Friend Me

When I first joined Facebook, I made a brightline rule:  I would not be virtual friends with anyone whom I had not actually met at least once in reality.  The concept of having 1,000 friends, 700 of whom I could not pick out of a line-up, was not my thing.

It was my rule, and it worked well.

And then I bent it.

The first crease came in the form of a Friend Request I sent to a friend's wife, a gorgeous personality I'd never actually met but whom I felt I knew through her husband's posts and her corresponding comments.  After a lengthy exchange about Jon Bon Jovi, I thought, "She is my kind of people," and I friended her.  I still haven't actually "met" her.  But that doesn't stop me from calling Dana my friend.

Several months later, I signed up for a writing workshop in Michigan.  The facilitator introduced the attendees via Facebook and email.  A few of us were looking to share rooms and started chatting, and I made my next "never-ever-met-her" FB friend, a great writer named Dana (Dana II!).  Within days, another:  Tracey.  And then, finally, Laura.

That rule?  Completely broken.

We started messaging, sometimes in pairs, sometimes as a foursome, always as writers who just happened to be on the path to becoming friends.  Real friends.

Tracey and I share the luck of living in Chicago, so we met up for lunch and I liked her even more in 3-D.  She's off my "never-met" list and has eased over into my "friend in reality" group.

This week, I'll have the pleasure of meeting Dana and Laura.  But I won't feel like I'm meeting strangers, because I won't be.  I'll be meeting up with old friends -- friends whom I had not yet happened to meet in person . . . until now.

A few more never-met friends have joined my list of FB friends, all friends of other friends, all of whom I hope to meet in person some day.  But if I don't?  Well, that's ok, too.  

Happy Birthday, Mr. President ...

Today is a special day.  For me, anyway.  Today, Jon Bon Jovi turns 50 years old. 

I can hear the snorts; I can picture the eye rolls.  Go ahead, laugh.  After more than two decades of being Jon Bon Jovi’s Biggest Fan, I’m pretty used to it.  Try me – I’ve really heard them all.  Most common:  He can’t sing.  Sounds like singing to me, but what do I know?  Another oldie:  His songs are stupid.  I’m sorry you feel that way – tell me again why you know all the lyrics to “Livin’ On a Prayer”?  And my personal favorite:  Jon is gay.[1]  Um, ok, sure – would this be personal knowledge, then?  Say whatever you want; makes no matter to me.  Nothing you – or anyone – can say will change how I feel.  In fact, today, in celebration of Jon’s birthday, I won’t even raise my usual defenses, such as, If he sucks so badly, why has he sold more than ONE HUNDRED MILLION RECORDS?  And why are his concert tickets so impossibly difficult to get?  And why is he consistently the top grossing tour each and every year he tours?  At the end of the day, the statistics don’t matter.  You either get it, or you don’t. 

            Thankfully, I get it.  I get it.

            When people learn of my strong affection[2] for Jon, the expected questions usually follow:  How many times have you seen him in concert?  Honestly?  I have no idea.  Isn’t he married?  Yeah, since forever.  She had the luck of geography.[3]  Have you ever met him?  Oh, if I’d met him, you’d know.[4]  But one question leaves me speechless every time:  What is it about him that is so compelling to you?  Huh.  Huh.  Why is your favorite color blue?  Why do you like the taste of cookies?  Words simply can’t explain … it. 

Sure, I could list individual characteristics he possesses[5] and things I like about his music.  But that doesn’t capture the feeling.  I can quote lyrics, throw out song titles, but those aren’t my words; those are his.  I could even take you to a concert but, although I would bet the price of a ticket that you’d have an awesome time, I’d doubt that you’d feel what I feel.[6]  You wouldn’t feel it.

And, frankly, I feel kind of sorry for you.  I really do.  Because if I could bottle how I feel when I see or hear Jon Bon Jovi, it would be (a) popular; (b) illegal; and (c) really expensive.  Yeah, it’s that good.  I wish everyone could see what I see, hear what I hear, feel what I feel in those moments.  I am very grateful for those times; I truly believe I am lucky.

In fact, I feel …  blessed.  I’m not a religious person, and that word fell from my vocabulary long ago.  But a few years back, a good friend helped reintroduce it, and it seems fitting here.  My parents raised me Catholic; I attended Catholic school for twelve years and followed that up with four years of Jesuit college.  By the start of high school, I had stopped believing; a few years later, I stopped practicing.  When I eventually married, it was not in a church.  And after that, when I had children, I consciously opted not to baptize them.  Religion plays no role in their lives, or in mine.  In contrast, however, I have a close work friend who believes in a big way.  Religion takes center stage in her life.  She sings in her church’s choir and attends mass several times a week.  At work, she plays gospel CDs at her desk, and each day of her calendar is filled with hand-written Bible quotes she finds inspiring.  Recently, she hit a rough patch, and she came into my office to talk about it.  She mentioned asking Jesus for strength.  I told her, “You know I don’t pray, but I will send all of my positive energy your way.”  She smiled and said, “Neesie, I know that not everybody is blessed with the ability to believe.”  And from her face I could tell that in her heart, she felt not just a little bit sorry for me.

