Social Media

I’m an introvert. Some people might argue that point, saying I’m outgoing and I could talk the legs off a chair. Perhaps I am outgoing at work. It’s part of my job requirement. And if you get me started on something that interests me, I can talk on seemingly forever.

But at the end of the day, I’m emotionally exhausted. The last thing I want to do is socialize.

I like the idea of parties, but I hate the actuality.

 Making plans to go somewhere with someone sounds nice, but once I get the chance to think about it, I don’t really want to, especially if it involves shopping.

In large groups, I’m usually the one off to the side reading a book or writing something (and contrary to what others think, people I know will never end up in one of my stories).

I hate small talk, and I usually miss social cues. I sometimes wonder if I’m on the spectrum.

While I can talk forever about things that interest me, I apparently don’t have the same interests as very many people. I don’t like mystery stories or comic books, which many of the people I know do.

Because I travel a good bit, the thing I particularly hate is when people tell me to bring my travel pictures with me. Maybe they’re just being polite about being interested in my doings, but rarely if ever does anyone bother to even look at pictures I’ve brought with me. Having carted things around unnecessarily, I get miffed at this. My attitude is, don’t say you want to see something if you’re really not interested.

With that in mind, I’ve stopped bringing pictures or anything else with me. I haven’t yet even needed to explain, “Oh, I didn’t bother because you’ve never been interested when I brought them before.”

Which brings me to social media. This is the perfect medium for anyone who likes the idea of socializing, but doesn’t care to be in a room full of people.

I first came to social media via AOL chat rooms. I don’t know if they still exist, but they used to have chat rooms for nearly every interest. Finding an actual interest proved more challenging than one might think.

One room I thought I’d like was supposed to be for writers. It ended up being a group of close friends who did nothing but discuss their aches and pains.

I tried several others, determined to find people I could chat with. Most wouldn’t talk to anyone new, and acted very affronted if a new person dared to say anything.

I did finally find a place where I was actually spoken to, and after a while formed a kind of internet friendship with some.

As with most things, chat rooms devolved into giant drama spaces. The Liars Club could have been the title for a story about AOL chatrooms.

MySpace was another place I found. People had recommended it to me as a great social media platform. Connecting with people was fairly long-distance, hit-or-miss. I would post something and random people sometimes responded. It seemed to me more like a bulletin board I had in my bedroom as a teen. It was something to decorate. It didn’t really meet my needs.

I found Sodahead by accident. It was a strange site where people got points and ratings for posting questions. Others answered them. Some people were so caught up in their rankings they would ask the same questions repeatedly just for the points. They seldom responded to anyone else’s questions.

Sometimes on Sodahead, it was possible to connect with others who had replied to the same questions I had. But by the 20^th time responding to something like, “What is your favorite color?” the site got old, and I left it.

Something I noticed on all of these sites was a bit peculiar. These were sites where people didn’t use their real names, but a screen name of a limited number of characters (I suppose the precursor to @#). If I were perceived as male, people were usually quite nice to me, and wanted to chat with me. I discovered this when someone said something that indicated they thought I was a guy – and that happened several times. Once I told them I wasn’t a guy, I was essentially ignored, if not outright bullied.

When I was perceived as female, it was harder to make friends and more likely that people would say snarky things to me. I don’t know why this was the case, since I saw other women treated far nicer than I was. I’m not sure what it is that I project that causes this to happen. In real life I spent elementary school both at school and at home being bullied or harassed, -- or simply left out -- for no reason that I’ve ever been able to discover.

Perhaps that’s why I prefer to do things on my own. It’s easier to have a good time by myself.

My brother pestered me into joining Facebook. Frankly, I couldn’t see the point. I did finally join, and discovered many of my relatives and friends were also there. I was careful about who I accepted as a friend.

I have an author page as well as my regular one, and a few of the strangers I have accepted on that page have tried to either sell me their children or beg me to marry them so they could come to America to live. Needless to say, such people were unfriended in a hurry. They weren’t going to buy my books, anyway. I’ve also had the occasional person who thought I was a swinger who was looking for discussions of a sexual nature. In those instances, I was glad I had quick access to “unfriend”.

And again, I wonder what is it about me that attracts that sort? I certainly have nothing in my profile that would make anyone think I was that sort of person.

