Just Like Times Square, But With A Possum

I have big plans for New Year’s Eve! A couple of nights ago, I was on Facebook making sure that no unflattering pictures of me had been posted by my newest friend. (I have an unflattering picture of her that I threatened to post if she posted any unflattering pictures of me.) While I was logged on, I saw another friend’s post.

She had posted a video about the possum drop at Clay’s Corner and then asked if anyone wanted to come up and join in the fun. Well, that’s just the sort of vague invitation I live for.  So an email and phone call later, and I’m on my way to North Carolina for the weekend!

What’s a possum drop, you ask? It’s just like the ball that drops in New York City but instead of a lighted ball making it’s descent at midnight, it’s a box with a possum inside of it.  The crowd is also significantly smaller than the Times Square crowd.

I have been warned that if PETA shows up to protest, they substitute a roadkill possum for the live possum. No possums are ever harmed in the dropping of the possum.  I’m hoping PETA is a no show as I’d like to experience the live possum drop.  Dropping a roadkill possum lacks a certain je ne sais quoi.

And yes, I do know that technically they are opossums, not possums, but no one ever calls them opossums unless you see a dead one by the side of the road. Then you say, “Oh, possum, I’m so sorry you got run over by a car!”

Corkscrews, SPaM and Camping

Apparently, I need a vacation from my vacation.  I arrived home from my six day camping trip late this afternoon, and couldn’t remember how to properly log on to WordPress.  After I figured it out, I realized a glass of wine would have helped, so off to the kitchen and I couldn’t find the corkscrew. After standing there for several minutes, looking in the drawer where it should have been, cursing my decision not to buy wine in a screw top bottle, and wondering why anyone would want to steal my cheap corkscrew, I saw the corkscrew right in the spot where it should have been. Yes, I really needed that glass of wine and possibly food.

So with wine in hand, or in a glass in my hand, I started sifting through my inbox. And then I saw it – an email from Facebook informing me that one of the people I had been camping with wants me to be her Facebook friend. Since I now have the perfect (for me) number of faux Facebook friends (100 for those of you that missed my post), I need to jettison one in order to accept another one. This really isn’t that big of a deal since I’m not a big Facebook fan and have no qualms about ending a faux friendship.

I don’t know why Kim wants me as her FBF (Facebook friend) since I explained to her that I am quite possibly the worst FBF ever. I don’t post status updates or photos and rarely log on, so I won’t have a clue as to what is going on in her life unless we chat in person.  But she does, and who am I do deny someone the experience of having the worst FBF ever.  So in the next few days, or weeks, or whenever I get around to it, I’ll still have 100 faux Facebook friends, just not the same ones I have today, though 99 of them will be the same.

In other news, I had the good fortune of being featured in a fellow blogger’s blog today. H.E. Ellis interviewed me for her SPaM (Shameless Promotion Monday) post. Please check it out and read some of her other posts. She is a wonderful writer and has the book to prove it.

The camping trip was fabulous. We had great weather, good food, almost enough wine, though when the wine ran out, we still had tequila. We hiked, biked and kayaked and even rode Segways – off road, no less.  Here are a couple of views from our campsite on Little Talbot Island.

And just one more photo of the beach on Little Talbot Island………..

Facebook Thinks I’m an Exotic Dancer

Yesterday, I wrote about what I consider to be the perfect number of Facebook friends. I also mentioned that I have cut back on my Facebook time. I do log on and shamelessly promote my blog which is what I did yesterday afternoon. I was surprised to find that Facebook thinks I’m an exotic dancer.

At the top of my feed was a small box asking “Are They Your Friends Too?” Underneath this question were four icons that I could add as friends. My new friends, if I choose to add them, will be Adult Entertainment Expo 2012, Exoticdancer Mag, Suga Shack and GrindTime Mag. I kid you not! I took a screen shot because I knew no one would believe me and it would be the perfect photo accompaniment to this post.

Now I’ve been wondering why Facebook thinks I’m an exotic dancer. I know I never mentioned on Facebook a conversation I had with a guy I dated in college. This was in the late 70s in New Orleans. It was the first time we went dancing and as we walked off the dance floor he said, “You’ll never have to worry about money. You can always earn a living dancing in a topless bar.”

