"Meep-moop" means I love you

Blogging about my client’s sister last entry got me thinking about family.  There are different kinds of family and sometimes friends can be the family you choose for yourself.





My first memory of Vicki is from junior high, before it was called middle school.  To me, “junior high” sounds cooler than middle school, which sounds like middle aged kids having middle aged kid crises.  Vicki and I toppled into puberty around the same time.  Some of the pushy, strangely confident girls in our gym class made us stand back to back in the locker room so they could compare our boobs.  I was horrified.  Vicki thought it was funny.  And so began the dearest friendship of my life with my sister friend, my confidante, my person.  Her boobs were bigger than mine then, and they still are.  She continues to take everything in stride, while I still seize up with worry. 
 


I don’t remember when our friendship eased away from being fellow uneasy in-betweeners on the periphery of more popular girls and into full fledged best friendship.  Looking back, I don’t think that either of us felt entirely accepted, although we both treaded social water with the feathered alpha dogs as best we could.  We threw each other a neon 1980’s life preserver and clung to each other during good times and bad for the next thirty plus years. 


The 80’s were an awesome and yet dangerous time to become teenagers.  Our parents weren’t all that concerned about what we were doing or where we were, as long as we didn’t get caught.  There were no cell phones to check in, no internet to point out the hazards.  I rode my bike seven hot summer miles down a busy highway to Vicki's house. I’d flop, exhausted and sweating, on her couch where her spazzy dog would jump up and pee on me.  I'd borrow a clean shirt, and we'd walk to Taco Bell, where we would pollute ourselves silly.


Remembering some of our teen shenanigans makes me shudder and consider installing LoJacks on both of my children.  We wandered and experimented and made stunningly risky choices, usually followed by long, tears-streaming, belly laughs.  I think we only saw Rocky Horror Picture Show at midnight once, but we successfully used it as a late night excuse for all sorts of other secrets.

 
My only real date to a high school dance was thanks to one of many visits to Columbia, Missouri, where Vicki spent summers with her dad.  We’d cruise up and down “the loop”, gaping out car windows at cute boys, pretending not to be interested when they shouted suggestive come-ons at us.  We were 17 years old and lucky not to be dragged into an empty lot somewhere.  We met a slew of boys and it was all sort of innocent, but sort of not.  My Missouri souvenir boyfriend had a southern accent, a full beard and I dated him through prom until college, when I promptly dumped him.



Vicki visited me at U of I while she was taking her twisty, winding path through growing up.  Her father was in the Navy and she moved constantly as a child; a habit she's kept.  As we became young adults, Vicki was so utterly gorgeous that it was sometimes annoying to be her friend.  We’d be out at bars and guys would smile at me sheepishly after Vicki shot them down.  “Okay.  Well… how about you, then?” they’d ask me dejectedly, trying not to be too obvious about lowering the bar.  Vicki earned a degree in social work, modeled awhile, got a degree in nursing.  She had tumultuous crazy relationships with the guys who adored her and/or wanted to kill her.  She could wreak havoc when she wanted to, driving her mother and boyfriends nuts on cue.  There was just no stopping her when she made up her mind.

U of I and Mizzou. 
I'm sure the floral print and haircut weren't helping my odds. 

At my wedding reception, there is a fabulous scene captured on video when Vicki’s date of the moment was incorrectly doing the electric slide.  He was faced the wrong way and it looks like he’s having a dance off against the entire floor of people.  He was the last of Vic’s guys to be out of step, as she was about to find her husband, Steve and hang up her naughty hat.  I recently teased Steve, for the hundredth time, about how very quiet and shy he was when Joe and I first met him.  Steve patiently explained that I was so damn hyper and loud, nobody could get a word in edgewise.  Plus, I think we freaked him out. Touché.

 

Alec and Maxie

Vicki is my son Joey’s godmother.  I’m not religious, so for me, it was a chance to show Vicki again, in every way and in a new way, that she is my family.  Her son Alec and my son Max are less than a year apart.  They are hilarious and unusual and they remind me of Vicki and me.  They aren’t vanilla mainstream kids and in miserable middle school, that can be hard.  They’re full of imagination and laughter and they love each other, which is unexpected and delicious.  Vicki’s daughter is beautiful like her mother and means business; she wants her own way in very much the same way Vicki did when I first met her.  We agreed just today that justice will probably be served when Olivia is a teenager.



