Facebook and the Eroding Quality of My Life OR How I Became a Digital Hermit

I lead a very busy life. I have seven kids, a full time sales job, a 17 year old marriage, various crushing debt, and a perpetually in motion household to juggle. I don’t have time for everything I have to do on the emergency essentials list, let alone time for something extra. True story, I actually found myself at Wal-Mart this morning at 3AM trying to buy backpacks because I didn’t want to waist the extra time I had on my hands due to insomnia.

To compound all this, because I work from home I am pretty much trapped here unless I can make an excuse to get out. Did I mention that here (Greenville) is over a thousand miles away from most of my friends and family. So, Facebook has been the only connection I’ve had to friends scattered around the country and people I don’t get to see. That’s how it started. That’s how it always starts.

What started out as a great way to stay in touch with the world; has turned into a social addiction. Now my life line has become a constant conduit of irritation for me. One of the reasons is that I have too many friends! Right now I have 436 “friends” and that’s nothing compared to most people. I don’t really know all these people that well. Lots of them are business acquaintances, people I haven’t seen since high school (some I still don’t remember) or marketing generated non people. Unfortunately my fake popularity leaves me with a tsunami of pseudo correspondence that I can’t seem to keep up with. I would hide most of these people but then what’s the point of having someone as a friend if you never see anything from them. I can do that without Facebook. Besides, finding those few real nuggets of personal communication in the avalanche posts is why you friended them in the first place. I also can’t deny the voyeuristic allure of seeing what everybody is doing, saying and feeling. But I have made some rules:

1. Applications of almost every kind get hidden. I am blissfully unaware of who is playing farm world, or mafia guy or super word dice. I don’t care. I can hide that and it all goes away.

2. I do not friend the friends of my children. I love my kids and its bad enough that I’m exposed to some the stuff they are saying (and vice versa). If I had to endure a never ending string of bad grammar and text speak they use in lieu of communication, I may do bodily harm to myself or others.

3. I hate amateur DJ’s and Evangelists. If you are going to post 20 links to your favorite songs every day, you are getting hidden from my Home page. If you are posting links to or pasting scripture with no context to your life or good reason 4 times a day you are also getting hidden.

4. If you are from Las Vegas and have a stock photo for a profile and list “credit” anywhere in your info, I am not “friending” you because you are not real. You are a marketing drone for a company and will advertise to me.

That seems to keep some of it at bay, but it still unfortunately leaves me with those that I am unable to selectively block. Stop Facebooking and seek professional help if you are one of these people:

1. Scrap booker - People who constantly post pictures of their kids or pets. Everyone does it once in a while and it’s cool. But if you are doing it every day or “chronicling” the life of a child or pet. Please stop, if not for my sake or their future privacy at least to protect your legacy in their tell-all book.

2. Wiseman – If you have a calendar of daily quotation or a book of said same, keep them to yourself. Odds are if it’s in the book or on the calendar, we’ve all heard it before. You may feel like Gandhi but you look like Xerox.

3. Salesman – If you are continually marketing your company or giving me helpful links to news articles about your job, please stop. I don’t like my job, why would I want to like someone else’s. Oh and posting a link to news article does not make me see you as an authority, it makes me see you as a person who knows how to post links.

4. Politician – There was a time in my life when I was passionate about politics. That time was when I was young and stupid and believed that any of it mattered. All political ranting ever gets anyone is angry, stupid looking and stereo typed. I have an easy enough time doing all of these things as it is and don’t need any help. So don’t bait me into your discussion of how your side is the second coming and the other side is evil incarnate. I personally prefer to be happy rather than right these days.

5. Exhibitionist – Everyone knows that person who posts every embarrassing picture of themselves and friends from parties, makes every comment a double entendre or outright come on. If you’ve forgotten it’s a public forum and don’t care about yourself, please think of those you are posting to, and those that see these post on their wall but don’t know you or get the inside jokes. That’s what an email or text thread is for. Keep it private if not for you, for those who may become your inadvertent collateral damage.

6. Infected – If you can’t resist clicking on links to outrageous content that is clearly a virus and spreading it to everyone on your friend list, you should really stop Facebooking and just go back to browsing porn.

