Sheri Spitz is trying to understand the draw of Facebook

So... I'm not stupid. At least not technologically stupid. I'm pretty adept at figuring out what the heck is happening on my computer. In fact, I'm so not-stupid at computers that I started a company based entirely on downloadable internet video. (Feel free to peruse if you have never seen it... www.viewu.com)

But Facebook makes me feel stupid. Really stupid. Cause seriously... I don't get it! I really don't. I wish I did. Apparently people spend quite a bit of time on this site. My sister, I know, spends a great deal of time sending pieces of flare back and forth with her friend Lisa. Now, I know what "flare" is. In fact, I was watching Office Space just this morning. (See, even without Facebook I am able to efficiently waste time).

My cousin Robin, I know, very much enjoys changing her status line. Right now, as I write, Robin "is realizing how underrated fresh air is - being in the midst of wildfires."

I don't ever change my status line. Am I being remiss? Do those people who found me on this site that knew me in nursery school want to know that right now Sheri Spitz is "writing in my blog and will soon be exercising on my Wii fit and unpacking two giant boxes of new merchandise that arrived today"? Or is that too boring? Should I instead inform people that Sheri Spitz is "currently pondering the chicken or the egg issue as I decide which to have for dinner." Although really, I'm having tomato pie. But "which came first, the tomato or the onion" doesn't have that same pithy ring to it.

Another thing I don't get. I have so many invitations and they all make no sense to me. Below is a list of invitations I have recently received.

1. A Superpoke invitation
2. A scabble invitation
3. A Sea Garden invitation
4. A Pirates invitation
5. A Johnny Depp invitation. (I know Alli... I know...)
6. An ilikefriend invitation
7. A Biggest Brain invitation
8. A piece of sushi
9. A Good Karma invitation
and last but not least...
10. An I love the 80's invitation

I don't know what those things mean. I'm sure they would be fun if I attempted participation. After all, almost every person I love in my life seems to enjoy these activities. And I do like playing with the word scramble game, although I don't seem to do very well despite my obvious verbosity.

And please don't misunderstand me, FWLFs (that's Friends Who Love Facebook). I'm not making fun. Well, at least not of you. I am making fun of myself to some degree because I feel like some old lady leaning on my cane and sucking on my dentures while I wonder aloud "What do these crazy kids see in this faces contraption?"

I think my biggest problem with Facebook currently isn't so much a lack of understanding of its purpose, but rather the emotional landmines that lie within. Here I am, innocently reading fan fiction or surfing eonline, when suddenly I receive an email friend request. And there, in the title of that email, is a name I haven't heard in 5 years. Or 10. OR WORSE YET... 15! Cause those are the high school names.

It's not that I don't want to get back in touch with old friends. I love catching up with people who knew me when I was shy. (Shut up! I was... I really was!) But it's that whole two-worlds colliding thing. You know? It was like when I was in college and someone from Shaker would come visit. Or now, when someone from LA comes to Charlotte. It seems weird to me that I should be unpacking my latest box of bedroom accessories and preparing for a party when someone, all of a sudden, who knew me when I actually was willing to run around the playground and play kickball (although I was never really all THAT willing, let's be honest) reaches out with no warning from 20 years ago and touches me on the shoulder. Doesn't that give anyone else the heebee geebees? Sometimes it's a lovely pleasant memory and I revel in it as I accept their invitation. Sometimes, on the other hand, it's a fun little trigger that dislodges me from my current life situation and returns me to a time perhaps best left in the past.

The other weird part for me is that after you accept said ghost-from-high-school-past's invitation and become a friend, people seem to not have an interest in writing and catching up. And I'm as bad as anyone. I have accepted tons of invitations (aren't I popular?) and not even ever opened the profile of the invit-or. I often don't answer things that are posted to my wall. And I very rarely actually write emails. If I do, it's a quick catch-up and then silence again. Some of them have pictures and it's nice to see some faces again. But otherwise, it seems I spend most of my time accepting invitations and then closing my browser.

