel sounds and discriminating between words, like this:
He: Say "bicho" in English
Me: bug
He: Now say "bolsa"
Me: bag
He: They sound the same
Me: No they don't--look, bug/bag
He: ok, you said bolsa then bicho
Me: no I said bicho then bolsa
He: Ok, say them again... say one of them
Me: bug
He: you said "bolsa"
Me: no that was "bicho"
....... and on and on. It was endless.
Now, his English is nearly perfect. And he has a cute little accent to boot. But he still makes amusing little mistakes. One day I asked him what he thought of a new pick-up truck that was passing. He said he didn't like it because there was too much "blink blink" I said, you mean "bling, bling." Too funny. That is one of those things you hear but not necessarily see often, and the endings do sound really similar to a Spanish speaker.
He also says some expressions a little off. Like "Jeez, Louise" where Louise ryhmes with Jeez (loo-eez). Well for the longest time, he'd say "Jesus Louis" where Louis is pronounced (loo-iss) Doesn't ryhme at all.
(Which reminds me that when I was little I couldn't say "jee" because it was too close to Jesus--which was considered sacriligious to say like that. I couldn't say "gosh" either.)
He has also picked up on expressions here in Texas, that even I don't say. Once we had guests and I was in the bedroom with the baby. Hubs comes in and says "I think they're fixin to leave." The only logical response is: "did you just say fixin to". That just seems so Southern.
I love the language learning process, so it has been cool to see him go from beginning to fluent, picking up all the slang on the way.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Dostoyevsky unraveled
I have been thinking about that Dostoyevsky novel, Crime and Punishment. I read it first in high school and then again in college. Most people don’t seem to like it, but for some reason it was one of my favorite books. It must be my Russian blood. It is the story of Raskolnikov, who commits a murder just because he thinks he can get away with it. The book takes you inside his mind; it is a psychological exploration into the mind of a criminal and the internal consequences of crime.
I have been confronted with several times with the human side of crime and punishment. I have seen glimpses of what makes a criminal that has fundamentally changed how I think of “justice.”
I am a senior in high school and I am at a new school in a new state. It is a small town that I grow to hate in the year I am there. I have few friends. I am shy. I hate that we are poor and my clothes are old and ugly. I take the bus to school and spend my mornings and lunches reading in the library. I meet Max. He is a sophomore and knows my brother. He rides our bus too. He wears over-sized glasses. He has greasy hair. He is poor. He starts hanging out with me in the library. He confides in me more than I’d like. He has been abused all of his life, sexually, emotionally, physically. He is like a little boy. He is absolutely stunted in many ways and it is gut-wrenching. He wants to hang out with my little brother. My mom says a forceful, unmistakable NO! She knew. We all knew what was in the making. We had long been aware of cycles of abuse. His cards had been long dealt.
Fast-forward years. I have gone to college and graduated. I have gone to Chile and come home for a brief visit before zooming off again to Europe and back to Chile. At home, my mom tells me that Max was arrested for sexually assaulting a young boy.
It is nauseating. Of course he has to stand accountable for what he has done. Justice must be served, right? If I were the mother of that boy that was assaulted I would want to hurt him myself; I would want the maximum penalty. And yet, there is something so terrible about how he has been treated all of his life, how no one protected him, how there was no justice for all that he suffered, how he will be treated in jail, what he will do when he gets out, how there is really no hope for him and how he is a victim too. He has to answer for what he has done, but there is something unsettling about it.
-----------------------------------
This week, one morning I see a news story. A young woman tries to rob a bank. She hands a note to the teller asking for $300. She hints that she has a gun in her pocket and threatens to use it. There is something both comedic and pathetic about the story and the way it is recounted in the news. The silent alarm is set off. The police show up. The would-be-robber has something in her mouth. Police suspect it is a meth-rock. She is arrested for robbery 2 and drug possession. She will go to prison.
I think about the teller and how frightening that must be, even if the robber is child-size and it turns out there is no weapon. I think about the would-be-robber and her obvious desperation. What is it like to feel that desperate, that hopeless? I think about her state of mind, strung out on meth, to think that she can just walk into a bank, pretend to have a gun, and walk away with a few bucks. I think about how pathetic it is to demand $300 and think that that sum, even if you got away with it, is going to solve your problems. I wonder if she really gets what she has done… and how she will feel when she comes out of this drug haze. It is a punch in the stomach that takes my breath away because the “would-be-robber” is my sister (and not even the same sister I bailed out of jail a few weeks ago).
How do I say that out loud? My sister tried to rob a bank. I can’t say it out loud. It is hard to say; it is even harder to fathom. It sounds like fiction.