We’ve lived seven minutes door to door when our babies were little.  We’ve lived a plane ride away for years; we’ve had long, long drives between us for other stretches.  Some years we’ve only needed to drive 45 minutes or an hour, and visits seemed as hard to schedule as the plane rides when we were sprinting around with work and kids.  When Vicki’s dad was dying, she was a million miles away, in shocking pain she couldn’t share, even though we lived close.  As of three months ago, we’re back to being only 15 minutes apart after four years of rare visits between Arizona and Illinois. 


The distance was different this time, because we really needed each other and it was just so far.  When we had visits, they were more precious than ever because we knew the next one would be a long time coming.  We were needy and hurting, at times, and we’d put all our friendship eggs tenderly into each others’ baskets.  It’s hard to lean on someone new when your lifelong friend suddenly can’t hop in her car to hold your hand the way she used to hold your hair when you made all those forever ago bad choices.


So now my person is back, and it’s funny.  I don’t even need to be talking to her or see her; life feels different knowing that I can.  I am so insanely lucky to have my husband, my kids, my parents nearby.  But now I have my neon life preserver back within reach and I feel grounded and safer and more like one of the cool kids, even though it’s just in our own weird little world.


Olivia recently asked Vicki if she and Aunt Wendy ever had fights.  All these years and we really haven’t, probably partly because I am terrified of arguments.  Plus, we are both usually too awesome and entertaining to irritate each other.   When I was working full time and Vicki was a stay at home mom with baby Alec, I would try and listen to her on the phone while I was working on the computer.  I’d half listen to her while click-clacking away and then give her my full attention when I had something to say.  It was the closest thing we had to a real fight.  She was pissed that I was half-assing my part of our bargain.  She gave me the silent treatment for a little while, maybe to let me know how it felt not to feel heard.  Now, Vicki is the one who is crazy busy with work and her active family, trying to fit in chats with me between endless discussions about cancer with the frightened patients who need her help.  We’re still growing up together and learning how to balance it all. 


My husband Joe imitates Vicki’s soft, rather nasal voice,  by saying, “Meep, moop.”  Sometimes when he calls me on the phone from work, he says “Meep, moop,” in greeting, which I take to mean that someone I love is on the line.



I talked Vicki into hosting our high school Bunko group last week.  She’s only been back home for a few fast months, but in some ways, it feels like she never left.  I sat in her bathroom while she was getting ready for Bunko, just like we did in junior high, in high school, during college visits, on our wedding days, for grown up girls’ nights out, before our high school reunions.  Talking and laughing and looking forward to sharing time together.  And yet that ordinary moment that we’d had a thousand times before, was suddenly a kind of miracle.  And I’m just so grateful.  Love you, Vic.

www.pencilportraitcards.com
http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards

 

Hey soul sister, justify my blog

Man, I can't seem to make time to write in my blog.  Have you missed me?




How embarrassing.
How did Housewives of DC get on there?

I'm also having trouble finding time to run, shower, grocery shop, watch the 500 educational shows on my DVR, call my wonderful friends (you know I still love you, right?), etc. etc. etc.   People often interrupt my complaining by saying, "You're lucky to work from home doing something you love." And I am. I am.  But it's sort of like college. There were things about college that were off the charts fun-tastic. And yet, while I was knee deep in the fun stuff, there were so many other things that I should have been doing. Like homework or finding my ID or not pushing anyone into the bathroom to drunkenly make out. And then feeling guilty and procrastinating more.
 


 
Having your own business means that whenever you are laying around drinking wine and eating cheez-its, you probably shouldn't be; and not just because of the calories/hangovers/inappropriate texts.  You should be drawing, marketing, fixing your broken website, putting layouts together, preparing for art shows.  I can sort of justify writing this blog because it loosely falls under the marketing category.  Even if I'm complaining about Facebook or confessing my marathon 50 Shades sessions, as long as I also mention the fact that I can draw your kids, pets, or belongings, then presto... marketing!  I do have a degree in advertising, you know. 

 
But really, I just want to tell stories, preferably in a bestselling book.  Although that's rather unlikely, as only my friends on Facebook and a few artists from my favorite artist websites (artfairinsiders and the corner booth) read this blog.  Getting discovered is even less probable than working hard enough to make it happen on my own.  It's hard to justify this rambling blog when I've got drawing to do, plus it's past dinner time, RIGHT NOW. Listen closely and you'll hear the Zumpano men sighing and snacking in the background.
 

