Outside the Baby Bubble

Deleted

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Anyone who’s been on Facebook for a few years has been through it, some of us more than once.

It happens in a series of steps. (1) Someone randomly pops into your head. (2) You think to yourself, “I wonder what so-and-so is up to.” (3) You go on to think, “Hmmmm. So-and-so hasn’t posted anything on Facebook in a long time.” (4) You get a sinking feeling. (5) You look up so-and-so on Facebook and are slapped in the face by an “add friend” button.

You’ve been deleted.

When this most unfortunate thing happens, the key is to handle it with grace. You accept that you’re not going to be for everyone, and it’s a part of life. Your friend chose to break ties, and you wish that person well. You’re too busy and enlightened for hard feelings. You move on.

I give myself excellent advice. The problem is, I rarely take it.

Five years ago, I attended my friend Becky’s daughter’s birthday party. There I saw her brother, and immediately, my brain performed steps 1-5.

Not one to miss an opportunity for awkward confrontation, I slithered up to him while he filled his cup from the punch bowl.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Oh, hey,” he said. “Real good, thanks. The twins are growing up fast. Just the other day they–”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s great,” I said. “So, listen. I see you deleted me on Facebook.”

“I did?”

“Yes. You did. Any particular reason?”

He resumed filling his cup. “I dunno. Did you post pictures of your dinner more than three times?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve never posted a picture of my dinner. (The truth is, if I knew how to make a dinner, I’d most likely post it. But he didn’t have to know that.)

“What about cat videos?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “None of those, either.” (The reason for this being, by the time I’m done with my daily eight-hour dose of funny cat videos, I have no time left for sharing them. But he didn’t have to know this, either.)

A silence fell between us. His cup was now overflowing. He could see I wasn’t letting him off the hook. He put down his ladle.

“Look,” he explained. “As far as Facebook friends go, I have a 99 rule. Once I see I’ve got more than that, I start narrowing it down.”

I stared. I waited for him to explain further. He didn’t.

“’Ninety-nine rule’—what the hell is that?” I demanded. “You’re going to stand there and tell me that I didn’t even make your top 100?! I’ll have you know I am the most likable, non-offensive person on social media. My grammar is impeccable, and I never post my opinions on religion or politics. Who do you think you are—Simon Cowell?”

Now he was the one who was staring.

“And let me tell you something about my posts,” I ranted. “People like them. Some people even describe them as witty. The New York Times called my posts the biggest effin’ sensation since the British Invasion. What did I do to fall out of your good goddamned graces?”

If I’m not mistaken, I believe I saw a glimmer of half-amusement, half-pity in his eyes. “There is a reapplication process,” he consoled.

I got three inches away from his face. “Let me tell you how this is going to play out,” I hissed. “You are going to send me a shiny new friend request. And neither of us are leaving this party until you do it.”

If I remember correctly, he left the party before I did. He didn’t say good-bye.

Five years later, the friend request has finally arrived.

America, it’s time to cast your vote. Shall I confirm Chris Robinson?

End of an era

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In 1978, two bright-eyed kindergarteners pushed through the doors of East School, clutching Incredible Hulk and Muppet Show lunch boxes. The building was shiny and new, a mere two years after its grand opening.

This year, East School has closed its doors at the end of a school year for the last time.

The Torrington Board of Education has deemed it old, decrepit, and beyond repair. As Fox 61 reported, “This aging architecture is showing its wrinkles.”

Year of construction: 1976. Year I was born: 1973.

Remind me not to send a Christmas card to Fox 61 or the Torrington Board of Ed this year.

Some memorabilia on display
The ramp leading to the music room
The library looks exactly the same, minus Ms. Murphy.

The door to Mr. Connell’s 6th grade classroom, where the year of abuse between me and Doug unfolded.
To the right of Mr. Connell’s door is a computer room, which Doug immediately recognized as the former TAG room. The door was locked, and Doug was pissed that he was denied entrance once again.
An outside view of our kindergarten class, where the magic began amidst dinosaur models and orange peanut butter crackers.
They now have a playscape on the upper playground!
Main office, minus Mrs. Grosso
Absolutely nothing changed about the gym. Felt just like being in gym class all over again. I was just waiting for a white-haired Janet Beck to appear with a whistle around her neck!
The kids were not feeling as nostalgic as we were. They were too fixated on the ice cream vendor in the playground.
Sixth grade…the class of ’85 (I am in front row, far right; Doug is row 4, third to the left. LOL?
We could only find one stump left that wasn’t too rotted to sit on.
Good-bye, East School! Lots of beautiful memories, forever. ❤

On men, women, and the metal gods

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On Thursday night, Doug and his old friend, Jimmy, went to see the Metal Gods Themselves, Judas Priest. Jimmy left his car at our house, and Doug made the 57-mile drive to the Mohegan Sun.

While getting the kids ready for school Friday morning, I asked, “So how was the show?”

“Oh, man, it was f*cking impeccable,” he said. “They played everything from to the ‘The Green Manalishi’ to ‘Saints in Hell.’ It was the most savage performance I’ve ever seen. Rob Halford is 66 years old, and he still f*cking shreds the mike. I don’t know how he still does it.” Then he started to relive the moment he got to meet Rob Halford backstage in 2005, and he started to detail the entire conversation when I reminded him I was running late for work.

After I started my car, I returned to the kitchen, where he was scrambling eggs and humming “A Touch of Evil.”

