My Facebook (So-Called) Friends

I have been on FB since before it exploded among “regular” people. And I must say it’s interesting to see its evolution.

I first registered on the site I when one of my editors realized we needed to reach some students for a story we were working on. For those on FB, you could only contact them through FB if you were a member. Problem was, I was not a student. I had to contact my alumni office for a valid school email address.

I didn’t spend a lot of time stalking students for quotes. But I had a space. I was sort of parked there.

Soon, I was friended by someone I used to work with. They hardly needed an introduction. This person is a friend. One I know well. Then there was another and another and another. The friend requests came like a barrage and I began friending people like mad myself.

Most of my early FB friends were people I used to work with, all highly adept at digital technology and, hence, early adopters of the online social network. And for a good year or so most of my friends were in the digital business, people who are online a lot, use the internet for work or are just young.

I’ve even friended some people I have never met but had a connection with, either through mutual friends or business.

I will say that for every one of those people — those I’ve never met or who do not know me — I have always — repeat, always — sent them a message of introduction or explanation of why I was friending them. That just makes sense to me.

So what I find odd — and I’ll admit, a little annoying — is that I’ve been getting friend requests from more and more people I sort of know, or used to know, or met once, or knew in grade school or college and never ever speak to or have not spoken to for years and barely recognize their name.

And they put no note. Nothing. Not even a: “Hi, did used to go to XYZ school? I recognized your name…” or “Hi, I found you on FB and would love to keep in touch – my name is now XYZ but you remember me as ABC. How are you???”

Nothing.

I find this odd. It annoys me, as I already said. I mean, one childhood friend added me recently, which I guess was her way of saying “Hello.” Maybe I need to just lighten up here but she didn’t put so much as a, “Hi, what are you doing and where do you live?” even after I accepted her friend request and wrote a quick hello on her Wall saying she needs to fill me in on her life. I’ve still never heard from her. That must have been two or three weeks ago.

Odd.

So what do I do with these people? I am not sure I really even care to have them back in my life. I’ve done just fine without them. Not that there is anything wrong with them. Maybe I’m just in a different place.

Maybe I need a reason to re-connect. Maybe we need a kind of FB date. A little back and forth to stimulate my interest beyond the kind of connection you make at a school reunion. When you are happy to see the person, get caught up and then go on about your life and do not see them again until the next reunion. Or ever.

I guess I have only so much energy for my friends, FB included.

I certainly have no time for someone who doesn’t even make a tiny effort to communicate once we are “friends.” Again, I'm referring to people I barely know now. And have no professional connection with. They are simply someone from my past. I expect a little something from someone I once knew relatively well.

I’m not planning to delete these people but I do feel slightly exposed. So what I do is engage my privacy preferences. At least until they show me a little of themselves. I mean, so what if we hung out in grade school. I really have no idea who you are today. You know?

So my attitude is this: If you want to eavesdrop on my life, please, just drop me a line.

Some have. I do not need to talk to them all the time. For them I say: Feel free to hang out. Say or post something interesting, I might pipe in. I appreciate being in on the conversation.

That’s what is nice about FB. Connecting.

Why don’t some people get that?

My Mom: The Neo-Luddite

My mother is a Luddite. A neo-Luddite to be exact.

If they had a club, she’d be a proud card carrying member.

For those unfamiliar with the term, Luddites were a group who opposed technological and scientific innovations during the Industrial Revolution. These early 19th century English workmen went so far as to destroy laborsaving machinery as a protest.

Now it’s not that my mother is really opposed to progress. She’s not. She likes her electric garage door opener and knows how to set the home security system. And while her car has no CD player or cruise control or electric seats, that's more because she’s frugal. She enjoys things like cable channels and even owns a cell phone and uses the microwave oven.

No, I think my mom’s real issue is fear of technology, which translates into her being rather angry about technology.

After all, she is a bright woman — one who holds a master's degree in social work and nearly finished a second master's degree in fine art. She's just not tech smart.

Let me share some examples:

She has learned to use the universal remote on the TV, which is kind of unbelievable as sometimes I can’t even figure it out. But she’s really just learned the process of “always push this then that” without understanding what she’s doing. Hence, if something is awry, she’s clueless. That’s when she calls to my dad:

“I’m just pushing buttons. Just pushing buttons,” she’ll say loudly, the remote in her one hand as the other dramatically taps away at one button after the other until my father comes running in, aghast and frustrated: “What are you doing? Give me that.”