Thank goodness this time, Beth will help me justify my blog. 
 

Out of the blue, I got an email from someone who had been reading my Pencil Envy posts.  Not only did Beth order a chunky sized portrait, she wanted a story.  A story about her sister.  Hey!  That's almost like getting paid to write stories, only she's not paying me to write, she's paying me to draw.  But I'm making it a package deal.

 
My first thought about the portrait and story about Beth's sister, was that I don't have a sister, because I'm rather self-absorbed that way.  I wonder what it would be like... would I be close with a sister?  Fight with her?  Would she love me despite all my many flaws?  Would I love her beyond hers? 

 
I assumed that Beth's story would be about sisterly love, a Walton's hair-braiding slumber party childhood with some eventual grown up wise advice with wine.  But it wasn't.


"Saying my sister and I have never been close is an understatement," Beth wrote me.  "We hated each other growing up.  The only thing we're close in is age; for six weeks every year we were the same."  She said her sister could be mean, choosing exactly the right words to form the kind of word weapon only the most familiar family can wield.  The kind that cuts you to your core. 

 
As adults, they had an uneasy relationship, going months without speaking. They lived less than an hour apart, but only saw each other a few times a year. "We are polar opposites," Beth explained.  "She's a minimalist, I collect everything. Her house is sparsely decorated, mine looks like a gypsy’s den. She has a firm sense of right and wrong. I have often been described as having no moral compass.  She's successful, I was always just getting by. We just never meshed. I often said if she wasn’t my sister we would have never been friends. But still, we're family."

 
If you've ever told me a story, you probably enjoy how I immediately butt in and relate the story back to myself, even though I've read Don't Sweat the Small Stuff and I know I'm not supposed to.  I told Beth how I've struggled in my family relationships, too; how my closest family friendship has deteriorated and how terribly painful it's been.  How I could relate all too well to those mean missiles that leave such deep, gaping wounds.  Here, I thought, is someone I can understand; I'm not the only one.  I've counted each month of silence with a pit in my stomach.  It wasn't supposed to be this way.  

 
"I know," Beth told me.  "My sister got mad at me in June and she didn't speak to me or my mother until September.  The next time we spoke was when she called to tell me in her matter-of-fact cold tone that she was sick, probably dying." And Beth was forbidden to tell their mother.  "I was as close to my mother as you are to yours," Beth stressed, "maybe closer.  It devastated me not to be able to tell her, but I knew if I did, my sister would never ever speak to either of us again."  It was excruciating for Beth, fearing her mother would hear from someone else, until her sister was just too sick to hide it anymore. 


"My sister told me she wouldn’t have done the same thing for me, wouldn’t have taken me in and cared for me as I was dying, cared for my family, pets, my belongings, my affairs. I told her I knew that. I wish we had shared that moment much sooner. It seemed to bring some peace to her to know that I wouldn’t change no matter who or what she was. That’s when she finally got me.


"She thanked me for making her watch Fight Club. She forced me to watch Eight-Legged Freaks. The last movie we watched together was Man on Fire. She loved Denzel and really wanted to see it. I begged the Blockbuster guy to help me locate the last copy in the store, a needle in a mountain of movies haystack. It took over two hours but we finally found it. As I was checking out, he said they could’ve ordered it, it would only take about a week to come in. I remember thinking we probably didn’t have a week. She died four days later."

 
"My sister's death haunts me, much more so than the deaths of my mother and father," Beth told me. "I am guessing it’s some form of guilt I just can’t let go of. Some sort of ‘it should have been me, not her’ thing."

 
This summer, her nephew told Beth he can't remember the sound of his mother's voice. She tries to keep the memory alive, knowing that the hardest part about dying for her sister was losing her kids. Not being there to see who they will become.  The best photo the kids had with their mother was when they were quite young and Beth's niece hated her hair.   Funny thing about death, there are no more "through the years" pictures, no more do overs.  Beth asked that I combine recent photos of the kids with their mom, taking extra care to make sure I got her niece's hair just right.  A Christmas memory for two wonderful kids who can't yet fully realize what they've lost.