Of course, once I was on Facebook with however many friends it says I have (I don’t know, and I don’t care), people were all about Twitter and Snapchat and whatever else is out there. “Oh, you have to do those,” I’m told.

Somehow, I don’t think so.

Even though my friends on Facebook are actual friends and family, there are newsfeeds one can respond to. Unfortunately, these days people tend to be mean and snarky toward anyone who has an opinion different from theirs.

I’m not a confrontational person. If someone says something I don’t agree with, I leave it alone and don’t comment. If someone disagrees politely, we can sometimes have a nice chat. But once someone gets snarky, I’m done.

I have blocked a few relatives who got snarky with me because they apparently don’t have the reading skills to understand something I posted, and then brought their friends in to keep the snark going.

Taking a page from the, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,” philosophy, I’ve been known to speak some rather rude comments at my computer, in the privacy of my home office. But I wouldn’t dream of typing to Facebook comments like, “I had no idea you were such a deliberate idiot,” or “Drama queen much?” And no one will ever know if they were the object of such a sentiment, since I would never be so rude outside the confines of an empty room.

I’ve taken the suggestion of one of my cousins to protect my feelings. I don’t bother looking at comments to what I’ve written from anyone I don’t know. I don’t need the negativity in my life.

I’ve read about how addictive social media is. I find the opposite is true. At first, it’s interesting, like being in a bookstore with a credit card.

But negative, mean, bullying responses shot in my direction cooled my interest quickly. I may have had to put up with that behavior in school, but I’m not about to have it inflicted on me on the internet by strangers.

I end up checking in to see if any one of my friends has said or done anything interesting, or posted any interesting pictures. (I do look at other people’s pictures.)

I don’t think I’m anyone special, and when people start making accusations based on an innocent comment – or even a joke – that I think I am, or that I think I’m better than everyone else, or whatever, it’s like being in elementary school again.

Social media could be a godsend, but it rarely remains one. For me, it hasn’t lived up to the promises. Yes, it helps me keep in touch with friends and relatives, but beyond that, I’d rather read a book.

Resolutions

The New Year enters our lives full of hope and promise, most of the time. No matter how bad or indifferent the previous year was, the trend is to resolve to be better, to make the New Year better than the last, whether it’s by losing weight, finally getting rid of the mounds of junk we haven’t used in years, becoming nicer people or finally taking a chance on some dream.

January first dawns – hopefully not in the throes of a hang-over – and we’re ready to get the ball rolling. But wait! The dieter who stopped drinking wine and eating cheese, pepperoni and crackers as the clock struck twelve is wondering if today really counts. It is a holiday, after all. And if it isn’t Monday – well, everyone knows diets are best started on a Monday, when that Monday is the first of the month (First of the year, first year of a new decade, beginning of a new millennium… you see how it works). Now, the beginning of the year is ideal except for the first being a holiday.

So, Monday will work. This year, it’s a Monday. And well, since the diet didn’t actually start on the first, January will pretty much be a trial run for February. I suspect that rather than a shopping incentive for cruise-goers, bathing suits in winter are actually an incentive to those resolution dieters to keep what’s important in mind: looking good for bikini weather.

The pack rats couldn’t possibly get started on January 1. After all, the Christmas decorations are still up. That is, of course, unless said pack rat is one of those people who strips the Christmas tree at the crack of dawn on New Year’s Day (the sort who puts it up in time for Thanksgiving), and has the carcass on the curb before the neighbors have had their diet breakfasts. But I suspect the New Year’s Day tree-stripper is not a pack rat. No, the pack rat will have to wait until the decorations come down.

Becoming a nicer person is an easier prospect unless you’ve been awakened after three house of sleep by a pet who wants breakfast, and you stub your toe on the way back to bed. Actually, since it is a holiday, you probably won’t have too many chances to show your new niceness, so nothing really counts until you return to work. (And if you’re retired, you no longer need to be nice. Just open your front door occasionally and yell at the local kids, “Get off my lawn!”)

Following your dreams may take longer, since dream granters tend to be closed for the holidays. You’ll have to revisit that when business returns to normal.

           

All in all, the beginning of the year is a terrible time to start resolutions. Perhaps waiting until the end of the fiscal year is better – provided you’re not vacationing July first. As for New Year’s resolutions, I’d give them about a week.