Of course, she’s a smart woman. He does it for her, which is what she wanted in the first place.

But then begins the explanation of the remote. It’s an act of futility. I can literally see her eyes glazing over as my father or I try to get her to understand the way it works.

“See, you have to turn the cable on first. You hit the cable button, then power, then you hit the TV then power, then go back to cable to be in that mode…”

“But I don’t want to watch cable,” she’ll say. In a twisted way, she makes sense. She wants to watch the network news.

“But mom, it’s all cable, the networks come through the cable.”

I can totally tell she’s not getting it. She doesn’t care. She just wants to watch the damn news. Sometimes it’s just easier for us to do it for her.

Oh, there are many examples like this. She pretty much treats the microwave the same way, pushing buttons, rather clueless to how it works but somehow getting things heated. It drives my dad crazy.

Then there is the issue of the computer and email. She gives people my dad’s email address so they can contact her. She has no idea of how to work the computer or access email. So he has to set it up for her and tell her to sit down, showing her each time how to go from one email to another.

And then of course, rather than compose a Letter to the Editor or other correspondence on the computer, she writes things up long hand. I’ll usually end up retyping it for her.

Then there is the mystery of digital photography, which she cannot seem to grasp. She is an artist accustomed to submitting her work for juried exhibitions on slides. Now that more and more shows are requesting CDs with jpeg files, she’s practically considering giving up showing.

“Can you make a jpeg?” she’ll ask me.

“Yes, I have a digital camera. I can take them and send them via email or put them on a disc.”

“Okay, let me know and I’ll pay for the film,” she says. I don’t even know how to begin the explanation that there is no film, but I tell her that anyway.

Now most of the time these instances are not a terrible problem — just sometimes a little frustrating.

But it can be problematic. I mean, I’d laugh if the ramifications were not so serious sometimes. For instance, she was put on a drug called Coumadin, a blood thinner. It can be a dangerous drug. People take it to avoid forming life-threatening clots. If you take too much, you could bleed to death from a fall or have numerous complications from internal bleeding.

Basically, people get a loading dose followed by a smaller daily dose that gets altered weekly depending on how much of the drug is in your system, which is monitored via weekly blood draws. You need to be in a therapeutic range. Not too high, not too low. Too low means you are not protected and there is no sense even being on the drug.

When my mom's cardiologist suggested she go on this drug recently, my dad decided against it, agreeing with a couple of her other doctors that it was not worth the risk. But my mother got concerned and decided to go ahead and get the prescription and take it.

So I asked her the other night: “How much did you take today?”

“I took half a pill. Dad didn’t want me on it so I thought I’d just take half.”

“Mom, what is your prescription? What does the bottle say?”

“One pill a day.”

“Mom, you have to follow the prescription. It doesn’t work like that….”

I tried to explain how it works. I could see her eyes glazing over soon into the explanation. I chose to see it as a challenge and continued a good five to ten minutes, using analogies and making hand gestures to portray a range as if on a chart, thinking: “I can win her over, I just know it.”

A few days later she informed she’d taken half a pill “because dad doesn’t want me on it.”

I guess it’s better than her taking too much. And she’s too smart to do that.

The other big problem is her cell phone. Oh, this makes my father and I crazy. Insane.

She has no idea how to access her voice mail, use her address book, change her ring style or adjust the volume. None of that. It’s all too complicated.

In her defense, there is way more stuff on these phones than most of us need or even use. Even I have to read the book sometimes. But as a regular technology user, I have a basic understanding she doesn’t possess.

So I’ll call her and she’ll pick up, then immediately hang up. This happens so often I’ve asked what she is doing.

“There’s something wrong with this phone,” she insists.

“Mom, nothing is wrong with the phone. You’re doing something.”

“No, there’s something wrong with this phone,” she insists again. "This phone is crazy."

I think I figured it out once in the car with her when she got a call. That she has it set to answer on open, and hang up on close, and when she’s driving and fumbles the phone she hangs up inadvertently. Or something like that.

More maddening, she somehow manages to turn her phone onto silent without realizing it and, thus, has no clue you are trying to reach her. This is a real problem if we don’t know where she is and are worried, or need to reach her for something important.

Other times the volume mysteriously goes down. If I call, she will yell:

"What? I can't hear you."

Then I scream into the phone: "Turn the volume up."

"What?" she'll yell back, even though I can hear her fine.