            That?  That right there?  That’s how I feel.[7]

Every so often I run into someone[8] who almost seems angry at my love of All Things Jon, who claims that he doesn’t get the “famous thing.”  No singer/author/actor/politician does for him what Jon does for me; he would never hero worship.  First, I doubt him.  Second, I pity him.  How awful to go through life without that feeling of awe.  What in the world does he dream about?

Maybe Jon doesn’t do it for you.  That’s ok.  But I truly hope that if he doesn’t, something else does.  I hope you collect unicorns, and each time you add a new one to your shelf, you feel a little shiver of it.  I hope you have seen every single episode of “Seinfeld” and can quote Costanza with your eyes closed.  I hope your heart leaps a little when pitchers and catchers report to spring training.  And I hope that there exists at least one song which forces you crank the volume all the way up, throw your head back and sing at the top of your lungs.

And I hope that song is a Bon Jovi song!

Happy, happy birthday, Jon.  And many more.

---

[1] Invariable uttered by a male.

[2] Not “obsession,” thank you very much.

[3] She also has a black belt, so I’ll stop right here.

[4] My opening line would be, “I’m-Denise-I-met-Jon-Bon-Jovi-nice-to-meet-you!”

[5] That smile.  Those eyes.  That face.  Those jeans.  He can shake maracas like no other.  Etc.

[6] You’d also be deaf in the ear closest to me.

[7] No, I am not making a commentary on religion and no, I’m not comparing Jon Bon Jovi to Jesus, ok?

[8] Again, invariably male.

Things That Must Suck I

Being Jon Bon Jovi’s brother.  Because, really?  You can’t possibly be better looking than he.

But He's No Slick Willie

            Election Day here in Chicagoland has me thinking about Bill Clinton and why so many people, including me, still long to see his name on the ballot for reasons having nothing to do with politics.  (So before your heads explode – and you know who you are – remember that this has NOTHING TO DO WITH POLITICAL VIEWS.)  Here are the top six reasons I miss Bill Clinton:

(1)          He was charming.  The man literally charmed the pants (ok, dresses) off of women.  His effect on men was only marginally dissimilar.  John Travolta has been credited as saying that he was “seduced” by Clinton when he met him in 1997.  That takes a special kind of appeal, considering Travolta has never claimed to be anything but straight (I mean, he was Tony Manero, for God’s sake!)  But perhaps the best evidence of Clinton’s charisma is the fact that the man was impeached, yet no one seems to have noticed.  Or to even remember. 

(2)          He was comforting.  Bill could give us bad news and make it seem, well, not so bad.  Something in his tone, in the rise and fall of his voice, made me feel that in the end everything would turn out just fine.  On 9/11, I frantically flipped channels searching for his image.  I needed him to tell me everything was going to be ok.  Because I knew I would believe him.

(3)          He got the joke.  Remember the image of Clinton wiping away tears of laughter as he stood alongside Boris Yeltsin at the FDR Library in 1995?  The man found the funny in Boris Yeltsin.  Clinton’s laugh was genuine and contagious, and he wasn’t afraid to throw his head back and let it peal when the moment struck.

(4)          He reminded us of Elvis.  It wasn’t just the Southern thing – it was the Southern thing, and the hair thing, and the impromptu jam session thing and the ever-so-slightly-curled lip thing.  Even the usually humorless Secret Service noticed the resemblance and assigned the President the code name “Elvis”  (Which, by the way, is awesome.).  Like the late King himself, Clinton could work a crowd, except Slick Willie didn’t need a rhinestone jumpsuit.  

(5)          He had embarrassing relatives.  Not since the Carter Administration had America enjoyed such a dysfunctional sibling like Roger C. Clinton, Jr.  His cocaine-related conviction aside, Roger served to amuse and to remind us that even the wealthiest and most powerful among us have to deal with embarrassing family members. 