I can't be the only person who thinks like this, right? But then, I guess if the whole thing really bothered me, I would remove my Facebook profile. Or I would never have put my high school or college into my profile so no one from the past could find me.

So ultimately it must not bother me that much. Perhaps it is just the feeling of not getting the appeal that bugs me the most.

I never did like feeling left out. Except in kickball.

Words, Wonderful Words

So... I'm a talker. We all know this and I am comfortable enough with myself to admit that I talk quite a bit. It's my Grandmother Bea's fault. She talked quite a bit as well. (I just hope I don't exclude all others from participating in the conversation as she did. And grip their arms in the Vulcan Death Grip while I talk to them.) In fact, my Grandma talked so often that it wasn't until she passed away (alavah shalom) that I ever heard my Grandfather (alavah shalom again) finish a whole story on his own with no exasperated "Oh Paul..." interrupting him and taking over the story.

But it's not just that I love the talk. Or even that I love making the pretty talk. Cause I do enjoy a well constructed sentence. I also love anyone who can talk the pretty talk with me. People who know how to put words together in such a clever way that even though the sentence is totally banal in meaning, the words they choose make me laugh out loud for several minutes.

Take for example my good friend out there in LA, Vanessa. Today on instant message I was talking to her about something and declared myself full of shit. She responded, "I don't think you're full of shit. I think you're full of awesome!"

Which is FUNNY! And exactly what I expect from Vanessa. This girl answers her phone on any day of the week, "Happy (insert day of the week here) to you!" It makes such a nice change from the usual, "Hello?" that most people throw at you. In fact, just about everything Vanessa says includes a fun turn-of-phrase that makes you stop and think a few seconds before you respond while your brain processes her meaning. And yes, VI, I mean that as a HUGE compliment! Another example from today's conversation. I was lamenting my lack of post-it flags in the house and Vanessa offered a solution.

"I'm surrounded by them. Hold on, let me teleport them to you."

"Crap. I still lack the power of teleportation. Maybe tomorrow."

Vanessa isn't the only one in my life with a talent for wordplay. Two other good friends here in Charlotte, Kara and Lucas, are two champions of funny-ness in ordinary phrases. I can't really do them justice without the tone of voice that goes with them. But a good example is how they add, "It turns out" before any sort of statement that describes a situation. As in "It turns out this blog is rambling quite a bit without direction." Or "I was going to the post office today but it turns out that I am quite lazy."

I think this love of strangely constructed phrases comes from an early childhood love of Stephen King. This is my favorite passage from any of his books. It's from "The Shining." In this section, one of the characters has just been distracted in his driving by a premonition being sent to him by Danny Torrance at the hotel. (Yes, premonition! It's Stephen King!) And he cuts off a workman driving beside him in his distraction.

"The workman cut to the left, still laying on his horn and roared around the drunkenly weaving limousine. He invited the driver of the limo to perform an illegal sex act on himself. To engage in oral congress with various rodents and birds. He expressed his sincere belief in the position the limo driver's soul would occupy in the afterlife. He finished by saying that he believed he had met the limo driver's mother in a New Orleans house of prostitution."

I mean... COME ON! Does anyone out there who knows me think that the way I talk may have been influenced by this prolific writer? And if there is anyone out there who knows me who doesn't believe that I not only laughed out loud when I read that the first time, but that I also went back and read it over and over and sometimes would pull it off my bookshelf and look for just that passage to read again and just now when I pulled it out to type knew exactly where it was in the book even though I haven't picked this book up in probably 15 years... well then you probably don't know me very well!

What's the point? Dunno. Turns out I don't have one. I just enjoyed Vanessa's turn of phrase so much that I wanted to share it. And, of course, procrastinate. There's always that.

Check back another time for something more coherent.

Let's Talk About Pattie Boyd

So... I'm here in Nashville, TN visiting none other than the famous Snell of "Snell Said I had To" blog fame. (Her place is super cute, BTW, for those of you who know our beloved Snellycat. -ed.)