“Why is Jimmy’s car still in the driveway?” I asked.

“Oh,” Doug said while pushing the spatula around the frying pan. “I had to leave him there.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“He got all f*cked up and vanished,” he explained. “I looked around for him for about an hour, but then the Electric Eye came on the screen, and Halford started belting out ‘The Ripper.’”

“But…did you call him?”

“It’s 6:45 in the morning,” Doug said. “He’s probably still f*cked up.”

“But…how is he going to get home?”

“He’ll take a bus or something. He’ll be fine. Did you steal my coffee cup?”

His nonchalance was bewildering. I forged ahead with my interrogation. “Do you think he’s OK?”

Doug started shoveling the eggs in plates and cast an irritated glance in my direction. “Listen, he’ll call me if he needs a ride,” he said. “Didn’t you say you were late for work?”

All the way to work, I thought about how unsettling the conversation was. Then I started imagining it from a different angle, had I been the one at the concert with one of my friends. It sounded something like this:

Doug: “So how was the show?”

Me: “Oh, man, it was f*cking impeccable. Adele shredded the mike. I don’t know how she does it.”

Doug: “But why is Em Kline’s car still in the driveway?”

Me: “Oh. I had to leave her there.”

Doug: “I beg your pardon?”

Me: “Her hair got all f*cked up, and she vanished in the ladies’ room. I spent an hour looking for her, but then Adele started belting out ‘Hello.'”

Doug: “But…did you call her?”

Me: “It’s 6:45 in the morning. Her hair’s probably still all f*cked up.”

Doug: “But…how is she going to get home?”

Me: “She was wearing flats. She’ll be fine.”

Doug: “But…do you think she’s OK?”

Me: “Listen, she’ll call me if she needs a flatiron. Don’t you have eggs to scramble?”

Fast forward to 2020…

Doug: “Whatever happened to Emily? I haven’t seen her for a while.”

Me: “We’re not speaking to each other again. Some sh*t about how I abandoned her 57 miles away with no transportation at a casino. She can be so petty sometimes.”

I would have imagined far beyond 2020, but by that point I’d arrived at my school parking lot.

When I came home from work, Jimmy’s car was no longer in the driveway. Apparently, he’d ended up taking a cab home and spent the next morning battling a hangover. He called Doug for a ride back to our house, where the two exchanged memories of the show, which come to find out, they watched on opposite sides of the arena. They started making plans for Priest’s next Connecticut appearance. Then Jimmy brought his car back home.

Hello, John Gray? Call HarperCollins and tell them to stop the presses. I just rewrote the last chapter of your book.

This time for realz

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Some of you may recall Harold Camping, a Christian radio broadcaster and evangelist. He served as president of Family Radio, and he became famous after predicting the arrival of Judgment Day on May 21, 2011. On that day, he pinky-promised, Jesus would return with tickets to paradise. Sadly, those who weren’t saved would be left to combat fire, brimstone, and plagues, with millions of people dying each day, up until October 21, when God would deliver the final blow to the universe.

(As an interesting aside, Merrriam-Webster defines “brimstone” with a single word: “sulfur.” You can interpret that divine final blow however you see fit.)

Followers worldwide promptly began donating their life savings to Mr. Camping. They told their bosses to go screw, quit their jobs, relinquished all their earthly possessions, and spent what they presumed their final days in glorious pre-rapturous rapture.

May 21 came and went. Nothing happened.

I thought about Harold Camping as I was hunkering down yesterday after just about every school district in the state called for an early dismissal. So far, I had been hunkering down for five hours straight, and not a snowflake was to be seen.

Now, where was I in my story? Ah, yes. Harold Camping.

On May 22, 2011, his followers were tweaking. How can this have happened? We have no jobs. We have no homes. The sinners are laughing at us, and the world is still deploringly intact.

Not to worry, reassured Camping. What happened on May 21 was actually an invisible “spiritual judgment” of sorts. The actual, physical rapture would occur on October 21, simultaneously with the destruction of the universe. Sit tight, he assured his followers. The end is near.

My thoughts were interrupted by Bruce DePrest, who was delivering his forecast on WFSB under the screaming headline: “Winter Storm Genny Will Bring Snow to All of Connecticut Tonight!”

“Winter Storm Genny has been off to a slow start, to say the least.” Bruce cleared his throat. “But the worst of Winter Storm Genny will occur this evening and tonight. It will intensify offshore as it moves to the south and east of New England…”

I was sold. I forewent planning my lessons for the next day, and instead, I stayed up until 1 a.m. watching videos of cats getting scared out of their wits by cucumbers. I didn’t set my alarm clock.

When I woke up a half hour before the school’s opening, I strained my pre-caffeinated eyes upon a blurry laptop screen.

No email from my principal announcing a closing. Strange.

I ventured over to WFSB and examined each listing.

Not even a delay.

Just outside our front door, a dusting settled upon the driveway.

Every story should have an ending, even if it’s not a happy one. When October 21, 2011 came and went without flame, sulfur or plague, Harold Camping was a global disgrace. He promptly retired from his position as president of Family Radio, and two months later, he suffered a stroke. His former followers dubbed him a “false prophet.” Family Radio went on in his absence, but suffered a massive loss of assets, staff, and revenue.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, right. I was going to make a forecast of my own.

Bruce & the friends at WFSB, you can start hunkering down now. It doesn’t look like blue skies ahead.