Our usually scheduled programming will be preempted for a special announcement:
I’m one of these people who goes for walks late at night so I can peer into other people’s windows. When I hear the neighbours having a discussion in their backyard, I listen. Carefully. When cars park on the street in front of my house, I poke my nose through the curtains and watch where the people are going. Are they carrying a present? Why? Whose having a birthday? Wine? Whose getting drunk?
Being nosy is a family trait. My mother is much more gifted at it than I am.
So imagine my surprise and pleasure when I started surfing all the blogs out there to
steal get ideas for mine and realized there is an entire world of bloggers who are quite willing to share every private tidbit of their lives. I. Love. That.
Bad parenting. Bad marriage. Crappy job. Sex toys. Drinking games. Ex-husbands. You name it. It’s out there. And I get to read about it. For free!
I thought Facebook was great. When I first discovered it, I thought I had died and gone to Nosy Heaven. Status updates! I mean come on, really, you’re telling me this shit! Awesome.
Until I started blogging a couple weeks ago, I would log into Facebook
dozens several times a day. Now I’m down to 4-5 times. When I go on, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I’ll sit there and watch the computer screen. It’s like I’m expecting all my friends to jump out and shout: Surprise! Nine two private messages. Three people replied to my status update. You like me, you really like me!
And don’t get me started on the ex-boyfriend bonus. First love. Endless love. Creepy guy from grade 12 English class. Complimenting me. Telling me I’m hot. I’m 41 years old with four kids. You’re telling me I’m hot, same effect as lemon gin.
I’ll admit upon first contact I’m filled with varying degrees of guilt. I am married to a guy who ties a rope around his waist, stands on the roof, and lets me photograph him for my blog. I mean what more could a girl ask for.
Elizabeth from The View would say that exchanging messages with other men is committing emotional adultery. Bite me. If part A doesn’t go into slot B, we’re good.
But bloggers allow me access I’ve only ever dreamed about. So sorry Facebook people, your one-line status updates are no longer feeding the beast.
So I’m off to
snoop discover more talented writers. Writers who understand that privacy sucks. Long-live narcissism and open books.
Tune in tomorrow for our regularly scheduled dose of “Simple Abundance” where I will wax philosophical about Ms. Sarah Ban Breathnach’s June 23rd declaration: “Fairy cakes are made for tea, midsummer’s syllabub is prepared for a moonlit picnic”… syllabub? Googling…