‘Tis the Season

Once upon a time, when I was a child, celebrating the Christmas season was very different.

Back in those days, people did not decorate their houses with lights and inflatables for Halloween. A single jack-o-lantern with a candle in it (yes, a real candle with a flame) on the front step or in the front window was all the decoration any house would have, if they chose to decorate.  Lights were strictly for Christmas.

There were no inflatable turkeys on front lawns to indicate Thanksgiving.

And Christmas decorations definitely did not make an appearance in stores in August!

No, in my day – as my grandmother would have put it – Christmas decorations began going up in the shopping centers in the last two weeks of November, to be in place by Black Friday, when the Christmas shopping season officially began, and not on people’s houses until the weekend of Thanksgiving, at the earliest.

Even Black Friday has changed meaning somewhat. Whereas when I was a child, the day after Thanksgiving was the day  stores hoped to finally be “in the black,” that is, finally showing a profit for the year, it now is more akin to being a black day of kill-or-be-killed trying to get a parking space in any mall or restaurant parking lot.

Stores, in an effort to outdo one another, hold pseudo-Black Fridays in September, October, and in some cases, in a “Christmas in July” sale.

There are those who no longer hold Thanksgiving sacred as an American Holiday for family and friends. They drag their employees away from the family meal to work on what should be a holiday, all for financial gain over their competitors.

None of this would work if there weren’t those who gobble the turkey early so they can be first in line at the tradition-scoffing stores to buy up everything they see, needed or not. Thanksgiving has become, for some, a glut not of food, but of consumerism.

In recent years, the internet has come to the aid of those who hate crowds and lines, and created an alternative to Black Friday called something like “Cyber Monday.” It usually happens the Monday after Thanksgiving, and provides discounts on consumer items for sale on the internet. With offers like Amazon Prime, which offer next day delivery in some cases, it saves time, frustration and physical confrontations with someone who wants the last of the same item you do.

But I remember a time when Thanksgiving was a time to visit relatives. Thanksgiving dinner at Grandmom’s was often a feature of the kick-off to the Christmas season. I can still remember the food smells at Grandmom’s and the feel of plastic slip-covers against my skin because visiting Grandmom and Grandpop required wearing one’s Sunday best.

One Thanksgiving in particular sticks in my memory. It’s the only one I remember going to the Philadelphia Thanksgiving Day Parade, the event that welcomed Santa Claus into the area.

I was perhaps three or four. There was snow – yes, snow in November, which was common then – and I stood on a snow pile provided by the plows that had cleared the road.

I was nice and warm in my dress coat – it was red – with matching leggings and hat. My feet in dress shoes were ensconced in white rubber boots that were meant to have shoes inside them. Beneath the coat, of course, was a dress that had a poufy petticoat beneath.

We watched the parade go by, and then went to our grandparents’ house in South Philadelphia.

While at their house, once we were warmed up and sufficiently fussed over, we kids often went for a walk with Grandpop and Dad while Mother and Grandmom finished the preparations for dinner.  We usually went around the corner to visit my father’s Aunt Marion and her family, and then to the corner bar to visit his cousin, Jack.

Dinner at Grandmom’s sometimes included an aunt and uncle with children in tow as well. But it was always best manners, please and thank-you, and not complaining about anything at the table. My grandmother’s home-made mashed potatoes were my favorite, lumps and all.

If we’d gone to Aunt Marion’s before dinner, we went down the street to the next block after dinner to visit my mother’s Aunt Mary, and my mother’s cousin, Janey May. Aunt Mary died when I was very young, but I remember her making a fuss, as if we were the most wonderful children every created. She was the happiest adult I ever knew.

The other holiday tradition our family adhered to was the “Annual Trip” into Philadelphia at Christmas time. Being good Catholics, we children all attended Catholic school. December 8, Feast of the Immaculate Conception, was the last school holiday before Christmas. That was our day in the city.

Once rush hour was over and train fares were cheaper (off-peak), my mother, brothers and I, all dressed in our good clothes and dress coats, would walk the few blocks down the main road to the train station.  Back then, one did not “go out” in play clothes or casual coats. I recall once or twice being in the stroller on the way there.

The trip to the city was more pleasant than the one home because we were in a no-smoking car. When we came home with Dad, we were in the airless smoking car so he could have his cigarettes. That and the fact that we were tired by then made for a less happy return ride.

