Why Can't We Be (Facebook) Friends

Dear Potential Facebook Friend,

Please don't take this the wrong way, but, who are you?

I'll be the first to admit that I have a terrible memory for names, and lately my facial recognition skills are starting to slip, too. I already have some (four) FB friends who I thought I knew because we have so many friends in common, and because their name sounded familiar (or kinda sorta did), or their profile picture looked (vaguely) familiar. It took me months after clicking “Confirm” to realize that I don't, in fact, have any clue who these people are.

Not that it's a problem. I've never unfriended them because, quite frankly, their lives are so much more exciting and fun to read about than mine. And they share the best jokes! I have no idea why they haven't unfriended me, but I'm glad. I'm sure there have been times when my posts came across their newsfeed and they thought “who the heck is she and why did I click Confirm?”

I also have several FB friends who are friends of friends, or with whom I share a common interest – like running, writing or our community. Again, love reading their posts and reposts! Because, like I said, we have something in common.

But you.... You are an enigma. Quite frankly, I find your lack of personal information intriguing.

First of all I'd just like to say how honored and surprised I was to receive your friend request. Honored, because apparently I will be your first Facebook friend (Yay me!). Surprised because, let's be honest, you are some kinda hot. I mean, like, male-model hot. And single. And, apparently, friendless, which is kinda sad. And not at all suspicious.

I get it. You're from America, but you recently moved to Afghanistan or France or England and you haven't had time to make friends among the locals. Hey, you've been too busy to post any information in your profile, let alone meet people. In person, or on-line.

Quite frankly, as a proud American, I am a little concerned that we seem to be exporting such a high number of extremely attractive, middle-aged, single men lately. And you all are sending friend requests to little old me! I'm honored. And surprised. Again.

It's charming how you all seem to pose for the same style photos. What are the odds so many of you would own convertibles and speedboats, or that you would all be pilots or businessmen or part of such a large, large crowd? Not that I have anything against your profile picture or your cover page photo. They are stunning. And obviously not photoshopped. Not at all. Nope. Nope-er. Nope-est.

OK, I'll admit I was starting to get a little suspicious, especially when I received so many similar requests in such a short amount of time.

Then I received a FB friend request from Billy Joel. (True story.)

And? He used the same photos they used on the Billy Joel FB page I'm already following.

And? And? He only had one friend and no profile information.

My flabber was gasted.

Unfortunately someone at Facebook must have removed his request before I could click “Confirm.”

ConfirmConfirmConfirmConfirmCONFIRM.

So.

Obviously this means all you other 2-photo, 1-friend, no-info Friend Requesters are totally legit. Not that I ever suspected any of you were scammers or hackers or ne'er-do-wells.

And I realize that I may have hurt your feelings when I denied and deleted your friend request. I'll totally understand if you do not send me another friend request.

Really. It's OK. Don't do it.

Unless you're Billy Joel.

In which case....

I Spy(der) With My Little Eye

Temperatures are cooling off in Eastern Iowa, signaling the start of the annual great spider migration into our humble castle. The castle is currently undergoing renovations and siding, thus disrupting the lives of all inhabitants – including spiders. This has resulted in a drastic increase in the number of Queen (me) V. Spider (them) throwdowns.

I am happy to report that yesterday's incident report has me ahead 2-0. Unless you count the little black spider near the front door, who is trying desperately to pretend he is just another dirt speck on the wall. Then the count would be more like 2-0-1. He is small, and plucky, and I have decided to grant him pardon, for the time being. I am a benevolent dictator, after all.

Make no mistake. One wrong move on his part, one sudden scurry while I am sitting on the steps tying my shoes, and he will be spider schmear. Benevolent and mercurial.

I try to give spiders the benefit of the doubt. I know they are an important part of the ecosystem, doing their part to keep the insect population in check. If it appears they are busy little bees – er, arachnids – meeting their bug-capture quota, I typically (occasionally) leave them alone. I like to think I only put an end to the dead weight – the slacker spiders who just hang around in their webs waiting for their tiny, little welfare checks to arrive. These lazy bums would probably starve to death anyway, so really, I'm just speeding up the inevitable, letting them die with dignity (and a crunch). Benevolent, mercurial and merciful.

For instance, right now I'm considering a bold spider social-science experiment, which would involve intense insect redistricting, and the busing of the aforementioned little spider from the front door area to the kitchen window area. The ants have established a ghetto on the window sill and are gaining a foothold (or six) on the counter top, which has for years been an exclusive fruit-fly resort area. The fruit-flies have attempted to build a wall to keep the undocumented ants out, but they have the attention span of gnats and are easily distracted by fresh fruit and sound bites.

Yesterday's death toll was the equivalent of spider-suicide. The creepy-crawly departed willingly violated my second rule for peaceful spider/me co-existence: If they don't move (there is a slight chance) I will ignore them. (Good advice for tiny spider by the door.)

Dead Spider 1 – a fairly good-sized brown house spider – could have lived. At first I mistook him for a dead cricket. That is, until I flipped him over with my duster and discovered that what I assumed was his violin and bow (Remember A Cricket in Times Square?) was actually two additional legs.

Still, he could have survived. But no. When I turned to get the dustpan (to facilitate the removal of his corpse, which was not actually a corpse) he made a run for it. Really, I had no choice. Death came swift and sure, delivered by a carefully aimed steel-toed work boot.

