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Thursday, January 22, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Facebook, In Translation
My apologies to my loyal reader(s) (thank you, honey, for regularly checking 3POP on multiple workstations so that I’ll have more than one hit a day) for briefly abandoning the blog. I signed up for a Facebook account just over a week ago and it has sucked up all my energy. Who knew that you could spend so much time on a website with no overt pornography?
Overall, my rookie week on Facebook has been a positive experience. However, I’ve discovered that there is a glaring discrepancy between the actual written messages you receive from old friends, and the underlying meaning conveyed through your memory of said friends. Observe:
What she says is: “I haven’t seen you in sooooo long. I’ve really grown up a lot since high school.”
What she means is: I’m really embarrassed about that time after the party with all those Jell-O shots, when I tried to give you road head on the way home but ended up throwing up on your crotch and all over the car. That doesn’t happen anymore (the throwing up part).
What he says is: “New York is F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S! I really love living in Chelsea. I am out at bars almost every night. ;-)”
What he means is: I now have sex with men—often. But since we went to a very conservative high school, I want to gauge your tolerance level before I share the pictures of me at last year’s Pride Parade dressed as Carmen Miranda.
What she says is: “I absolutely love being a mom!!!! I don’t miss being the youngest vice president and highest paid woman at XYZ Corporation at all.”
What she means is: As I was the epitome of a Type-A overachiever in high school, I now miss the sense of control that only a high-powered career could provide. And it turns out to be kind of a bummer to have a little dependant who’s always drooling, soiling himself, and constantly wanting to suck on my nipples. Reminds me of when we used to date.
What he says is: “It’s really cool seeing my boy play Little League on the same field we all used to play on. I take the time to go to all his practices.”
What he means is: As a failed athlete who desperately wanted to play ball in college but could not cut it, I now intend to live vicariously through my son even if it means forcing him to take his meals in the backyard batting cage I built, holding him back two grade levels to ensure his athletic dominance, and affixing a bat to his palm with industrial adhesive one night in a tearful drunken rage.
Overall, my rookie week on Facebook has been a positive experience. However, I’ve discovered that there is a glaring discrepancy between the actual written messages you receive from old friends, and the underlying meaning conveyed through your memory of said friends. Observe:
What she says is: “I haven’t seen you in sooooo long. I’ve really grown up a lot since high school.”
What she means is: I’m really embarrassed about that time after the party with all those Jell-O shots, when I tried to give you road head on the way home but ended up throwing up on your crotch and all over the car. That doesn’t happen anymore (the throwing up part).
What he says is: “New York is F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S! I really love living in Chelsea. I am out at bars almost every night. ;-)”
What he means is: I now have sex with men—often. But since we went to a very conservative high school, I want to gauge your tolerance level before I share the pictures of me at last year’s Pride Parade dressed as Carmen Miranda.
What she says is: “I absolutely love being a mom!!!! I don’t miss being the youngest vice president and highest paid woman at XYZ Corporation at all.”
What she means is: As I was the epitome of a Type-A overachiever in high school, I now miss the sense of control that only a high-powered career could provide. And it turns out to be kind of a bummer to have a little dependant who’s always drooling, soiling himself, and constantly wanting to suck on my nipples. Reminds me of when we used to date.
What he says is: “It’s really cool seeing my boy play Little League on the same field we all used to play on. I take the time to go to all his practices.”
What he means is: As a failed athlete who desperately wanted to play ball in college but could not cut it, I now intend to live vicariously through my son even if it means forcing him to take his meals in the backyard batting cage I built, holding him back two grade levels to ensure his athletic dominance, and affixing a bat to his palm with industrial adhesive one night in a tearful drunken rage.
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