"Your volume. Turn it up."

Then, just as I feel thankful that I got her to answer her phone, she'll say, "I'm in traffic. I can't hear you. I'll call you back."

Click.

So far, thankfully, nothing horrible has happened through all this. And while I do think my mother would be happy if she easily grasped all of these gadgets and technology, it never was her way of thinking anyway.

And deep down — and this is why I call her a Luddite — I think she likes it this way.

I mean, I feel enslaved by technology sometimes. It would be nice to opt out now and then. Not have to read a manual for everything. Turn off the email and cell phone. Just have a few TV channels. Life might be simpler.

But, mom. Pick up the phone now and then, would you?

Not Quite the End

It was New Year’s Eve when I realized it might finally be over. You let me down. I burned with pain. But I endured the night with a smile. I wouldn’t let anyone know that I couldn’t take it any more.

I didn’t want it to end. But I needed a break.

For so many years you lifted me up. Literally. You made me feel tall, beautiful, confident. So grown up. So fabulous.

You in all your incarnations through every season, always there to raise me up when I needed it.

But the punishment took its toll.

I spent too many years ignoring this hurt and that. Not wanting to give you up. Not wanting to admit that you were simply not good for me.

I’d see all those other women, so happy. If they could have that, why not me?

So I didn’t want to admit it just might not be working out. I still don’t want to admit it. I don’t want it to be over. I would do anything to keep you in my life.

I remember being too young for you, dreaming of the day I could finally have you. We’ve had many blissful years since. Sure, I've felt pain now and then. But the pain never lasted too long. I always got through it.

Now, though, it’s gotten to be too much. Dare I say — and I don’t want to say it — you scare me. I’m a little afraid of you. And that’s the hardest thing of all to admit.

I just knew if didn’t make a break, something terrible and irreversible might happen.

So there we are. I miss you, terribly. So many reminders of you everywhere only makes it harder.

Quite simply, I can't imagine life without you. I don't think I could take that. I refuse to accept it.

But the break has been good. I'm taking care of myself and the pain has subsided.

I now feel ready to try again, just baby steps, to see if we can make another go of it.

Last night was wonderful. If only for a few hours. Oh I felt a little sting now and then but you were pretty good to me.

I will see you again. I just know it.

Because I cannot imagine life without you.

(Well, maybe I could live without you four-inch heels.)


(By the way: That gorgeous illustration above is available here: https://www.allposters.com/-sp/Highheels-Obsession-Posters_i1665533_.htm)

Remembering John

I was about nine. Maybe younger, maybe older. I can’t quite remember. But let’s say I was old enough to know better and young enough to be excused.

His name was John. John loved to skate at the rink where I was training as a competitive figure skater. It was a private club. Some thought it was a little snooty. I didn’t know about that. I did know something was wrong with John.

Wrong. Maybe that’s not a fair word. He was different.

John showed up regularly for the general skate sessions. I skated on those as well as the free skate sessions, which were exclusive to competitors. General skate was for a mish mash, skaters like me along with men and women my parents’ age. And there was John.

He seemed more like a child than the adult he was. He was awkward, off balance both physically and mentally. He was not bad looking but his hair was always greasy and his large glasses always slipping perilously low on his nose. He smelled like chicken soup every time he swooped past. He'd swing one leg back to do a spiral, not quite straight enough, not quite high enough, but it didn’t seem to bother him. Why did it bother us?

We all knew something was not right. Was he developmentally disabled? Was he in an accident? I don’t think I ever knew. But he was always friendly. He’d smile and sometimes try to talk to you.

I didn’t want to be mean but I kept my distance and averted his gaze. Like we all did. Maybe what he had would rub off. Maybe he’d say something we wouldn’t know how to respond to. Maybe we’d be trapped if we spoke back. The truth is, he scared us.

As I said, I was old enough to know he was different but young enough to be excused for being uncomfortable. I think back now and hope I was never mean to him, never ran away or laughed at him in front of his face.

Years later in college one of my girlfriends actually gasped in horror when a guy said something to her at a party. He’d been in an accident. His body and facial expressions were twisted like a surreal painting. His utterances were grunts.

I was taken aback, too, but mostly hated my friend in that moment for her selfish reaction. You see, the guy may have looked as if his brain was as warped as his body but it wasn’t. He saw the world — and her response — just as we did. Full on clarity. I’ve always been haunted by that. How would I feel to see someone look at me in horror?