On the drive here to Nashville, Snell and I were chatting on the phone, in preparation for three days of non-stop chatting in person, about the book she's reading about Pattie Boyd. Now, Pattie Boyd, for you non-Beatles lovers (re: foolish people) was first the wife of Beatles' George Harrison (alava shalom) and then, later, the wife of Eric Clapton.

I was excited to hear Snell was reading that book, since I just finished Clapton's autobiography. I was anxious to compare notes and find out if Pattie reveals any more in her book that would give some hint as to how this woman, undoubtedly beautiful and probably quite poised and sexy, but still just a woman, managed to inspire some of the most beautiful, passionate and intensely longing songs ever written.

Sadly, Snell came up as empty as I did. She agreed as well that Pattie is a beautiful woman, no doubt. But if you think about some of the lyrics written about this woman, you would think she was some kind of Olivia-Newton-John-in-Xanadu-esque muse. Let's review some of these, shall we?

"If I could choose a place to die
It would be in your arms."
-Bell Bottom Blues, Derek & the Dominoes (aka one of Clapton's bands)

"Let's make the best of the situation
Before I finally go insane.
Please don't say we'll never find a way
And tell me all my love's in vain."
-Layla, Derek and the Dominoes

"Something in the way she moves
Attracts me like no other lover
Something in the way she woos me"
-Something, The Beatles

"I feel wonderful because I see
The love light in your eyes.
And the wonder of it all
Is that you just don't realize how much I love you."
- Wonderful Tonight, Eric Clapton

The interesting thing about Pattie, it seems to me, is that every song she inspired became a rock anthem. Well, Bell Bottom Blues might be a bit of an underappreciated tune, but it is an anthem to me. I can't imagine what it would be like to inspire that kind of unapologetically (yup, I newly worded that word) passionate plea from a lover. He literally offers to crawl across the room to her and beg!

"Do you want to see me crawl across the floor to you?
Do you want to hear me beg you to take me back?
I'd gladly do it because
I don't want to fade away."


(This YouTube video is just music, no pictures. So you can come back and finish reading! I know, I'm a giver.)


He'd gladly do it! He won't just, you know, do it. He'll GLADLY do it. That's crazy. I can barely get myself to lean too far out of my way to pet Richie, whom I love tremendously. (By the way, Snell clearly feels the same on that one, because Richie is just outside her reach and she desperately wants to pet him, but doesn't want to get off the couch to do it. Now, granted, she doesn't have the same emotional attachment to him that I do, but you get my point.)

Is it a musician thing to feel things so passionately? Or juat to express them so passionately? Most of the men I have met in my life have felt that passionately about their favorite sports team, but not their women. In fact, now that I think about it, there are probably quite a few guys I have known who would maybe have offered to crawl across the floor for the Boston Red Sox or the Cleveland Indians.

Clearly, when these songs were written in the 70's, they didn't yet understand the dating rules set forth so eloquently by Swingers, where you never show actual interest lest you scare off the object of your obsession. If they had, Eric probably would have waited three days before he wrote a song about his baby. That would have been a different kind of song.

Did they just feel things more passionately then? But if you think back on some of the other love songs from that era, there are so few that are as emotional as the ones Pattie inspired. Or from any era.

I guess there really was something about the way she moved... I wonder if she can teach me.

The Matter of Gray

So... I went to get a cut and color today. Sorely needed. I was excited to get there and get my stringy mess cleaned up. But I was unprepared for the emotional mess that I would turn into while in the chair.

My hairdresser, the ever-fantastic Brandi, and I had our whole discussion about what we were going to do with color and she mixed it up right there in a bowl. And then she began to work. Normally, she starts with foils at the top of my head and works her way around. So I became curious when, instead of starting with foils, she started using her brush to dab at my roots.

"Are you doing it differently this time?" I inquired.

"No."

"But normally you don't do it like this," I persisted.

"I'm doing the same thing I always do, " she replied.

And that's when the world as I knew it turned upside down. Cause that's when she added, "I can't put the foils in until I finish COVERING THE GRAY!"