 
 
There are children in my version of Beth's story too, and I worry about them.  At first, I listened to Beth's side, thinking, yes, yes. I get it, I can relate. Up until the cancer. Then I'm a puddle thinking about it. I'm torn up. I'm thinking how maybe my family member would probably take me in; but I don't know if I could do the same. I don't know if I can be as forgiving.  I shared more about my own family experiences with Beth, eager to connect, telling her about our long struggle of distance and disease and pain and tough decisions and judgment.  That the hardest part is how we'd always loved each other like crazy and now neither of us can get past old wounds far enough to have a healthy relationship. I know I have some terrible faults that have made things worse between us - I'm too critical, I'm too sensitive.  And now I'm too scared.


Beth shared that she's had many of the same struggles. But not the same as me. The same as the person who has hurt me the most.


And then I realized, this whole time I'm rooting only for Beth, thinking I'm in the Beth role... But I'm not. I'm the cold one. I'm the judging one.  And I don't know if I can be the one to forgive and open my arms, and my home and my heart again. I'm too closed off and I'm just so hurt.  But people make mistakes.  Does it really take something so catastrophic to build that bridge?


Beth owns her part of her story and I own mine.  I do.  Writing this entry about a client's family has caused me to do more soul searching than any that I've chosen to write on my own. 

www.pencilportraitcards.com
http://www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards

Finding Noah




No good photos of your kids together? 
I'll clean them up and make them look like they like each other.

 

When I first heard from Jennifer, I didn’t think I was going to be able to help her.  When drawing a pencil portrait, I often combine different elements of the same person from different photographs (good hair day from one, a smile from another). 



I'd combined separate photos lots of times. But Jennifer wanted me to create a whole new person from pictures of other people. It sounded hard. I prefer not hard, because I am lazy that way. 


Considering how picky some clients can be about a drawing of an existing person, how was I going to match Jennifer’s expectations for someone I couldn’t see?



About fourteen years earlier, Jennifer had been expecting her first child, a little boy.  Over the moon with excitement, she went in for an ultrasound.  As she began telling me her story, Jennifer asked me if I had kids.  “You know how there is sometimes a hesitation by the ultrasound technician that can be a little scary?” 


I knew what she meant.  I had some greenhorn hack of a nurse’s aide during an early appointment when I was expecting Max.  We'd heard a heartbeat immediately with Joey, but this time the nurse couldn’t find one.  As she fumbled around, she kept glancing furtively at me with what seemed like fear or pity.  By the time she gave up and called a doctor into the room, I was sick with terror.  The doctor found Max’s mischievous little whooshy heartbeat quickly and I burst into relieved tears.  The nurse’s aide gave me a sheepish smile while I fantasized about giving her hair a good yank.

 

Nobody came to Jennifer’s rescue.  She left the appointment with an ice cold suspicion that something was wrong.  Her doctor called her at work a day or two later with devastating news. Her baby boy had anencephaly – an absence of brain.  The baby had a brain stem that allowed him to grow inside of her, but once he was born, he wouldn’t survive.  

 

 

Let’s pause for a moment and collectively consider the stupidity and insensitivity of that nimrod doctor calling someone at work with that kind of news.  Don’t doctors go to school for like 20 years?  How about a pre-med class in not being a dick??
 

 

 Somebody missed this class.
 

There would be serious health risks for Jennifer in continuing the pregnancy.  She and her husband were stunned, devoutly religious and devastated.  They sought the help of their pastor who sadly advised them that in their case, terminating the pregnancy was a necessary, terrible thing they needed to do for Jennifer's safety.  The same pastor baptized their son, at 22 weeks.

 

They had planned to name the baby Zachary, but Jennifer saw in a baby book that Noah meant “at rest.”  So they named him Noah and he was alive in their hearts.

 

Thankfully, Jennifer had three more healthy pregnancies… three beautiful, vibrant children. 

 

“Noah’s loss has always been something that we talked about openly with the kids,” Jennifer told me.  “My children are very spiritual and they have always understood why Noah is still important to us.  It’s okay to say his name and to remember that we had another baby.”  Noah came into the world, and left it, on December 1^st. Every year, Jennifer has a little birthday party with a cake in his memory.




On a scrapbooking web site, she ran across an artist’s rendering using photos of a baby’s siblings. Jennifer thought it was one of the most heart breaking and sweet things that she had ever seen. 