(6)          He seemed like one of us.  Bill Clinton was human.  He was flawed, for sure – he cheated on his wife, he regularly caved into his cravings for junk food and he wore wholly unattractive shorts while jogging.  Yet, in the end, those flaws may have constituted his greatest asset, as they made him relatable, they made him real.  Deep down, Clinton was just a regular guy with a remarkably exceptional job.  William Jefferson Clinton answered to “Mr. President,” but he also answered to “Bubba.”  He lived and owned up to a complicated dual identity, like many of us do:  one person at work, another at home.  But even clad in his most official-looking suit, reading his most serious-themed speech at a most official-sounding event held halfway around the world, Clinton could not fully hide the heart of the “boy from Arkansas” beating just behind the starched collar and presidential tie.  Embarrassing?  Sometimes.  Pompous?  On occasion.  Human?  Definitely.    

Baby You Can Drive My Car

           Dear Fellow Driver:

I see from the large yellow sign in your back window that you have just welcomed aboard a Baby!  Congratulations!  I hope your bundle of joy brings you years of happiness and love.

I have one question, however:   should you really be allowing Baby to operate your vehicle?  That is the only explanation I can find for the “driving” I have witnessed over the past few miles.  The random stopping and starting, perpetual turn signaling, and complete disregard of the speed limit all point to the conclusion that Baby must be at the wheel.  There’s also the attraction to shiny objects, like parked cars and mailboxes.  (I think that mail carrier may need to borrow a clean diaper after that near miss a few blocks back.)  And Baby can’t read, which likely explains the cute little wrong-way-down-a-one-way street distraction, doesn’t it? 

A mother myself, there are a few things I don’t understand, like Baby’s shunning of infant classics like “Five Days Old” by The Laurie Berkner Band for – is that Slipknot?  And then there’s the lit cigarette butt Baby flipped out of the driver’s side window.  An unfiltered Camel, no less!  I know, I know – kids today!  Growing up so fast!

Although I appreciate your thoughtful sign warning me that Baby is indeed “on board,” perhaps you should rethink your decision to give the car keys to an infant for purposes other than jingling.  Might I suggest starting the tot off with a toy steering wheel and some plastic teething keys, followed by a few years behind the handlebars of a Big Wheel until he or she is ready for the ultimate test:  the motorized hot pink Barbie Jeep?  I mean, a baby’s gotta crawl before it can walk, right?  (Baby will get that one – classic infant humor).

If I have grievously erred by somehow jumping to the wrong conclusion, and you, not Baby, have been driving this whole time, I have one last question:  would you consider switching car seats with Baby?  Because, really?  Baby could not possibly drive any worse.  And Baby has a valid excuse for not knowing that “red means stop,” but you?  Do not.

Perhaps Baby could drive you back to the mall where you purchased your adorable yellow plastic suction-cup window sign to find something more suitable – like “Jackass Behind the Wheel?”  

And maybe, just maybe, with enough practice, you and Baby will master the Barbie car.

"No Yanky My Wanky!"

After many, many weeks, the Christmas kitten finally has a name.

Introducing . . .  Jake Ryan!!  

"Jake Ryan?  He's only the most popular boy in school."

Urban Dictionary defines Jake Ryan as "the name used by women to describe the perfect boyfriend."  Or, in this case, the perfect kitten.

"Jake is a senior, and he's beautiful and perfect."

Kitten Jake Ryan manages to be cute even without the plaid shirt or the hair gel.  Like the real Jake Ryan, Kitten Jake Ryan is charming and suave.  He gives hugs and Eskimo kisses.  He also wakes me up at 5:30 am by pawing at my hair, and he has been known to drink from the toilet, but, hey, what is "perfect"??

Jake Ryan has other wonderful qualities.  For example, he loves Christmas:

But he has no patience for girls who behave like princesses:

He may not drive a red Porsche or live in a big house in Highland Park or get my underwear back from a geek, but the chicks clearly dig him:

"Jake Ryan?  He doesn't even know you exist."

Yep, just like the real Jake Ryan.

Random Look Inside My Brain #1

                Me (flipping through channel guide):  Nothing on, nothing on, nothing on – Oooh!  One-hour “Keeping Up With the Kardashians” season finale!  Awesome!

Pause.

Me:  What the hell is wrong with me? 

Cut to fifty-five minutes later:

Me:  Please, please, please show Bruce’s new haircut!!  And his piercings!  I wonder if Kris and the girls will like his hair?!?!

Pause.

Me:  Really, what the hell is wrong with me??

Two minutes later:

Me:  What is Khloe wearing on her head?  Does she believe she is a princess or is that her Halloween costume?  Wait, why are the credits rolling?  Is it over?  It can’t be over!!

Brief pause.

Me:  For the love of all that is holy, what is wrong with me?!?!

Pause.  Grab for remote and quickly hit the channel guide.

Me:  Damn, I can’t believe they’re not rebroadcasting this episode tonight.  I wonder if “Real Housewives” is on.