Over the years, I have met and known many more people with disabilities — mental, emotional and physical. Yes, they can scare us. Usually, I think, we fear being like them more than being near them. What is it? Is it just a lack of understanding and education? We seem to have surmounted that hurtle when it comes to people with Down syndrome. Why can’t it be that way for everyone?

I was reminded of this again by a TV movie the other night about a man who had Tourette syndrome, which causes uncontrollable movements like ticks or sounds like grunts and even swearing. I’ve made jokes about this. But it’s wrong. Sure, sometimes it's okay to laugh or make fun as a way to cope. But not when it's mean, or breeds intolerance. That's as wrong as it would be to openly mock or laugh at a person with Down syndrome or autism.

I have watched people laugh at, yell at and veer away from those with mental illness. I know people with tremors so bad they’ve been mistaken for being drunk.

Maybe rather than trying to fix all these people as if they have the problem — because some cannot be fixed — we need to change our attitude about them.

Because I can think of nothing worse than being born with or suffering from something that makes you different than to be ostracized for it.

If we just adopt a new normal then no one is really different.

I’m glad I knew John. I doubt he had something that could be fixed. And I hope today, if he is still around, that he lives in a more understanding world. I know I’d take the time to talk to him.

Baby Showers - Thanks but No Thanks: A Satire, Sort Of

Who invented baby showers? Don’t answer. I’m sure it’s the same person who invented bridal showers.

They should be shot.

I never liked going to either.

This is how I see them:

You are forced into a room with a bunch of women, no doubt indoors on what is the most beautiful day of the decade. You dress in “feminine” clothes and act all girly and grownup as you nibble on pastel M&Ms and nuts from tiny cups on a table festooned with silk flowers, balloons or both.

You play silly games. Like a fill-in-the-blank on how well you know the bride- or mother-to-be. Or create a wedding gown out of a roll of toilet paper, then vote on which table did the best job.

It's at this point I usually wonder: “Why don’t they have any alcohol?”

Now do not get me wrong. I love my friends and I’ve been to many showers. I don’t particularly look forward to them but I go to be supportive. I actually have fun sometimes. Mostly, I believe these things, these rituals, you simply must do if you can. If this was my shower, as it once was, I’d certainly want my friends to be there. (Thankfully more and more showers have ditched the goofy games and include couples and drinks. But not often enough.)

I can handle dressing up. I can handle being around all that estrogen. I can handle being in a church rec room on the most-gorgeous-day-of-the-decade (think of the sun damage I’m not getting). I can even smile through the games.

What I wish I could bypass is sitting through what seems like hours of gift opening.

I did this last weekend. And I deserve a medal. I had a migraine, one that barely budged after taking a prescription drug that morning. Nevertheless, I arrived in a pretty blouse at my former work mate’s baby shower a half hour late — which let me off the hook from playing some game, I was told. Darn it.

I adore my friend, who is due in November and looks glorious. I wanted to see her and help her celebrate. But she's more like a sister. We do not socialize regularly so we don't have many friends in common.

“Is Colleen or Julie here?” I asked when I first arrived, hoping to at least sneak in some conversation with other former coworkers.

“They couldn’t make it,” she said. “I don’t think you know anyone.”

“Well, then,” I said cheerfully as I affixed my name tag while wondering what hugely important things Colleen and Julie had to do that they could not make it, “It doesn’t matter where I sit.” I grabbed a chair at a table with four women in the front and introduced myself.

“What is your connection to My Friend?” I asked of two aunts on her husband’s side who had not seen her since her wedding 10 years earlier and had no idea what she even did for a living. I filled them in. To my left was a sister-in-law and her daughter, a cute tween who documented every moment with her digital camera.

After lunch — buffet style with chicken breasts, salad, cooked carrots, rolls and white noodles with marinara sauce plus a delicious sheet cake — the gift table was ready for action.

I should insert here that my first move, a mistake really, turned out fabulously well. I ordered her gift online from her registry — I have no idea what it was — and shipped it directly to her. I later realized that during the gift opening ceremony — where we would look like Stepford wives offering occasional “ohhs” and “ahhhs” as she opened every single gift and pulled out every single item for all of us to see in case we missed it — that there would be nothing from me.

When I emailed her that this occurred to me, mainly thinking of her and the fun she was going to have opening gifts, she offered to bring whatever it was that I got her.