Dead Spider 2 was masquerading as a shiny green beetle, vacationing on the dryer's lint screen. (The lint screen for goodness sake! Is nothing sacred?) He too, made a run for it and was summarily flicked onto the floor and squashed. Repeatedly. With enthusiasm. And swearing.

This year's infestation has been a little unique, in that the number of spiders seems to have increased, but the top size of the spiders has decreased (So far. Knock wood.). In the past, there have been a few spiders I've threatened to put a saddle on and break to lead. (They were very carefully and quickly squashed, accompanied by much high-pitched screaming.)

I can't say as that I blame the spiders for their nomadic tendencies. Things are pretty higglety-pigglety here at the castle, what with all the construction, destruction, and spiders (but mostly the spiders). I've considered packing up my web, too. Then I consider the effort required to pack, stack, move and unpack (and meet new spiders) and I realize I'm just too tired to start over. Besides, I was here first and I have seniority – the average lifespan of a house spider is only about one year. (Yes, I Googled that as well as the spider ID and yes, I will have nightmares for the rest of my life.)

The sheer number of spiders this year (inside and out) has lead me to consider renting a flame-thrower, for some good, old-fashioned, extermination of biblical proportions. But that seems a little excessive at this point.

At. This. Point.

I'm leaving my options open.

Benevolent, mercurial, merciful, and amenable.

I rule with an iron hand in a velvet glove.

And steel-toed boots.

I Spy(der) With My Little Eye

Temperatures are cooling off in Eastern Iowa, signaling the start of the annual great spider migration into our humble castle. The castle is currently undergoing renovations and siding, thus disrupting the lives of all inhabitants – including spiders. This has resulted in a drastic increase in the number of Queen (me) V. Spider (them) throwdowns.

I am happy to report that yesterday's incident report has me ahead 2-0. Unless you count the little black spider near the front door, who is trying desperately to pretend he is just another dirt speck on the wall. Then the count would be more like 2-0-1. He is small, and plucky, and I have decided to grant him pardon, for the time being. I am a benevolent dictator, after all.

Make no mistake. One wrong move on his part, one sudden scurry while I am sitting on the steps tying my shoes, and he will be spider schmear. Benevolent and mercurial.

I try to give spiders the benefit of the doubt. I know they are an important part of the ecosystem, doing their part to keep the insect population in check. If it appears they are busy little bees – er, arachnids – meeting their bug-capture quota, I typically (occasionally) leave them alone. I like to think I only put an end to the dead weight – the slacker spiders who just hang around in their webs waiting for their tiny, little welfare checks to arrive. These lazy bums would probably starve to death anyway, so really, I'm just speeding up the inevitable, letting them die with dignity (and a crunch). Benevolent, mercurial and merciful.

For instance, right now I'm considering a bold spider social-science experiment, which would involve intense insect redistricting, and the busing of the aforementioned little spider from the front door area to the kitchen window area. The ants have established a ghetto on the window sill and are gaining a foothold (or six) on the counter top, which has for years been an exclusive fruit-fly resort area. The fruit-flies have attempted to build a wall to keep the undocumented ants out, but they have the attention span of gnats and are easily distracted by fresh fruit and sound bites.

Yesterday's death toll was the equivalent of spider-suicide. The creepy-crawly departed willingly violated my second rule for peaceful spider/me co-existence: If they don't move (there is a slight chance) I will ignore them. (Good advice for tiny spider by the door.)

Dead Spider 1 – a fairly good-sized brown house spider – could have lived. At first I mistook him for a dead cricket. That is, until I flipped him over with my duster and discovered that what I assumed was his violin and bow (Remember A Cricket in Times Square?) was actually two additional legs.

Still, he could have survived. But no. When I turned to get the dustpan (to facilitate the removal of his corpse, which was not actually a corpse) he made a run for it. Really, I had no choice. Death came swift and sure, delivered by a carefully aimed steel-toed work boot.

Dead Spider 2 was masquerading as a shiny green beetle, vacationing on the dryer's lint screen. (The lint screen for goodness sake! Is nothing sacred?) He too, made a run for it and was summarily flicked onto the floor and squashed. Repeatedly. With enthusiasm. And swearing.

This year's infestation has been a little unique, in that the number of spiders seems to have increased, but the top size of the spiders has decreased (So far. Knock wood.). In the past, there have been a few spiders I've threatened to put a saddle on and break to lead. (They were very carefully and quickly squashed, accompanied by much high-pitched screaming.)

I can't say as that I blame the spiders for their nomadic tendencies. Things are pretty higglety-pigglety here at the castle, what with all the construction, destruction, and spiders (but mostly the spiders). I've considered packing up my web, too. Then I consider the effort required to pack, stack, move and unpack (and meet new spiders) and I realize I'm just too tired to start over. Besides, I was here first and I have seniority – the average lifespan of a house spider is only about one year. (Yes, I Googled that as well as the spider ID and yes, I will have nightmares for the rest of my life.)

The sheer number of spiders this year (inside and out) has lead me to consider renting a flame-thrower, for some good, old-fashioned, extermination of biblical proportions. But that seems a little excessive at this point.

At. This. Point.

I'm leaving my options open.

Benevolent, mercurial, merciful, and amenable.

I rule with an iron hand in a velvet glove.

And steel-toed boots.