Ok... um... WHAT? The GRAY? What gray? I am a mere child. How can I have gray? I believe at that point, in my shock, I said something to the effect of "That's not gray! It's dirty blonde!" Brandi, to her credit, kept a straight face as she met my stricken eyes in the mirror and responded firmly, "No. It's gray."

And now, let me take you on a journey of my mental voyage upon completion of this devastating conversation. The part of the woman in denial will be played by Italics. The part of the realistic/sado-masochist will be played by bold, since it's voice is so very, very much louder!

She's so wrong. There is no way I am gray. She just can't see it close enough to realize that it's blonde.

Actually, dumbass, she's able to see it a lot closer up than you are! She's staring down on it, under bright, heavy lights, right now.

Well, there is no way it is gray. She must have me confused with another customer in her mind.


I doubt it. She's looking at your face, calling your name and there is the little sheet with your name on it sitting on her counter with all the details about your hair. See it? It's right there.

She's got the wrong card.

Um no. Your name is at the top.


But I'm only about to be 35 years old! How can I be gray?

35 is not as young as you always imagine it to be. You're getting older.

But... I mean... but... she's mistaken.

Ok, I'm sure it would be kinder to let you live in denial, but join me here in realistic land for a while, won't you? You have gray hair.

But my Grandmother had gray hair.

Yes. And once upon a time, I'm sure SHE thought it was dirty blonde.

My mother didn't go gray until her 40s.

Well, how special for her. You are gray at 35.


And so it went. On and on. For an hour and fifteen minute hair cut. I tried every rationalization I could, trying to convince myself that I have not, in fact, made this transition into old. But the realistic/mean/persistent/relentless side of me finally won. I have gray hair.

I've not had any problems in the past with benchmarks of aging. I accepted 30, even welcomed it, with great aplomb. I had heard from so many friends over the years that 30s are so much better than 20s. I have one month left to be on the right said of 35 and I'm ok with that too.

I'm ok with an already slow metabolism slowing down even further. I'm ok with little crows feet and hands that aren't as smooth as they used to be. I'm ok with more aches and pains after a workout, complete inability to recover from a hangover in less than 24 hours, less interest in going out at night and more interest in my couch. All of these things, I embrace.

Nothing, in fact, has ever made me feel old. Until the "g" word.

I'm so unsettled, in fact, that I am going to continue to convince myself that I am still just a dirty blonde and that she was just looking at me in the wrong light. The second I turn 40, I will be ready to accept gray and embrace it as friend. (Well, friend that needs to be covered up every 6-8 weeks, that is.) Until that point, I remain a bottle blonde covering up a darker, dirtier, slightly washed out yet pure brunette.

With highlights.

Nocturnal Visitor

So... I had a visitor the other night in my sleep.

Let me start off by saying this. I believe that when people from my life who have passed away appear in my dreams, that is their way of paying me a visit. I know most people would disagree, saying it is only a subconscious memory that my brain is throwing up on the drive-in wall that is my brain while I sleep. (I'm an active dreamer. Always have been. More active than I'd like, believe me.)

But I prefer to think of them as visits. As discussed in previous posts, as a Jewish girl, I don't really know what I believe about the afterlife. I'm not sure whether we die and our souls go somewhere and are reunited with our loved ones, whether we simply live on in the memories of those who loved us or whether we are just gone. But a part of me has always thought that when people come to me in my sleep, they are just letting me know they are still here for me.

Ever since Poppa died, whenever I feel sad, I have been listing for myself all the people he loved who he has possibly been reunited with. It's a long list. His brother who died of leukemia when he was still a young boy and his father who died a year later from, as family legend has it, a broken heart. My Grandmother. Most of his friends. So many people. And secretly, I hoped when he was done catching up with all of them, he would come pay me a visit. I didn't think it would happen for quite a while, but I think I knew he would show up someday.