“You certainly don’t have to do it for my sake,” I emphasized. She later realized it would be one more gift to schlep back to their home. So she thanked me for all to hear before the gift opening commenced.

Unfortunately, I was the only one who did this.

The room was packed with maybe 40 or 50 women meaning the gift tables were overflowing with pink boxes and bags. Mercifully my friend’s husband was there to expedite — er, help — with the process.

As my friend opened the gifts, her sister, who was keeping notes on who gave her what, managed a kind of raffle after every third gift, using envelopes we’d pre-addressed for the Thank You notes as the raffle tickets. I see this as evidence that they know we need a little bribery to stick around.

My friend would pull a name and the winner got to choose from various Avon products on a table. I kept spying the goods, certain my name would come up. When I realized I didn’t want anything, I imagined myself magnanimously offering my place to the nice tween at my table and how sweet she’d think I was. Unfortunately, my name never came up.

At first the gift ceremony was pleasant enough but soon I was wondering why they can’t open a few representational gifts and say: “Well, you get the idea. Thanks for coming!”

Soon I was struggling to feign interest after the umpteenth pink “onesie” or whatever they were. Even my friend didn’t always know for sure what each one was.

I kept looking at the time and tried to decide what was an appropriate length for a shower. It started at 1. I’d have liked to have left by 3, even factoring in my lateness.

Just as it seemed it was never going to end, my friend unwrapped the final present at precisely 4 o’clock. “Hang out,” she offered as she thanked everyone and encouraged them to have another piece of cake.

I thought about grabbing a piece to go. Instead, I just grabbed my white paper goody bag of sample-size lotion and a scented candle and went up to take advantage a few quality moments with my friend and her husband. We chatted about the baby room, yoga and her due date.

I was actually one of the last to leave.

As I made my way out, I hugged her and told her she did not have to send me a thank you card. That they are costly (cards, stamps) and use up resources (trees). And, according to the etiquette books — “I’ve looked it up,” I said — if you thank someone in person, you do not need to send a card.

They probably thought I was spoiled sport.

She’s sending a Thank You anyway.

Note to anyone reading this who is planning a baby or bridal shower and was thinking of inviting me: You better invite me because I really do want to be there. Just don't mind if I bring something to read.

The Blessed

Some years ago on a trip to New York, I found myself inside the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine. I used to live down the street from this massive granite and limestone Gothic structure, supposedly the largest unfinished cathedral in the world. Every day as I left my apartment I’d glance down the block at the imposing arches that loomed over Amsterdam Avenue.

I’d been inside a couple of times, once for a story. But not until a few years ago would I experience something I will always remember when I think of St. John.

It was the first weekend in October. The event, the Blessing of the Animals. Each year at this time the custom plays out at churches around the world in remembrance of St. Francis of Assisi, who had a great love for all creatures. I’ve read that at Franciscan churches, a friar with a brown robe and white cord typically welcomes each animal with a special prayer.

I couldn’t see the actual blessings as I’d joined a group of friends who had some coveted seats inside, toward the back of the cathedral, though it was arguable that standing outside offered the better view.

We sat snugly together for what felt like a typical church service with a few exceptions. All around us were people with their pets.

One couple brought a pair of cats that I spied to my right in the side aisle. There the plump felines sat, each in separate strollers, positioned as cats rarely are, facing forward with their spines curved against the seat back, just like toddlers. They were strapped in and appeared rather content as far as I could tell. We laughed at the silliness.

Then the processional began. First came little creatures. One by one, people dressed in white robes carried some form of life up the aisle to the altar where they were blessed.

A glass tank with an ant farm in it. A fish bowl. A cage with turtles. Frogs. Hamsters. A rabbit. A Macaw on someone’s shoulder. The animals got bigger as the ceremony went along.

Cats, dogs, a goat. Sheep. A donkey. Llamas. A cow. A camel. Many were festooned with floral garlands.

I can never remember: was there a giraffe, a zebra, an elephant, as I like to remember? Did I imagine that? I’m honestly not sure. It was all so magical, like something out of a storybook, watching these innocent creatures so out of their element in this concrete jungle.

Any silliness quickly gave way to a lump in my throat.

I also realized these animals surely didn’t want to be here in this church. But they obediently marched along. I later learned many were from petting farms, not sub-Saharan Africa or South America. Of course not.

That made me a little sad. Maybe even a little tricked feeling. But they were, I hoped, loved and cared for. I hoped this had not become an event to appease and entertain the masses.

