When my kids warned me to become Facebook-savvy or perish, I didn’t pay much attention. These are the same kids who gave me a gift certificate for navel piercing and dragged me to pole-dancing classes to release my inner goddess, who was embalmed right after Woodstock.
I figured the whole thing would pass, like eight-track tapes and New Coke. But no such luck.
Facebook has become a 21st century party line for 350 million people—and a whole bunch of them are somebody’s grandma. Why crochet doilies when you could be harvesting eggplant in FarmVille?
“The oldest person on Facebook is over 100,” said my daughter, eyeing me like a rare fossil. “If she can conquer social networking on the Internet, so can you.”
Apparently, only Neanderthals still communicate by cell phone and e-mail. Advanced civilizations connect via Facebook, which lets members share their lives with hundreds—or even thousands—of friends they can’t be bothered calling. Nobody says you have to like each other that much.
My friend Amy, who stays on Facebook 24/7, says that’s not the point. To her, it’s all one big family reunion every day, minus the wedding or funeral. She loves knowing what people she hasn’t seen in 19 years ate for dinner.
By giving up sleeping and eating, Amy now makes time to monitor every human she’s encountered since birth, including social sectors she totally ignored in high school. Through the miracle of Facebook, ex-homecoming queens can now “friend” third-chair tuba players—something that rarely happens in nature.
Even my plumber has developed an enormous following on Facebook, where he’s already signed up 1,863 close personal friends who might someday spring a leak.
Armed with a copy of Facebook for Dummies from optimistic offspring, I dipped my first toe into social networking and made a startling discovery:
Approximately 17 percent of Facebook users are dogs. Rather than post photos of themselves, pet owners often opt for a guest shot of their four-legged friends. So don’t be alarmed if the freckle-faced cheerleader from 1972 you’re trying to locate morphed into a Labradoodle.
Animals are very big on Facebook. Besides the long-lost cousin who wants me to adopt a possum, new friends have been sending chickens, goats, ugly duck- lings and livestock for the farm I don’t have. Even if your total agricultural know-how is raising a Chia Pet, friends will expect you to join the 73 million people playing FarmVille and send you a cow.
Facebook also appeals to criminals, such as the escaped prisoner who taunted police by posting photos of himself enjoying all the places where he hadn’t been recaptured. His exploits attracted 40,000 fans before Facebook took his page down.
Other felons—like the thief who stopped to check his Facebook account at the home he was robbing—don’t have any fans because they’re stupid. Poor guy forgot to log out and got nailed. (Pssst. The cops know about this Facebook thing.)
One warning: With 350 million people floating around Facebook, some unusual ones will eventually find you. Last week, a total stranger asked me to be her friend because she “felt spiritually connected” to my photo, and I don’t know how to respond. She might be a stalker, or she could just be lonely.
Maybe I’ll have my plumber send her a cow.
Jan A. Igoe is a wife, mother, newspaper editor, humorist and illustrator. She lives in Horry County.