I don’t want to say it, to tell anyone. It is not that I am embarrassed. I know it is not a reflection of me. I want to protect her; I want to take her mug shot off of the news. Don’t laugh; don’t judge so harshly. I don’t want anyone thinking of her that way. Don’t tell me that there are others who have suffered and don’t turn into criminals. I am not making excuses for her. She will pay for the choices she has made. But there are so many people who have hurt her, that will never pay. That is justice
I hate when people ask me about my family. “They’re fine.” There is no way to talk about it. How can I explain why they are stuck where they are stuck? How can I describe the horror of a childhood, the abuse, abandonment, betrayal, conflict, more abuse, more abandonment, drugs, alcohol, drop-outs, depression, eating disorders, low self-esteem, sexual violence, domestic violence… it is endless… it never stops. It is exhausting to feel this much pain over people you love.
So my week has pretty much sucked.
I have been confronted with several times with the human side of crime and punishment. I have seen glimpses of what makes a criminal that has fundamentally changed how I think of “justice.”
I am a senior in high school and I am at a new school in a new state. It is a small town that I grow to hate in the year I am there. I have few friends. I am shy. I hate that we are poor and my clothes are old and ugly. I take the bus to school and spend my mornings and lunches reading in the library. I meet Max. He is a sophomore and knows my brother. He rides our bus too. He wears over-sized glasses. He has greasy hair. He is poor. He starts hanging out with me in the library. He confides in me more than I’d like. He has been abused all of his life, sexually, emotionally, physically. He is like a little boy. He is absolutely stunted in many ways and it is gut-wrenching. He wants to hang out with my little brother. My mom says a forceful, unmistakable NO! She knew. We all knew what was in the making. We had long been aware of cycles of abuse. His cards had been long dealt.
Fast-forward years. I have gone to college and graduated. I have gone to Chile and come home for a brief visit before zooming off again to Europe and back to Chile. At home, my mom tells me that Max was arrested for sexually assaulting a young boy.
It is nauseating. Of course he has to stand accountable for what he has done. Justice must be served, right? If I were the mother of that boy that was assaulted I would want to hurt him myself; I would want the maximum penalty. And yet, there is something so terrible about how he has been treated all of his life, how no one protected him, how there was no justice for all that he suffered, how he will be treated in jail, what he will do when he gets out, how there is really no hope for him and how he is a victim too. He has to answer for what he has done, but there is something unsettling about it.
-----------------------------------
This week, one morning I see a news story. A young woman tries to rob a bank. She hands a note to the teller asking for $300. She hints that she has a gun in her pocket and threatens to use it. There is something both comedic and pathetic about the story and the way it is recounted in the news. The silent alarm is set off. The police show up. The would-be-robber has something in her mouth. Police suspect it is a meth-rock. She is arrested for robbery 2 and drug possession. She will go to prison.
I think about the teller and how frightening that must be, even if the robber is child-size and it turns out there is no weapon. I think about the would-be-robber and her obvious desperation. What is it like to feel that desperate, that hopeless? I think about her state of mind, strung out on meth, to think that she can just walk into a bank, pretend to have a gun, and walk away with a few bucks. I think about how pathetic it is to demand $300 and think that that sum, even if you got away with it, is going to solve your problems. I wonder if she really gets what she has done… and how she will feel when she comes out of this drug haze. It is a punch in the stomach that takes my breath away because the “would-be-robber” is my sister (and not even the same sister I bailed out of jail a few weeks ago).
How do I say that out loud? My sister tried to rob a bank. I can’t say it out loud. It is hard to say; it is even harder to fathom. It sounds like fiction.
I don’t want to say it, to tell anyone. It is not that I am embarrassed. I know it is not a reflection of me. I want to protect her; I want to take her mug shot off of the news. Don’t laugh; don’t judge so harshly. I don’t want anyone thinking of her that way. Don’t tell me that there are others who have suffered and don’t turn into criminals. I am not making excuses for her. She will pay for the choices she has made. But there are so many people who have hurt her, that will never pay. That is justice
I hate when people ask me about my family. “They’re fine.” There is no way to talk about it. How can I explain why they are stuck where they are stuck? How can I describe the horror of a childhood, the abuse, abandonment, betrayal, conflict, more abuse, more abandonment, drugs, alcohol, drop-outs, depression, eating disorders, low self-esteem, sexual violence, domestic violence… it is endless… it never stops. It is exhausting to feel this much pain over people you love.
So my week has pretty much sucked.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Facebook and online sharing
I clicked on this article on msn the other day titled: “Why you should snoop on your spouse online.” It caught my attention for several reasons. The first is that the radio show I listen to during my morning commute talked about it the previous day. They posed the question of what you would do if your partner asked if they could read your email—just so they felt assured. There were mixed responses. Those against it cited the issue of trust and those for it or who didn’t care said they had nothing to hide.