I thought this again the next time I went, this time watching from outside. Some native New Yorkers happened by and asked me what was going on. They seemed intrigued before moving on. I was surprised more people weren’t crowding around. Or that more didn’t stay.

I found it hard to leave. I reveled in watching these animals as they came and went, looking dubious as they maneuvered the slippery stone steps that led to the massive wooden Cathedral doors.

I watched as I quietly prayed for them to keep their footing, quietly wanting to help them down, and all the while quietly blessing them on my own.

* * * *

If you have animals, or just love them, this weekend you might offer the traditional blessing yourself.

The Blessing goes something like this:

“Blessed are you, Lord God, maker of all living creatures. You called forth fish in the sea, birds in the air and animals on the land. You inspired St. Francis to call all of them his brothers and sisters. We ask you to bless this pet. By the power of your love, enable it to live according to your plan. May we always praise you for all your beauty in creation. Blessed are you, Lord our God, in all your creatures! Amen.”

Popcorn Is Not a Problem

It’s not every day you find your food fetish soul mate. I mean, I thought I had a problem.

My addiction? Movie theater popcorn.

Don’t laugh. You know what I’m talking about. And don’t even bother with me if you can — wow — eat a half a bucket yourself.

The other night, one of my best friends confessed that she is like me. I could have been talking to myself in the mirror. The things that came out her mouth, damn near drooling as she waxed poetic about popcorn’s many virtues. Crunch-ability, buttery flavor, just the right of amount of oil that oozes out as your bite into the golden nuggets, the salt that makes the soda taste like nectar of the gods, and of course the serving size. The delectable jumbo-ness of it all. And — be still my beating heart — free refills.

Dear lord. I wonder if there is a 12-step program for this?

When she told me she sometimes passes by the theater on her way home for a night in front of the TV just to buy a bucket of popcorn, I knew I’d met my match. I’ve never done that, though I’ve contemplated it, even wondered if that would mean I’d gone over the edge.

“But what about the refill?” I asked. I mean, you pay like $5 for what is really about 50 cents worth of the crack-like goodness and you miss out on the refill? It’s just wrong!

“You should have a bag with you so you can dump the purchase, then go back and get the refill,” I said, salivating at the idea.

“Good idea!” Her eyes lit up. I think she swooned.

“Have you ever gotten the refill after the movie, when you leave?” I asked.

“No!” she looked like I’d just handed her a winning lottery ticket. “I never thought of that!” She smacked her lips.

Now we both agree on a few rules of popcorn consumption: You never begin eating the popcorn until the movie actually begins. Not when the previews start. It’s a weird quirk, some bizarre ritual I’m sure addicts and other obsessive-compulsive types must recognize in some fashion.

That said, I must confess, she is more disciplined than I. I used to be that way but I succumbed, gobbling through the bucket the moment I’m seated. I actually look forward to being a good halfway through before the movie starts so I can get the refill and not have to miss any action by having to do it later. And no matter whom I am with, I seem to get at least 90 percent of the bucket to myself.

Except one time: I was with a friend — a super smart professor type who’s a bit of a nut — at a special event movie screening. We shared a large refillable bucket. I was aghast at the way she inhaled the stuff, keeping my eye on her with sidelong glances. I could barely focus on the movie. She looked a little … wacky. Out. Of. Control.

My god, I thought. Do I look like this? I was a little horrified. I mean, I’ve been with friends — at which point I usually try to eat more slowly simply because I want to appear somewhat “normal” — and still! I have been teased for my incessant, rapid gulping.

At least I don’t get butter like my friend — my popcorn soul mate. And I’ve never gotten popcorn without at least going to the movie, too. I have fantasized about bringing a large plastic bag into the theater, immediately dumping the bucket and getting the refill then — two buckets, no missing of any action. Nirvana!

But I’ve not done that yet. I mean, I do have some control.

Give me credit for this too: I used to down dinner before a move, then compulsively crunched through most of the large bucket (well, it is more cost-efficient, you know, and there are people starving everywhere) only to feel positively grotesque afterwards, and, mercilessly, bloated the next day.

Solution? Now if I go to an evening movie, I skip dinner. Popcorn is my first, second and third course. It is a vegetable, you know. With lots of fiber. And, at most, I’ve consumed a large bucket and a half on my own.

Why, compared to some friends (god love them), I'm practically a poster child for eating popcorn ravenously but responsibly.