7. Parrots – If you loved chain letters and couldn’t understand why everyone stopped emailing you, please (for the love of God) don’t get on Facebook. And if you must, at the very least disable your ability to copy and paste text. Being dared to, shamed not to or blackmailed by the love of God to post something leaves me no choice but to ignore it. Causes, heartfelt sentiment or moral evangelization that is simply copied and pasted means as much to me as the act of throwing a penny at a homeless guy’s head means to ending poverty. If I have a cause I will donate money or time to it, both of which are tangible acts of commitment to helping someone else. As far as I’m concerned, “raising awareness” by itself only helps you feel good about yourself.

8. Black hole – If you need to vomit your relationship problems and emotional foibles for the world to see, please have a point. Being depressed for depression sake is, well, depressing. I have more than enough drama in my life already that I’m trying to off-load. As Jack said, “Go sell crazy somewhere else, we’re all full here!”

Now don’t get me wrong, we are all guilty of this behavior from time to time (myself included). If you find that any of these behaviors are habitual you need help. Remember, all things in moderation.

At the end of the day, though, all this is pretty tolerable. If you want to know the truth, what is really killing me (and making me consider dumping the whole thing) is my own behavior. I find myself stalking people. If my wife tells me one thing and posts another, my blood pressure approaches aneurism levels. If my kids are doing and saying crazy kid things, I become over protective. If I feel like I’m being mischaracterized or maligned, I become defensive. If I don’t get the joke, I feel alienated and left out. It’s such a public forum that even with the ability to retract what you say, once it’s out there, it’s out there forever (or at least 3 years according to the privacy agreement).

But then again, isn’t that the way real life is? Don’t we all wish we could take back things we said or did? Don’t we all want to erase the damage we’ve done to those we love? Don’t we all want to be loved and accepted? I know, the problem isn’t Facebook, the problem is me. It’s just that Facebook isn’t real enough anymore to help me. It is, unfortunately real enough to break my brain.

I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should take a poll of all my Facebook friends and see what they think ;)

Wolverine Dad

Last month I broke my hand (don’t ask) and went to the doctor. I begged him not to put a permanent cast on it because I have to use my computer to work. I begged and pleaded and finally he conceded to letting me wear a Velcro splint. There was one condition. I had to return in two weeks to take another x-ray and if it wasn’t healing properly they would replace it with a permanent one.


Two weeks went by and I returned for my x-ray. The doctor came in looking concerned and asked me lots of questions about my hand. Had I ever broken it before? Was I taking any other medications? Then he left and came back with another doctor and they were both frowning at my x-rays. Now I was worried.

“Um, is there something wrong with my hand, doc?” I asked.

“What’s wrong with your hand is that there’s almost nothing wrong with your hand. It’s almost completely healed.”

They proceeded to show me the x-rays and sure enough what was a large v shaped split was now a barely visible line. I was kind of taken aback.

“So no cast right?”

“Heck, you don’t even need the splint from looking at this. However, just wear it for another week.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t feel comfortable telling you to not wear it after two weeks.” He said shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head.

Doctor two asked, “Have you ever broken any other bones?”

I proceeded to tell him about my collar bone and how it took four and a half weeks to heal.

“Hmmm that’s pretty normal. Can you tell me more about the break?”

I then told him how it shattered and never grew back together with the bones meeting tip to tip. Rather, they rested next to each other with about a half inch overlap. This garnered more raised eyebrows and I was told that a set like that would normally take twice as long to heal or more. Apparently four and a half weeks for that was faster than the hand. I responded that I was in college and much younger then.

At that point I decided to leave before people in dark sunglasses and lab coats came to take me to a “secured facility” to “study” me.

For a long time we’ve joked around my house that I’m the Omega Man. I’ll be the only one left after the mutant virus outbreak because of my odd blood. I found out at a blood donor years ago that my blood has rare antibodies that make me an ideal donor for infant surgeries (it also helps that I’m O+). Apparently lots of people have a few extra antibodies, but I have several.

I’ve also always contested that there is something wrong with the way that my nerve endings are myelinated, because I don’t feel pain like I should. Believe me; I’m not tough by any stretch of the imagination. I just don’t feel pain like I should. It’s the only way I can describe it.

But this bone thing tops them all. I missed my calling. Should have been a stuntman or a soldier or as I heard my son saying to his friend the other day, “No, seriously! My dad is like Wolverine!”

