Early Infatuation
My relationship with FB began with an initial addictive phase, kind of like getting your alumni magazine and looking up your class news—what are all those people I haven’t kept in touch with doing these days?
I, myself, never send in class updates. This is because for most of my life I hadn’t really “done” anything. And then, when I finally reached a point of my life where I had done one or two things, I felt like notifying people I hadn’t kept in touch with would be in rather bad taste--on par with the writers of The Obnoxious Annual Christmas Card.
Then followed a phase of relative disenchantment. After overcoming my initial hesitation about being in The Book, due to the fact that I’m not currently enrolled in high school or college, there came a period when The Book was discovered by many more people....
The inflation/devaluation of “friendship”
Not being a particularly socially-needy person, and someone who, throughout her life, has viewed friendship in terms of quality rather than quantity—many second-degree friend requests surprised me. If you have more than 400 Facebook “friends,” there is word for you: friendwhore.
One of my friends, who hesitated to join FB, used the following rationale—if you are my friend, chances are I’m already in touch with you. She’s right, but she's missing something.
The good? There are people in our lives that we have lost touch with, have interacted with on a limited basis or “second-degree” friends--with whom we may have a personal connection. We may not have the time or energy to call or email these people, but it’s nice to be able to keep in touch on a limited basis—thus the success of the Facebook portal approach and 140-word status update.
The bad? FB offers so many new opportunities for social awkwardness. My two FB etiquette moments and personal lows are
1) The friend request from somebody who not only WASN’T a friend in high school, but was really obnoxious and belittling back then, but now wants to sell you their investment “opportunities.”
2) Getting a friend request from somebody you considered a real friend, being excited about being back in touch with them, writing them and they never write back. You realize, so and so never really was your “friend” but just wants to offer you some portal into their life and up their friendwhore quotient.
Slippery slope to Twitterwhore?
Lisa Nova’s video offers a funny take on this tendency.
Now that I am dealing with many people, some of whom are not, strictly speaking my “friends,” won’t inundating them with the inane details of my daily life only confirm what I always suspected—that X (from high school or my circle of acquaintances) really does think I am a loser? And, shouldn’t I be above caring what X thinks of me in the first place?
The FB updates I see tend to fall in these broad categories (feel free to suggest more in comments): navel gazing, “Mom,” industry/field of interest updates, and Don’t you wish you were me/I have 140 words to convince you that a crumb of my daily life is more interesting than your entire existence.
I thought about my own updates and decided they tend to fall in the Mom and navel-gazing category—most likely because 1) I am psychologically predisposed toward navel-gazing 2) my “Mom” existence currently prevents me from doing much more than navel gazing.
Don’t You Wish You Were Me!!!
This category tends to comprise the majority of FB offenders. Now I cannot compete with Pretentious Git, who “is in Bali hanging with Bill (Gates) and Timothy (Geithner) solving the global financial crisis.” On the other hand, ZenMom, who “is enjoying a transcendent moment of motherhood” might particularly grate on my inadequacies/insecurities, since my particular experience of motherhood at that moment might be Nathalie Mason-Fleury “is up to her elbows in shite.”
Has moved beyond categorical statements
More recently, I simply appreciate Facebook for what it is—as much or little as you make it, superficiality, inanities, second-degree friends and all. Yesterday, I was scrolling through the “News” section and smiled to see that many of the people in Atlanta were writing about a thunderstorm. Now I’m Atlanta born and bred. There have been spring thunderstorms in Atlanta for as long as I can remember. There was something comforting about reading homey details such as “is happy that the storm has not delayed their flight” (yet…) or “is planning to celebrate the storm with New York strips and a bottle of Shiraz” As long as it doesn’t cause a power outage, there is nothing I love so much as a good gully washer. It feels like home. For a moment there, I felt connected.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
I receive my French citizenship
I dropped by the French consulate in Madrid today and picked up a sheaf of papers informing me that I have acquired French nationality. This included a welcome letter from President Nicolas Sarkozy "Madame, Mademoiselle, Monsieur..Vous êtes désormais citoyenne ou citoyen de notre pays," the Déclaration des droits de l'Homme (Declaration of the Rights of Man), extracts from the Constitution du 4 Octobre 1958, and a copy of La Marseillaise.