 

This wasn’t the first time I’d worked with a grieving parent.  Jennifer knows that most people can’t understand how she feels.  She had always suffered painful, mixed feelings about the Polaroid picture that had been taken of Noah.  As scary, blurry and broken a picture as it was, Jennifer couldn’t bear to throw it away.   At least it proved he was real.

 

“In my head,” Jennifer said, “he’s whole, he’s complete." 

 

Jennifer googled me about her idea and we exchanged tentative emails.  I told her I would try to digitally combine aspects of Noah's siblings to come up with a layout she could approve.  It was a little nerve-wracking for both of us.  I love to connect with my clients and there was a sad divide between us as I approached the project from a technical perspective and she held her breath, wondering how close I would come to the flesh and blood Noah of her dreams.  Trying to ease the tension, I gushed with Jennifer about how delicious babies are.  She told me, “My favorite baby stage is around 9 months when they are sitting up on their own and cruising around.  My other children were all big juicy babies, chubby and happy.

 

 

 

 

“That’s how I picture Noah.  I just don’t want to think of him like in that photograph, anymore.” 

 

I'd never faced such a heavy responsibility, as an artist.  To create an image of Noah, of hope, of what should have been.  I put him in overalls, because I’d loved them so much on my chubby baby boys. 

 

I drew Noah’s name stitched on the front of his little boy’s overalls and remembered the soft, sweet, heft of my own babies in my arms, wishing I had those hectic, glorious days back.  It was my turn to hold my breath as I emailed a scan of the portrait off to Jennifer.  She admitted, she was afraid to open it at first.

To both of our relief, Jennifer loved the portrait and was particularly thrilled with Noah’s overalls; her little boys had worn them, too.  She said that Noah’s portrait reminded her of a police sketch artist's age progression to find a missing child, and when the child is found, the sketch miraculously matches. 

 

 

 

It choked me up that I’d come anywhere close to the private image in her heart.  I thought about my easy pregnancies, how I happily announced to anyone and everyone that I was expecting about ten minutes after I knew for sure. I never worried for a second. How would I have coped with something like this? Was Jennifer able to enjoy her subsequent pregnancies? Did the fear ever give her rest? I wanted so much to ease her pain, if only a little.  Looking back, I wish the sketch was better, that she'd found me after I'd had more practice being a full time artist.

 

 

Jennifer surprised her family with Noah’s portrait on what would have been his 14th birthday.  They were all delighted.  It hangs in their kitchen.  Jennifer’s son, Joshua, called him “No No,” and he asks where Noah is when he looks at the portrait.  “I tell him that Noah is in heaven,” Jennifer says with confidence.

 

Although the portrait hangs in a prominent place, Jennifer hasn’t really shared it with anyone outside of her family.  “It was a long time ago,” Jennifer tells me, “and people think you’re supposed to be over it.  If you haven’t experienced it, you just don’t know how it feels.  It doesn’t go away.” 

 

There have been other special stories, like Gideon – a baby who was given little or no chance of survival but fought like a warrior, the meaning of his name.  One woman worked with my husband and wanted a baby more than life itself, trying and trying, only to have her only surviving baby gone in a flash of hospital white.  She told me not to rush on her lost baby’s portrait; she had waited a long time and could wait as long as it took.  When I called with the finished portrait months later, there was a baby’s cry in the background; an adopted answered prayer that brought a lump of happiness to my throat. 

Most of the lost babies I've drawn took a few precious breaths before they left their broken hearted families. Some of the photographs have been wrenching to see. Some parents have asked for wings or a halo. Some just wanted no more tubes or machines. 

 

 

 

They all want what Jennifer wanted… a picture of a healthy baby. The dream child, a portrait from within their hearts, from the way things were supposed to be.

 

Wendy Zumpano
www.pencilportraitcards.com
www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards

Six reasons I hate Facebook

Sometimes I hate Facebook, and it's not just because of Timeline.



Mostly I love it.  I would not be writing this blog if I hadn't been inspired by a Facebook post.  The sense of community that Facebook provides is comforting to this isolated pencil portrait artist.  I have no other coworker drama and/or chatter to entertain me (except for my awesome mom).  Plus it scratches my ADD itchy-itches by providing an endless parade of distractions.