The Definition of Ironic

So today I had to meet the “boyfriend”. My 8th grade daughter was being escorted to the mall by a young man, driven by his mother. It was my job to meet, observe and decide if it was cool to allow this tryst to proceed. This was my paternal duty; a duty that I take very seriously, much to my daughters chagrin.


The doorbell rang and I answered the door dressed in casual slacks, loafers and a golf shirt. The young admirer was wearing, cowboy boots, jeans, old t-shirt and a beat up camo ball cap. To accent his very country appearance I noticed the classic teenage half stash above his upper lip. My mind said, “Hmmm” but still I reserved judgment. He looked me in the eye and shook my hand. This was a plus. His mother seems very pleasant and was a genuinely nice person from what I could gather.

I asked what “the plan” was and he responded that they were going to the mall to “check everything out.” I joked back, “Well I hope you don’t check out everything.” We all laughed. He laughed a little more nervously than the adults, as was my intention. He seemed like a good kid.

I called my daughter down and after the logistics were all cleared and I knew her arrival time and method, I saw them out the door with, “Have fun, I’ll be here cleaning my guns until you get back.” Again, there was nervous laughter from those under driving age and genuine laughter from those above it.

I closed the door and thought that everything had gone well. I decided that he passed muster.

I turned to slip my shoes off to return upstairs to my office and noticed that my fly was down. The irony washed over me like a shocking bucket of ice water in the sweltering summer heat. Believe me, whatever you have been thinking as you read the above, went through my head in a split second. Oh the humility of it all.

There is a 70% chance that they didn’t notice, but I still don’t like those odds.

Papa Bear

Yesterday I was working in my office when I heard our nanny yell my name. I could tell this was far more important than, “we are out of milk.” It was.

My 5th grade son Aiden was sick and stayed home. So when my Kindergartener and 4th grader went to get off the bus the driver told Mack that he couldn’t let Mary off with him since he wasn’t in 5th grade. I had listed Mack as the alternate and it’s never been a problem before. Apparently… hell I don’t know what got into this guy.


Mack sprinted home to get Kelly the nanny, but the bus driver wouldn't let Mary go with her either, because she didn’t have the pink 8 ½ x 11 sheet with Mary’s name written on it. After the mad dash to get me, I ran down the stairs and out the front door without shoes to, “handle this.”

“I’m her father, thanks.”

“Where is your pink sheet?”

“Well one is in Charlotte in an airplane parking garage and the other is in Fountain Inn Body shop. Both our cars are gone today. I have my driver’s license…” Before I could finish he waved me off with his hands, shut his window and drove off.

“Like fun you will!” (Not exactly what I said, it was more like “THE F&#$ YOU WILL!”)I jumped into our van and backed out of the driveway and down the street backwards. I made it to the end of the circle first and block him in. It was all very Starsky and Hutch. I got out of the van in the rain, in my socks and approached the bus.

Now this could have gone one of two ways. One, I could start yelling and screaming, pulled this miserable excuse for a human out his window by his beard to stomp his head like a watermelon and frightened all the kids . That is what I felt like doing, but more than that I didn’t feel like getting myself arrested. So that wasn’t going to happen. Two, I could smile big, make nice and close the sale. Picking the second option I tapped on the glass with a wink to my daughter in the second row and he actually opened up his window (not that he had much choice).

“Now we’re rational adults here, I’m sure we can come to mutually beneficial arrangement.” He was dialing his cell phone when he said, “The rules are I can’t let them off the bus without their 5th grade rider or the pink certificate.”

“But I can prove I’m her father. If I was a pedophile with a pink piece of paper with her name on it, you’d give her to me?” I could see the wheels start to turn slowly.

“They will fire me.” And there was the heart of the problem.

“Listen, I understand how inflexible the school system can be. Let’s do this. You finish that call to your supervisor and tell them the situation. Let’s ask for permission so you can cover your rear.” I smiled and he made the call. I could tell he was concentrating on what he was being told because I could see wisps of smoke coming out of his ears.

“Do you have an ID?” I tried not to look too frustrated as it was already in the hand I was holding up. But hey, I had to consider the source. If he was that sharp, he would at least be a greeter at Wal-Mart by now.

“They want me to write down all your information.”