The guy who wrote the article above, a sex therapist and relationship counselor makes some interesting arguments against the notion of internet privacy in a relationship. He says that the internet is a new technology which has brought a different dimension to relationships, and a greater threat of infidelity (especially the emotional kind) and the rules of conduct have not really been established. He says that sometimes snooping is the right thing to do; and while he agrees that privacy should be respected, there must also be an “open-book-nothing-to-hide” policy.
It is probably a little different for couples who are just dating, but I know a lot of married couples who are totally open about that kind of thing: they know the other’s passwords, they answer the other’s cell phone, and maybe even share a Facebook page. My husband and I are pretty open (though I don’t want him to read my blog—teehee). I know his passwords and he knows mine; he rarely gets on my email account (I think), only if I tell him to read something specific. I get on his once in a while (not as much as he seems to think), usually to check what time he plays soccer on Sunday or to read something he said was funny. We leave our phones lying around. I have access to his bank account (because I pay bills), he complains that he doesn’t have access to mine—he knows where I keep all that info and he doesn’t pay bills, but if he wants to get on—go for it.
I kind of like the “nothing-to-hide” camp, I would be a little wary of a husband who wanted to keep everything secret, who locked his phone or computer or who was adamant about not sharing his password… but at the same time I might bristle a little if I thought he were rummaging through my emails or phone contacts in a suspicious way, but if he is, I have no idea and there is nothing interesting anyway.
Of course this is the same relationship therapist who days earlier suggested “unfriending” your spouse on Facebook because it brings a degree of banality to the relationship and detracts from the sense of mystery (for which he was brutally barraged with nasty emails and that is why he felt compelled to further explain his views on online dangers).
The other reason the article caught my attention is that it reminds me of the history of me and the hubs on the infamous Facebook…
Though I am not on Twitter, I AM (hemming and hawing) on the infamous Facebook. And no I am not 13, ok! I had little clue and even less interest in social networking sites until fairly recently. My hubs, caved to pressure from his native country of Chile, where apparently, Facebook is all the rage. All of his friends and family from Chile were telling him he absolutely had to get a Facebook page… and so he did.
This is mostly funny, because if you knew my hubs at all, you would know that he rarely can be bothered to return an email. His family usually emails me or at least copies to me so that they know someone will read their precious words and get back to them. My husband is a very flaky correspondent—that’s just how he is—you have to accept it and love him anyway. So, I asked to check out his page, to see what the fuss was all about. He obliged. I suggested he upload a picture for his profile. He said: “Oh, can you do that for me?” Then I said he should upload some pics of the kids and he said "Oh, can you do that for me?" I told him he had to accept so-and-so’s friend invitation… and he said… you guessed it: “Oh, can you do that for me?”
So I mocked him mercilessly for days about being on Facebook (because he is not 13 either and because it was just one more way for him…. To NOT keep in touch with people). I mocked him while I happily updated his profile, accepted invitations, and invited his friends and family to share the online love. It was like our shared Facebook page and it was beautiful.
And then he got an invitation to friendship from an old girlfriend from high school. This mostly didn’t bother me except once back in Santiago he had been catching up with her on the phone, while I waited at his house (for over an hour!), and he shared a little too much with her (I thought) about his feelings about our (mine and his) relationship—which crossed some little line in my mind and really bothered me…and I ended up leaving in an (outraged) huff (am I coming off as too dramatic?)
So the Facebook friendship didn’t really bug me until he got a Facebook message from her basically telling him that she never stopped loving him blah blah yadda yadda. Ok, that bugged me and I told him that it bugged me. I mean, what the crap, man??? That is the kind of stuff that you keep to yourself because you are married and the guy you are still pining after and secretly hoping for some sign of reciprocation is married and it’s INAPPROPRIATE… but maybe it’s just me.
So the hubs says: … “What are you doing on my Facebook anyway?”
(Ok, Ok, so maybe I shouldn’t have read a personal message…)
So I said very apologetically: “You know what? Keep your stupid Facebook page, I am going to get my own, and I am going to upload tons of cute pics and who is going to keep your page up? And I am NOT going to invite you to be my friend.” (because I am really petty like that! Haha).
And that is how I ended up on Facebook! (and I did eventually let him be my friend)… (and I invited a sort of ex to be my friend just to chap his hide… because I am petty like that—sorry, I hope I haven’t let you down).
Isn’t that a heart-warming story?
Ok, so now that you know how fun it is to be married to me, where do you stand?: open-book or ok with online secrecy? Somewhere in the middle with limits and boundaries?
Facebook friends with the significant other or not? (honestly, I think it depends on how “banal” your Facebook page is, but that is another post because this one is already soooooo loooong).