The other night, there he was. He looked so young. So strong and healthy. There were no more issues with his legs or his eyes. He didn't look like he weighed 45 lbs with his clothes on as he did those last months. He looked exactly the way I remember him looking when I was a teenager. It was amazing.

In the past, I have had dreams about my other grandparents who are no longer alive. But in those dreams, the fact that they were there even though they were supposed to be dead was a non-issue. My dream self didn't actually pay any attention to the idea that it was speaking to Grandparents who are no longer of this earth. They were simply there, part of the backstory of whatever strange thing was happening in my dream. One time tho, I swear I woke up and smelled my Grandmother's perfume.

But this dream was different. My dream-self knew he was supposed to be dead. I knew he was there for a visit and no one else would understand. He told me he knew how much we all missed him. He said he carried my heart around with him all the time. He gave me two of his sweaters that he told me he had taken with him when he died (???) so that I could have them to remember him by. (One of them was bright orange, which was most definitely not a sweater I remember him wearing, but the other was an oatmeal colored sweater which I have seen him wear many times.) And then he gave me a hug. It was a really long hug. The kind you give someone when you know it is going to be a long time until you see them again. There was no awkwardness to it. I remember in my dream I was crying pretty hard because I knew this was the only visit I was going to get for a while. And then he was gone.

In my dream, I went downstairs holding the sweaters he had given me only to find a television production truck in my parents' living room. Apparently they were filming American Idol on the front lawn and there wasn't enough room for this particular truck on the street. Which in my dream seemed quite logical when my mother explained it. I then proceeded to tell her all about Poppa's visit and as we began to argue about whether or not it really happened, I woke.

It was about 5:45AM. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to roll over and go back to sleep immediately. Which I almost did. But then, in a rush, the dream came back. Every detail came back crystal clear. And along with the memories came the biggest smile I had smiled in a long time. I couldn't wipe it off my face. I was laying there in bed feeling so content and relieved that at last I got to tell him goodbye the way I wanted to. Not the "real" goodbye I gave him where he was barely conscious when I said it. This was a real send off and a chance to tell him when he could really understand how much I love him.

It's been about a week and a half now since he was here. I've told a few people in my life about it. Some have agreed that it was really a visit, some have humored me. But in my heart, I know that he was here. I know he came to say goodbye to me.

I just hope he didn't see all the sex toys in the other room while he was here.

April 21st, 1993 2:37AM

So... I just realized that the 15 year anniversary of a significant, if not important, event in my life has just passed. Not many people would even find this event significant. Probably only two other people in the world. And I'm not even sure about those two.

Fifteen years ago, I was a student at Ithaca College and I was living in Hood Hall. Hood was one of the dorms in the upper Quad area of campus. Good lord I loved that dorm. I moved in during the middle of my freshman year, having finally been released from the hellish nightmare that was first semester freshman year and its accompanying roommates. It was in Hood Hall that I met the best group of friends that I had ever had. Chief among them were my two closest friends, Lianne and Gary.

Li and Gary and I were together all the time sophomore year. Not that we didn't hang with other people, but always, at the end of the day, we somehow wound up together in Li's and my room, hanging out and doing that college thing of babbling nonsensically about all matters. Some very strange discussions in that room. Some of them altered by, shall we say, artificial means. Much of them infused with hysterical laughter. All of them typical college verbal vomit although at the time we thought them brilliant and insightful.

On the night in question, April 21st, 1993, Gary and Li and I were hanging out in the room again, listening to music and not talking much. Gary's birthday began that night at midnight. So he was melancholy, as he often was on his birthday. 'What does my life mean?' 'Where is it going?' 'How did I wind up at Ithaca College where all the good parties get broken up by the cops on a regular basis?' Those kinds of wonderings.

So we were sitting in silence. Sober silence, strangely. Me on my bed, Li on hers and Gary staring blankly out the window, musing. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, began the typical college conversation. 'You know,' said Gar. 'We are never going to have this moment again. Once it's over, it's over and we can't ever get it back.'