“Awesome!”

Seconds later the door opens and my daughter floated out of the bus and ran giggling to my still running van. I could hear the kids cheering and was struck by how surreal the whole thing was.

But here is the important part. I know she’s six and I only have so much time left to still be the jolly green giant in her eyes. Events like this in a child’s life are what stick in their mind forever. Someday when I’m dancing with her at her wedding, she’ll at least have this fond memory of her papa bear.

Perspective

I flew from Greenville to Omaha via Detroit (don’t ask) last week and incurred a few problems. By a few I mean the first leg of the travel was a disaster from the start. I should have known better when I walked into the gate and saw that my flight was delayed over an hour and a half due to late flight crew. This means that connecting flights are either over sold or under booked and will be canceled so they don’t want this plane to make it. Is that my paranoia? Maybe, but listen to the rest of the story and tell me if I’m wrong.


Being a conscientious traveler I checked with the gate agent and just wanted to make sure I would either make my connection or they would hold it. I was told, “Mr. Luby, you will have plenty of time to make your connection.” Perhaps I might have, had our plane not sat on the tarmac for 25 after landing, “waiting for a ramp up crew.” I exited the plane with little hope but was buoyed by the gate agent that said my plane had not taken off and was at gate D11. Off I ran from C3, only to find out that she was wrong. My plane left on time and was the last flight to Omaha. Off to gate C2 (yes C2 the one right next to where I started) to see if they could put me on another airline. Of course by the time I ran all the way to D11 and then back, there were no flights out of Detroit to Omaha. I was given hotel and meal vouchers and told I had a confirmed seat on the 8:30 flight. “If it’s confirmed why don’t I have a seat number?” I knew I was on standby and so did she, but I would have been disappointed if she had been the only person who didn’t lie to me that day.

I was at the gate at 6:30 the next morning knowing damn well that this would be over sold and wanted to be first in line. I was right, and as more people showed up closer to the flight and the agents were asking for volunteers, I was getting pretty anxious. I saw a woman ditch her husband and two teenage daughters to get on the flight. They would get home in the afternoon. I saw the agent telling people they were on standby without telling they were on standby. I could feel the collective blood pressure rising.

After all the seated passengers boarded they began to call names. Mine was second. As number one and I approached the scanner, the woman next to me announced over my shoulder to the gate agent, “I have to be on this flight! I was supposed to be there last night and my father is dying!” I looked at her face and it erased my first thought which was, “she’s good.” She was either Meryl Streep or in sincere agony. She wasn’t acting.

I looked at my ticket. I had already lost 12 hours of my vacation. Was I ready to give up a day or day and a half? My dad was old too. I made the mistake of looking at her face again. It gave me undeniable perspective. Damn it!

“Um ma’am, if this is the last seat, she can have mine.” Did I just say that? The gate agent looked up from her computer and stared at me. The woman behind me stared at me then her. The gate agent leaned forward and whispered, “No, there are more seats and you’re next.”

I’m thinking, “Whew, that was close,” and the woman thanks me anyway. I wanted to say how much I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to tell her I’m sorry her father was dying. I wanted to punch the CEO of the airline in the mouth. All I said was, “I didn’t really do anything,” and walked away with a better sense of perspective.

Wasps Must Die II or Demolition Man

So if you think I was just kidding around last night about these wasps, let me tell you nothing could be further from the truth. I really did take the fight to them today. I stepped outside and yelled, "I love the smell of Raid in the morning, smells like...victory!" With that I joined the battle, though regrettably not without a casualty. I made a fatal blunder and underestimated the strength of my enemy's defenses. My old hammer took one for the team. Sure he'd lived a good long life, and he knew the risk going in better than anyone. But damn it, I still don't like having to come back out of the field minus anyone.

I wasn't about to make the same mistake twice, so I brought out the big artillery. The BFH is five pounds of hard driving force. (You can't figure out what a BFH is? Really?) Coupled with a pry bar to make up for the lack of a claw on the hammer, I went to work. I found no less than 10 or more nests in various parts of the bench and even discovered (and killed) two wasps making a new one! Now before you get all, "OMG that's just like Avatar! Those poor things!" Let me remind you that these are wasps! These are Evil creatures (with a capital E) that have no real role in the food chain other than intimidation and mayhem. Their departure would only allow more honey bees to fill the void. Think of a world with no wasps and more honey bees. Can you? I can. I imagine myself running through fields of brilliant flowers (because of the pollination) while the bees fly flagons of mead to me. (Snapple fact - mead is a strong alcoholic drink made of honey - just sayin) They put a laurel of daisies on my brow in thanks for my vanquishing the evil scourge that was waspism. I am their king and they do my bidding, er OK I'm getting off topic.