However, Facebook can cause serious problems for someone with already questionable work discipline.  Unlike my lucky son Max who so enjoys when I say, "turn off the video games and practice your trombone," I have nobody to chide me for spending too much time doing things I shouldn't.  Like trying to find my evil ex-boyfriend online or watching that weird talking cat video that you just posted or writing this blog instead of drawing.  (P.S. I found a photo of my ex, "Dick", online and he got FAT.)



On one hand, Facebook allows me to have a fake social life and market my pencil portrait business.  On the other hand, Facebook stirs up trouble.




Problem 1:  Screwing around

Everyone relates to typical Facebook voyeur and/or exhibitionist time wasting.  In addition, I accidentally developed an embarrassing crystal meth-like addiction to mindless Facebook games like Bejeweled and Zuma Blitz.  My husband Joe actually mentioned this addiction in our family Christmas letter, which I promptly edited out.  Joe HATES to be edited as he is an enormous fan of his own comedy.  He has disgustedly reminded me of this edit a couple times, convinced that my Bejeweled obsession warranted a mention.  Sorry, but my game-playing shame spiral was just too severe at that time and the pride I took in my high scores was a private, beautiful thing that I did not want printed alongside the kids' sports activities.  I am relieved to report that I quit playing games cold turkey and even spent a good hour or so trying to figure out how to block myself from ever playing them again. 
(You can't.) 

Don't you do it.  Do not click.  Dammit, there goes two hours.

After I stopped playing, my game-accompanying wine and cheez-it consumption was much reduced and my productivity went way up.  I recently rewarded myself for getting a bunch of work done by allowing myself to play a few games for the first time in many months, and I find myself yearning for more. 


I must not chase that dragon.



Problem 2: Jesus and Obama

This kid is probably 30 by now.

If you are my friend on Facebook, I am connected to you, somehow.  I have a few requests from people who have 59 mutual friends, but I honestly can't remember them for the life of me.  Photos are often no help.  Unlike my kids who collect FB friends like Pokemon cards (let's pretend it's still 2002, I don't know what kids collect now), I don't want you on my personal friend list if you are a stranger.  However, I don't know everyone on my list that well.  And some of you like to talk about Jesus and Obama.  A lot.  I have the deepest respect for faith and I sort of admire the passion that some people have about our country's leaders unless you get super annoying about it.  But my Facebook is a place for talking about things that are mainstream and comfortable to me, like booze and family and being forgetful.  I like all your borderline obscene jokes, your unfortunate bar photos and even your child/spouse/pet bragging tributes.  I'm sort of annoyed by your "Like this post if you love your cousin" shares, but I'll let those slide even though you and I have better things to do with our time.  But if you start ranting about Jesus or Obama, I'm out.  UNSUBSCRIBE.  But sometimes, it's too late.  I can't unsee your post, and sometimes it makes me sad and worried about you.  I'm sure you're sad and worried about me too and that is a problem with Facebook. 




This goes out to you, Tina beans.

Problem 3: Jealousy

Maybe you look skinny in your photos.  Maybe you are out with our mutual friends having fun without me.  Maybe you are having conversations with people I don't even know (thank you weird rolling nanny-cam feed up the side of the screen) and those conversations are funnier than my conversations.  Whatever, I'm jealous.


Problem 4: Annoying others

The flip side of Problem 2, is that sometimes I'm the one with the Jesus/Obama-esque post that makes YOU mad.  That's okay if you quietly unsubscribe from me like a normal person.  I've seen some serious scuffles between complete strangers on a mutual friend's post.  (Ellie, I'm thinking of the stolen locker clothes throwdown.)  This can be hilarious for the rest of us, but I have the emotional constitution of a battered four year old.  If I'm involved in one of those scuffles, my saran-wrap emotional protective layer gets immediately ripped and I lie awake sulking for days.  I avoid arguments and negativity like the plague in my interactions with others. 





STOP TAGGING ME in photos!

Once a friend called and scolded me for sharing too many things on Facebook.  The friend asked whether I felt I was extremely important or whether I was so damn lonely I felt the need to post every time I go to the bathroom.  The friend continued to complain about other friends who enjoy posting very regularly.  I sent my friend instructions on how to remove those friends (including me) from the newsfeed.  This friend doesn't get my posts anymore and I have another war wound to pout over.  Facebook was not helpful in this particular relationship.  But that was mild...