I suppose it's fashionable and convenient today to collect citizenships, but somehow I was touched. My maternal grandfather was Franco-American and grew up in France (as did my maternal grandmother). However, due to American politics immediately following the second World War, American naturalization required that he renounce his French citizenship, because of his service in the French army.
When I was a child, I first wanted to learn French because this was the language spoken by my mother's Irish-American/Colombian/French family. I was certain that only my failure to decipher the French language lay between me and exposure to many fascinating adult conversations and secrets. Every Sunday, my mother and her five siblings, their spouses and children were expected for a leisurely, alcohol-infused lunch, the kind with irreverent, salacious conversation, punctuated by multiple courses, ending with salad, cheeses, desert, coffee and brandy. My grandmother was an excellent cook--would whip up stacks of crêpes for Mardi Gras, baked her own bread, croissants and cakes, made her own jellies, candied fruits. She also cooked a lot of dishes that, to a McDonald's-loving American child, were frankly horrifying, such as frog legs, tongue, and bouillabaise.
By the time I was ten, I drank water mixed with wine at these lunches and sucked on sugar cubes dipped in coffee, afterward. While I didn't learn French until middle school, what I did learn, growing up with a large and boisterous extended family, was that you had better speak louder than everybody else or say something clever, if you wanted anybody to pay attention to you.
My mother's family owed much of their financial stability to my great-great grandfather, the child of Irish immigrant parents, who found success as the owner and operator of a string of bucket shops in New York City. Unfortunately, the only inclination his son, my great-grandfather, showed to follow in his father's footsteps was an affinity for drinking and gambling establishments. Other than that, he chiefly occupied himself spending his father's money. Just before the First World War broke out, he went on a European Tour. In Paris, he was introduced to and, soon after, married the daughter of a French count. This was my great-grandmother, whom I knew very well. She came from a family that had actively supported the monarchy (and been punished for this) during the French Revolution.
My great-grandfather eventually died an early death from alcoholism. Meanwhile, my grandfather grew up in Paris, living with his mother, his grandmother and his step-grandfather. Vacationing in Switzerland, my grandfather met and fell in love with my Colombian grandmother, who also grew up and lived in Paris. However, before they could get married, World War II had started. My grandfather was drafted into the French army, fought during the brief time the war lasted for France, then became a prisoner of war in various German camps.
My grandfather finally escaped, but the experience left him with lasting psychological scars--what would be described today as "post-traumatic stress disorder." After the war, my grandparents got married and moved to the US. My grandfather had ambivalent feelings about France, the War and the Occupation. I think he viewed the United States as a new start, a place distant from the painful experience of the war years.
From my grandfather's prisoner of war stories; to the great-grandmother, whose childhood memories included the black crêpe with which her family shrouded the windows of their home, every 14th of July to honor their Royalist forebearers put to death during the French Revolution; who, in later life, proudly sewed a line of red thread on her few formal dresses to commemorate the Légion d'Honneur she was awarded for her work in the Resistance; the very foreign-ness of my French-raised maternal grandparents to me, as a child growing up in Atlanta, Georgia in the 70s--a jumble of personal associations accompany this new, official sanction of the French part of my identity -- and, finally, the thought that, in my marriage to a Frenchman, whom I brought back to my hometown, and, our formation of a family and a company together, I may have closed the circle.
I suppose it's fashionable and convenient today to collect citizenships, but somehow I was touched. My maternal grandfather was Franco-American and grew up in France (as did my maternal grandmother). However, due to American politics immediately following the second World War, American naturalization required that he renounce his French citizenship, because of his service in the French army.
When I was a child, I first wanted to learn French because this was the language spoken by my mother's Irish-American/Colombian/French family. I was certain that only my failure to decipher the French language lay between me and exposure to many fascinating adult conversations and secrets. Every Sunday, my mother and her five siblings, their spouses and children were expected for a leisurely, alcohol-infused lunch, the kind with irreverent, salacious conversation, punctuated by multiple courses, ending with salad, cheeses, desert, coffee and brandy. My grandmother was an excellent cook--would whip up stacks of crêpes for Mardi Gras, baked her own bread, croissants and cakes, made her own jellies, candied fruits. She also cooked a lot of dishes that, to a McDonald's-loving American child, were frankly horrifying, such as frog legs, tongue, and bouillabaise.