As we approached the city, my brothers would point out the window and say, “Look, there’s Billy Penn,” referring to the statue of Pennsylvania’s founder atop City Hall, which could be seen from the station before the terminus. As a preschooler, I had no idea what they were looking at, and thought they said “Billy the Penguin.” I didn’t want to be thought stupid – Rob always said I was – so I pretended I could see him, too. I spent my day wandering around staring up at the sky, not because I was a country bumpkin in the city, but because I was looking for the floating penguin in the sky.

Once in the city, we were on a mission. The first stop was Gimbels. That was where the “real” Santa Clause was (hadn’t we seen him get out of the sleigh and climb the fire truck ladder into the 8^th floor window at Gimbels on Thanksgiving?). Along the long line for our turn with the Jolly Elf, were animated Christmas scenes and decorations.

When we finally reached Santa’s lap, we had our picture taken with him, and told him what we wanted for Christmas.

After the Santa line we strolled down Market Street, taking in the decorations in the various windows of Lit Brothers and Strawbridge and Clothier. We entered each of those stores in search of new outfits and Stride Rite shoes. Unlike children today, we did not pick clothes from the racks and have tantrums if Mother didn’t like our choices. No, we stood patiently or not, waiting for my mother to pick out two or three outfits and then asking us which one of those we wanted. That was our freedom of choice.

Usually, we had clothes picked out by lunch time, and only shoes or a new coat, if necessary, in the wings for the afternoon. Lunch was usually at Horn and Hardart’s automat.

I loved the automat. First of all, there was usually a blind man sitting outside with a tin cup and pencils. One of the highlights of my day was being allowed to put money in his cup. While it was only a dime or a quarter, his response was always the same, “Thank you. God bless you.”

I never took a pencil because I didn’t know I was allowed to. But I didn’t need the pencil, anyway.

Once inside the automat, we would decide what we wanted, then put our coins in the slot to open the glass door. Behind the door was our meal. Mine was usually a beef pot pie.

After lunch, we would walk farther down  Market Street to Broad Street. City hall was at that intersection, and the John Wanamaker store was across Market just before City Hall. Into Wanamaker’s we would go. The final items we needed would be purchased there. My AAA shoes in whatever size I currently wore would be either black patent leather, or, a couple of times when I was allowed to be particularly elegant, black velvet.

Once my brothers and I had our shoes, and my mother had shoes or occasionally a new dress, we would go to the main hall of the store, where the eagle was.

People who were getting together in Philadelphia frequently used the phrase, “Meet me at the eagle.” The eagle was a bronze statue created by a German sculptor. The centerpiece of the store, it was, actually, in the center of the store. A wall opposite was the site of the Christmas display.

Wanamaker’s was famous for its organ. An organist played music while people shopped. Alas, those days are gone, although the organ is still there, and the store is now owned by Macy’s.

But in those days, as is still true today, every day between Black Friday and New Year’s Day, at 2, 4 and 6 pm a light show animation would play on the wall while the organist played and someone narrated the story that was appearing like magic before our eyes. I think we usually saw the 4 pm show, crushed by all of the other people jockeying for position to see it at its best.

After the light show, we would make our way back down Market Street to 12^th and walk down 12^th to Callowhill, where my father worked. We spent some time having a fuss made over us by my dad’s boss and others with whom he worked. Then it was off to dinner.

That day out was one of the few in the year when we actually ate out. And on that evening, it was at a restaurant rather than a diner. We went to Wanamaker’s again to the Crystal Room, an elegant restaurant on one of the upper floors, back when there was an elevator operator to take people to the desired floor.

In addition to the tables and waiters, there was a silver tree decorated with lights and Christmas ornaments. There were wrapped packages under it. It was in a cordoned off corner, and it shocked me when I saw children climbing around the tree. Having had “the talk,” (“We’re going out. You’re to be on your best behavior. If I have to speak to you while we’re out, just wait till you get home.”) I assumed all children were given the same directions. I couldn’t imagine what horrors awaited these children when they got home.

Once dinner was over, we went back up Market Street to Reading Terminal for our train home. When we arrived at our station, we didn’t have to walk back home, because Dad had the car parked at the station, and the tired little teddy bears were able to ride in comfort.

What a shame children today miss the wonders we experienced.