Problem 5: Making enemies

I considered including this story as part of Problem 4, but this is really another level.  Sometimes I am a smart ass... perhaps you've noticed.  I NEVER want to hurt anyone's feelings, ever, but I really like to joke around.  Like Joe, I find myself rather entertaining.  Plus, I have trouble with self control.



A former coworker, who only reached out to me when he needed something, was a semi-friend in my corporate life.  Now, we're barely acquaintances.  The "friend", who we will refer to as "Jackass", posted a rave review on Facebook about the television show Parenthood.  For some reason, I found it kind of funny that a guy would gush about this particular show.  It seemed girly.  So I called him a skirt or something like that, in a JOKING way. 



In retrospect, this was a poor choice on my part.  But that's how we roll at my house.  If you do something slightly out of character, we automatically begin a competitive juvenile joke-off about each other.  Unlike my twelve year old, Jackass has ZERO sense of humor when it comes to himself.  He replied to my comment with some sort of incredulous statement like "What???  Why would you say THAT?"  Then he deleted my comment.  Censureship?!!  "You deleted my funny?" I posted, and he deleted that too. 


So I unfriended him.



This was the first time I'd unfriended anyone, but this person wasn't really a friend.  Just a prior coworker from 8+ years ago who wasn't much of a friend then, either.  This guy is way too sensitive (and that's coming from me for Pete's sake), and he doesn't appreciate my sense of humor, so that was about enough of that. 



Months later, I bumped into him while lunching downtown with a former work buddy.  He introduced us to his boss and began aggressively mentioning things that had been happening in my life.  I found this surprising, as I'd unfriended him and I don't give a rat turd about what's happening with him, so why was he so overly informed about me?  Then he proceeded to start bragging about his boss in an almost romantic manner.  "Wow!" I observed, in a joking tone, "You sure are a maestro of ass-kissing."  Or something like that.  Everyone laughed, including his boss, because he was REALLY laying it on thick.  I like to make jokes.  I'm not a corporate person anymore and as a civilian, I can say what I want to say, although I often have to face the consequences.  Besides, Jackass was being a jackass.



And then I received this message at 1:23 am.

There are many things I love about this message.  The misspelling of "Tourette's", the apostrophe deficiency, the abundance of "...", the total defensive foot-stomping of it all, the comparison to his poor wife who has to LIVE with him.  I have news for YOU, Jackass, I now own a big girl tent and have you forgotten that you PAID for a portrait of your kids from me and RAVED about it for years? And NEWS ALERT, Jackass, I have a friend who lived in a trailer park and she runs rings around you in EVERY category.


Mostly, this note smacks of the fact that I really, really hurt Jackass's feelings with that unfriending.  When we worked together, I regularly made jokes much worse than the ass-kissing observation.  And yet, I was probably out of line then, too.  If he'd told me in an adult way that it bothered him, I would have fallen over myself to apologize.  I admit that I have a problem acting like a grown up sometimes.  I have a friend who constantly shushes me in groups because I'm too loud, especially when I'm telling inappropriate personal stories.  I know I'm not classy.  Especially now that I've had some time and distance, this nasty, mean, furious note is pretty funny, especially since he was clearly drinking and messaging... I mean, it was 1:23 am.  Sadly, I'm no stranger to late-night mean drunk messages and I know them when I see them.  He wanted to be the one who unfriended ME and called ME the ass-kisser, so there!!!  I guess he showed me!!!  And he did.  At first, I was devastated that I'd made somebody so upset and that his words were so hateful.



I learned a very important lesson...



Problem 6: Facebook can be MEAN.

Unfriending, blocking, changing relationship status to single... the impact of how small the world has become and what we can do to each other in "public" is brutal.  In pre-Facebook days, I would have blissfully lost contact with this big fat Jackass and never thought of him again.  Instead, I accidentally hurt his feelings with an unnecessary comment about his obsession with Parenthood.  I did send him a sincere apology, explaining that he misinterpreted my comments as being deliberately rude, when they were meant as affectionate teasing.  There was no response, and that's okay.  I try to be more careful about my questionable sense of humor now and I never unfriend anyone.  I just take them off my newsfeed or block them from seeing my posts like any normal passive aggressive person should.


Mostly, I've learned that if you do unfriend someone, don't forget to unfriend his wife.


www.pencilportraitcards.com
www.facebook.com/pencilportraitcards