By the time I was ten, I drank water mixed with wine at these lunches and sucked on sugar cubes dipped in coffee, afterward. While I didn't learn French until middle school, what I did learn, growing up with a large and boisterous extended family, was that you had better speak louder than everybody else or say something clever, if you wanted anybody to pay attention to you.
My mother's family owed much of their financial stability to my great-great grandfather, the child of Irish immigrant parents, who found success as the owner and operator of a string of bucket shops in New York City. Unfortunately, the only inclination his son, my great-grandfather, showed to follow in his father's footsteps was an affinity for drinking and gambling establishments. Other than that, he chiefly occupied himself spending his father's money. Just before the First World War broke out, he went on a European Tour. In Paris, he was introduced to and, soon after, married the daughter of a French count. This was my great-grandmother, whom I knew very well. She came from a family that had actively supported the monarchy (and been punished for this) during the French Revolution.
My great-grandfather eventually died an early death from alcoholism. Meanwhile, my grandfather grew up in Paris, living with his mother, his grandmother and his step-grandfather. Vacationing in Switzerland, my grandfather met and fell in love with my Colombian grandmother, who also grew up and lived in Paris. However, before they could get married, World War II had started. My grandfather was drafted into the French army, fought during the brief time the war lasted for France, then became a prisoner of war in various German camps.
My grandfather finally escaped, but the experience left him with lasting psychological scars--what would be described today as "post-traumatic stress disorder." After the war, my grandparents got married and moved to the US. My grandfather had ambivalent feelings about France, the War and the Occupation. I think he viewed the United States as a new start, a place distant from the painful experience of the war years.
From my grandfather's prisoner of war stories; to the great-grandmother, whose childhood memories included the black crêpe with which her family shrouded the windows of their home, every 14th of July to honor their Royalist forebearers put to death during the French Revolution; who, in later life, proudly sewed a line of red thread on her few formal dresses to commemorate the Légion d'Honneur she was awarded for her work in the Resistance; the very foreign-ness of my French-raised maternal grandparents to me, as a child growing up in Atlanta, Georgia in the 70s--a jumble of personal associations accompany this new, official sanction of the French part of my identity -- and, finally, the thought that, in my marriage to a Frenchman, whom I brought back to my hometown, and, our formation of a family and a company together, I may have closed the circle.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Madrid Blog--We get sued
...for having children
If you are a foreigner and move to Madrid, do not, necessarily expect a warm welcome.
Yesterday, we, or rather
Don Mark Fleury and Dona Natali Manson
***note to Building Association of Serrrano XX, before you lawyer up, do your research. My husband spells his name "Marc" with a "c." and my first name is spelled "Nathalie;" not to mention that my honest English stone mason forbears would cringe at the misspelling of their last name to confound with that of the notorious 20th century serial killer.
received an official communication from the Juzgado de Primera Instancia de Madrid, from one Don Ramiro Blah Blah, President of the Building Association of Serrano XX, a building of exactly 12 units, half of which were owned at one time by his father in law, in which it is alleged
1) "Mark Fleury and Natali Manson" have four children
2) these children own bicycles
3)and roller skates
4) and scooters (Nathalie comment: nope sorry to disappoint building association president man, the Fleury children do not have scooters in Madrid)
5) that these children get up in the morning (Nathalie comment: yep, at 7am during the week, in order to catch the bus--per state-mandated law that my children be enrolled in secondary education)
6) that the Fleury children have been known to run, jump and shout in the aforementioned apartment
7) that the combination of the above results in an indiscernible mix of noise reflecting a most scandalous and bothersome comportment on behalf of the Fleury family
8) the residents of Serrano XX have manifested to the doorman the Fleury family's unlikeliness to modify their troublesome lifestyle due to their "American nationality and customs"
9) If these activities persist, the building association in conformity with article 7.2 of la Ley de propiedad Horizantal 8/1/1999 will begin judicial proceedings to deprive the Fleury family of the occupancy of their apartment.