“But my boobs are too small for that.”

“They wouldn’t be looking at your boobs.”

I know I never mentioned all of those late nights in my 20s when Kat, Cheri, Leslie and I would take aerobic classes, and then, still dressed in our leotards and tights (it was the 80s and that was sort of fashionable) hit a few local bars. After a couple of beers, we’d get on the dance floor and try to outsleaze each other.

There was that trip to the Florida Keys with DJ when I was in my late 30s. We found ourselves in a very packed biker bar and I ended up dancing on the bar. While I have told that tale to a few friends, I never told it on Facebook.

Then a couple of years ago I lost my job forcing a move from Tampa to a small rural community popular with retirees. On a visit back to Tampa, I was joking with some friends that if I got desperate for money, I could open a gentlemen’s club for seniors because I probably look pretty hot to a 75 year old.  I know I never put that on Facebook.

Now, I could understand if Facebook knew all these things (and I guess they do know now), but they didn’t. So why did they think I was an exotic dancer? Then it hit me. I had said I choreographed pole dance routines in my blog post about finding pretend love on Craigslist.

I was joking, of course, but apparently Facebook doesn’t have a sense of humor. Fortunately, I do have a sense of humor, so I was not offended that they assumed I was an exotic dancer.  I may even track down my inner Republican to make a cut so I can add Suga Shack as a friend. She sounds intriguing.

 

 

The Perfect Number of Facebook Friends

I just accepted my hundredth friend on Facebook. I haven’t been actively pursuing Facebook friends, or as I sometimes refer to them, my faux Facebook friends. Please don’t be offended by this reference if you are indeed one of them, I don’t mean you.

I think 100 is the perfect number of faux friends to have, so if anyone else ever sends me a friend request, I’m going to have to channel my inner Republican (if I can find her) and make a cut somewhere.  Of course, if I am unfriended by one of my faux friends, that saves me the worry of who to cut.

I should have 103 friends, but three people unceremoniously unfriended me. Yes, I know who you are, though you are probably not reading this. And no, I don’t miss your endless status updates of how bored you are at work or how dry the ham sandwich was you had for lunch. I was happy to discover two of them had dropped me, though I was a wee bit sad about the third. I really thought we had a faux connection.

Some of my Facebook friends are people I interact with in person or by phone on a somewhat regular basis. Others are relatives. Some are men I’ve had sex with, no wait, I’m confusing my Craigslist friends with my Facebook friends. I haven’t had sex with any of my Facebook friends, at least not any of my current friends, though there are a couple or three that might prove to be quite entertaining and fun in the sack. One can dream or in this case fantasize.

In my early days on Facebook, I would log on almost every day. I reconnected with a friend from elementary school, a handful of high school friends and people I had worked with many years ago. I even reconnected with my first love, though that was much more recent. The reconnection, not the first love.

I avoided being sucked into the addictive Facebook games despite numerous attempts by my friends to get me to join FarmTown.  I don’t like to pull weeds in my own yard. Why would I want to do fake yard work online?

Lately, I’ve been spending less time on Facebook because, to paraphase Dr. Seuss, there are so many other places to go. One of my non-Facebook friends thinks this is a good thing.  Not long after the blind people/trust issue/tree experiment went horribly wrong, we had the following conversation.

Dex: Facebook is the devil. It’s a timesuck.

Me: You may be right. And I’m not sure how many of my faux Facebook friends would come bail me out of jail.

Dex: You plan on being arrested?

Me: No, but things happen. And I’ve always thought that would be a good friendship test.

Dex: Getting arrested?

Me: No, the middle of the night phone call. The “I can’t explain right now, but I’m totally innocent and I need you to come bail me out of jail” call.

Dex: I’ll bail you out.

Me: Thanks, you’re a good friend, even though you led me into a tree.

Dex: You weren’t blind!

It is good to know at least one friend will bail me out of jail, though I’m still getting a seeing eye dog if I ever go blind. If you do send me a Facebook friend request, don’t be surprised if I’m slow to accept. It’s not that I don’t want you as a friend, I’m just trying to locate my inner Republican so I can make the necessary cut.