The guy who wrote the article above, a sex therapist and relationship counselor makes some interesting arguments against the notion of internet privacy in a relationship. He says that the internet is a new technology which has brought a different dimension to relationships, and a greater threat of infidelity (especially the emotional kind) and the rules of conduct have not really been established. He says that sometimes snooping is the right thing to do; and while he agrees that privacy should be respected, there must also be an “open-book-nothing-to-hide” policy.
It is probably a little different for couples who are just dating, but I know a lot of married couples who are totally open about that kind of thing: they know the other’s passwords, they answer the other’s cell phone, and maybe even share a Facebook page. My husband and I are pretty open (though I don’t want him to read my blog—teehee). I know his passwords and he knows mine; he rarely gets on my email account (I think), only if I tell him to read something specific. I get on his once in a while (not as much as he seems to think), usually to check what time he plays soccer on Sunday or to read something he said was funny. We leave our phones lying around. I have access to his bank account (because I pay bills), he complains that he doesn’t have access to mine—he knows where I keep all that info and he doesn’t pay bills, but if he wants to get on—go for it.
I kind of like the “nothing-to-hide” camp, I would be a little wary of a husband who wanted to keep everything secret, who locked his phone or computer or who was adamant about not sharing his password… but at the same time I might bristle a little if I thought he were rummaging through my emails or phone contacts in a suspicious way, but if he is, I have no idea and there is nothing interesting anyway.
Of course this is the same relationship therapist who days earlier suggested “unfriending” your spouse on Facebook because it brings a degree of banality to the relationship and detracts from the sense of mystery (for which he was brutally barraged with nasty emails and that is why he felt compelled to further explain his views on online dangers).
The other reason the article caught my attention is that it reminds me of the history of me and the hubs on the infamous Facebook…
Though I am not on Twitter, I AM (hemming and hawing) on the infamous Facebook. And no I am not 13, ok! I had little clue and even less interest in social networking sites until fairly recently. My hubs, caved to pressure from his native country of Chile, where apparently, Facebook is all the rage. All of his friends and family from Chile were telling him he absolutely had to get a Facebook page… and so he did.
This is mostly funny, because if you knew my hubs at all, you would know that he rarely can be bothered to return an email. His family usually emails me or at least copies to me so that they know someone will read their precious words and get back to them. My husband is a very flaky correspondent—that’s just how he is—you have to accept it and love him anyway. So, I asked to check out his page, to see what the fuss was all about. He obliged. I suggested he upload a picture for his profile. He said: “Oh, can you do that for me?” Then I said he should upload some pics of the kids and he said "Oh, can you do that for me?" I told him he had to accept so-and-so’s friend invitation… and he said… you guessed it: “Oh, can you do that for me?”
So I mocked him mercilessly for days about being on Facebook (because he is not 13 either and because it was just one more way for him…. To NOT keep in touch with people). I mocked him while I happily updated his profile, accepted invitations, and invited his friends and family to share the online love. It was like our shared Facebook page and it was beautiful.
And then he got an invitation to friendship from an old girlfriend from high school. This mostly didn’t bother me except once back in Santiago he had been catching up with her on the phone, while I waited at his house (for over an hour!), and he shared a little too much with her (I thought) about his feelings about our (mine and his) relationship—which crossed some little line in my mind and really bothered me…and I ended up leaving in an (outraged) huff (am I coming off as too dramatic?)
So the Facebook friendship didn’t really bug me until he got a Facebook message from her basically telling him that she never stopped loving him blah blah yadda yadda. Ok, that bugged me and I told him that it bugged me. I mean, what the crap, man??? That is the kind of stuff that you keep to yourself because you are married and the guy you are still pining after and secretly hoping for some sign of reciprocation is married and it’s INAPPROPRIATE… but maybe it’s just me.
So the hubs says: … “What are you doing on my Facebook anyway?”
(Ok, Ok, so maybe I shouldn’t have read a personal message…)
So I said very apologetically: “You know what? Keep your stupid Facebook page, I am going to get my own, and I am going to upload tons of cute pics and who is going to keep your page up? And I am NOT going to invite you to be my friend.” (because I am really petty like that! Haha).
And that is how I ended up on Facebook! (and I did eventually let him be my friend)… (and I invited a sort of ex to be my friend just to chap his hide… because I am petty like that—sorry, I hope I haven’t let you down).
Isn’t that a heart-warming story?
Ok, so now that you know how fun it is to be married to me, where do you stand?: open-book or ok with online secrecy? Somewhere in the middle with limits and boundaries?
Facebook friends with the significant other or not? (honestly, I think it depends on how “banal” your Facebook page is, but that is another post because this one is already soooooo loooong).
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