I'm not sure what my response was to that, but knowing me, it was no doubt sarcastic in nature. He went on to make this point for a few minutes, talking about the beauty and fragility of moments like the one we were currently having. And then he made a declaration. 'Let's remember this moment for the rest of our lives. It's 2:37AM on April 21st, 1993 and we are sitting in your room listening to 'True' by Spandeau Ballet.' (I was in a retro 80's phase.)

Well, being a music-obsessed freak, all Gary needed to do was attach a song to a moment and there was instantly no doubt that I would remember it forever. And I have. If I close my eyes right now, I can picture the moment completely (although that would make it difficult to type.) It's clear as day.

For a while after college, Gary and I lived in the same time zone. And every year on his birthday, I would think of that minute. I'd remember how I felt that night. How I was so in love with college. How I loved the times we would sit around the three of us laughing and talking about stupid college stuff. I would miss college so much sometimes it was like a physical ache. Every year, I would mourn that minute at the same time I celebrated it, even though truth be told, after college, I was very rarely awake when the minute presented itself.

This Monday was Gary's birthday. He turned 35. (That's right Gar. I called you out!) And that moment turned 15. Which blows me away, cause it was just a second ago, I swear! These days, the melancholy guy who sat in the window waxing philosophical about lost moments has a wife and a son and an amazing life on the other side of the country. And I am here in North Carolina, with a life so utterly and completely different than anything I could have imagined for myself at the time. (see Grandma Crazy blog entry for proof!)

But in my mind, we're still there. Me, Lianne and Gary, sitting in room 207 of Hood Hall on the upper Quad of Ithaca College campus. Our entire lives are in front of us. So many amazing experiences in the future. With that one cheezy song from the 80s and one late night minute tying us together forever.

Thank God for late night college insights.

No escape

So... Charlotte is getting hammered with a thunderstorm right now. Actually, hammered might be too strong a word, but there is thunder and lightening and the rain is a-comin' down on this drought-ridden city.

Predictably, at the first flash of lightning and the first rumble of thunder, my faithful friend and alarm clock Richie begins to panic. It starts with an abrupt head lift up off the floor and a glance in my direction. I'm assuming he is checking to see if I heard it as well. Then the ears go flat back. The eyes get wide. The tongue starts hanging out and begins to drip, drip, drip onto the carpet. And then, just like Seabiscuit before him, he's off.

He starts by running around the coffee table in a circle, to see if perhaps the storm is only located in that corner of the room. Then he begins to widen his search for a storm-free area. He encompasses his favorite spot under the end table, rejects it and comes to stand beside me. He looks beseechingly up at me on the couch, wondering if that's a storm-free zone and if I will share it with him. In his younger days, he would jump up onto the couch in a panic and try to climb onto the back, getting as high as possible. Perhaps to avoid the flood he fears is coming? Or maybe he thinks the storm is only on the ground where he is.

When all these efforts prove fruitless he heads for the back door. I think somewhere in his mind, it is only the inside of the house that has betrayed him by allowing a storm in his presence. SURELY, if he can get to his backyard, where all things good happen, he will be free. After about ten minutes of me reassuring him that he won't like it outside (oh, if only he would listen when I talk...) I finally get up to prove to him that the storm is, in fact, worse outside. I open the back door and he bolts. Keen to put as much distance between him and house as possible. Sadly, several seconds later, reality kicks in and he realizes that the storm is not only worse out here, but there is also wet stuff falling on him from the sky. And so, with a panicked yet resigned look, he returns to the back door to be let in. Which I allow. After he sits. And I say 'I told you so.'

After this point, he stops looking for a way away from the storm and begins to find a way to make the whole thing less painful for himself. Somehow, being in a small enclosed space is his preference. (One morning I woke up after a pretty nasty overnight storm and he had wormed his way underneath my bed and was so tight under there that I had to help him get out.) As we speak he is sitting under my desk, curled in a ball between my feet. And my poor pumpkin is shaking like a leaf. And I've tried to reassure him, but mentally he is somewhere where I can't reach him. Come back, Richie! Come back!