To the residents of Serrano XX: Have any of you opened the window or walked outside the front door lately? Because Calle Serrano is only being gutted and subjected to extremely loud construction noise from dawn 'til dusk due to the street's two-year municipal remodeling project.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Entrepreneur Diaries I - Pet Psychic
To entertain old friends and colleagues and “épater l’industrie"…An entirely scabrous and fictional picaresque narrative chronicling the adventures of Case, a serial entrepreneur who falls victim to almost every fad in the tech industry.
…At some point in his life, Case decided that he was an ideas person. As such, he sought his fortune in the late twentieth century tech gold rush, with its promise of riches beyond belief, for enterprising, entrepreneurial fellows, such as he.
____________
In 1999, a chance acquaintance with a hippie chick at a bar gave Case the idea for his Dotcom. She was cute and he had nothing better to do. So, the following afternoon, he accompanied her to a seminar at the Mind Spirit and Body Center for Holistic Animal Health.
The seminar was led by a large muumuu-clad Earth Mother type—a pet psychic, or “animal communicator” as she preferred to be called. The incense was getting on his nerves and Chase was sure the animator was on to him, when she asked him why he seemed troubled during the group meditation. He had to think fast to come up with an alternative to the actual horrifying image he'd conjured up--that of being smothered in muumuu woman's ample breasts. However, just as he was planning his exit, she read a testimonial that piqued his interest.
Dear Gwendolyn:
During our session on October 5th, while talking with my cat Gandalph, you said that his spirit appeared as a Christmas tree. I couldn't believe it. Christmas was Gandalph's favorite time and he often slept under our tree.
One year, he brought in a mouse he had hunted and put it under the Christmas tree with all of the other presents. Because he loved Christmas so much, I put up his very own miniature Christmas tree on my nightstand in the bedroom.
Shortly after Gandalph's passing, the lights on the tree began burning so bright one night they actually woke me up and I touched one of the bulbs, burning my fingertip. The lights went out before I even unplugged it. I replaced the string of lights that evening. Thank you.…
As it turned out, Gwendolyn and her colleagues were eager to take their message to the Internet and Chase succeeded in borrowing money from his family to hire the two coders who responded to his ad on Craig’s List--Duane and Sanjay.
This was 1999, talent was scarce. Recruiting wasn’t exactly an option. You had to take what you could find, and even they might be picky. You had to sell them on the dream.
Case: So let me see, Duane, you actually worked at Pets.com, Wow! How was that?
Duane: Yeah man, it was great. We were gonna rule the world.
Case: So why exactly was it that you left?
Duane: My manager and I had differences of opinion about the strategic direction the business should take.
Case: Umh?
Duane: They wanted me to actually show up, Dude. Fucking slave drivers, can you believe it? Always on my back checking my code logs during my telecommute time. I’m a creative type, inspiration comes in bursts. You can’t control that man. I’m sure your psychic would know that.
Case: She’s a pet psychic.
Duane: Yeah, well whatever man.
Case: [meekly] Well, I’ll want you to show up.
Duane: It’s 1999 man, there’s the Internet. Heard of it? We telecommute. Anyway, that’s what’s on the table. Take it our leave it. [Breaks out a joint, lights up and takes a drag]. Want some?
Case: Er, no thank you.
Duane: Come on man, it’s very important to me that my employer understands my lifestyle. [Case reluctantly takes the joint, puffs and coughs]. If you don’t cough, you don’t get off.
Case: [turning to Sanjay] So Sanjay, do you have any questions about our business model?
Sanjay: Does your business model include an H1-B visa for me?
Case: Um yeah, sure.
Sanjay: I am not com-for-table with our target market. In Bangalore, nobody would pay to talk to their pet.
Case: Listen, Sanjay, this is America. There is an endless supply of fruitcakes out there.
Sanjay: What has this got to do with the Internet?
Case: Many of them are beginning to penetrate the online space in search of their own kind. The online human psychic market is pretty much cornered, but many of these people have pets. I tell you, the animal psychic market is ripe for picking. For the right person, that is. The kind of person who has the vision and the cojones to go out there and stake a claim.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)