It is finished. The wasp lair is decimated, the wood neatly stacked in my van, and now only a few odd wasps are on my deck. These are the ones that have come home only to say, "Home sweet hoooly crap! Where? What the? Aww damn!" Then they just fly away. Sure I have a lot of cosmetic work to do, but phase one is complete.

Maybe I'll put a drink rail in :)

Wasps Must Die!

No I’m not talking about all my Baptist neighbors. I’m talking about those flying gangsters of the insect world. They fly around with their little fedoras and their even littler gold chains. “OK pal, we’re gonna take over your deck and in return for you leaving us alone and giving us use of the premises, we won’t sting the ever lovin’ crap out of you. Capisce?” I swear I saw one smoking a tiny cigarette with a wife beater t-shirt on.


Last week a group on of 10 biker wasps ran my wife off the deck and that was it. I channeled my inner Bruce Willis and started to arm myself. I went to Wal-Mart and picked up a set of six guns in the form of Raid Wasp Killer. I put on a poncho and with Sergio Leon music blaring I let them have it. I sprayed under the deck, in the benches and even dropped a couple out of mid air! I was an insecticidal maniac.

The next day it was far from over. They had gotten reinforcements and set up more nests. Back to Wal-Mart armory and back out to the deck. This time I had to tear the boards off to get to their "secret underground lairs" before they could fix tiny "lasers" to their foreheads. I was death from above, and with a lethal “judo chop” I crushed their evil plans baby.

Today, they have returned and I can see that serious carpentry is in order. The built in benches need to be torn out. They were never very comfortable anyway. No more hiding. I’ve posted their little head on toothpicks around the railing as a warning to the others. Steve Luby will not be intimidated by some arthropod sub species! I tried to make a necklace of stingers but my eyes aren’t what they used to be and it would be poky, so for now I’ll stick with the head thing.

It’s far from over, but I’m in this for the long haul. Sure it’s mainly for my family to be able to enjoy our yard in peace and safety. But it’s also for the manly assertion of human dominance over a hostile, savage insect takeover. This isn’t just the American way; it’s for the survival of all humanity! Or maybe I’ve been inhaling waaaay too much bug killer over the last couple of days. Whatever. It’s still on :)

If your kids aren’t doing chores, they’re missing out!

That’s right; you heard right, “They are missing out.” Now I’ll be the first to admit that having 6 kids doing house work (so we don’t have to) is awesome. It’s like finding money in the street. But Steve you have 7 kids, why aren’t they all working? Yes, I have 7 kids, but since our 7th is only 3, he requires different motivation. Being told he’s “not old enough” has caused him to want to help #6 who is coincidently only 6. I’m either a heartless bastard or super genius. Also, to be clear, this is slave labor, no allowance. They all get “three hots and a cot” as my dad would say. If they want spending cash they need to earn it on the side or by doing work over and above their required chores.


Every day, Monday through Thursday after school, they do their homework then a different chore each day. Every child had work that is age appropriate. It includes their rooms and the rest of the house. Now, I’m not talking about just picking up a few cloths. I’m talking about cleaning their bathrooms, vacuuming the house, cleaning the stovetop. There is no pop, TV, video games or frivolity of any kind, until they are done. When I first put this structured list up and told them what was going down, they didn’t think it would last. Four weeks later they understand that this is never going away.

Now not only is my house clean but it’s staying clean longer. Why? Because they know they have to do each chore every week and they want to make sure it’s easy when the time comes. They take pride in good work profusely praised by me and have been policing one another.

Still think I’m a heartless bastard? Let’s get to the title. Why would they be missing out? They are getting a real sense of accomplishment, a solid work ethic and an appreciation for what they have. I am really seeing it in them and I can’t believe how well it works. Many “adults” I know could use some chores. The only regret I have is that I should have done this, years ago. So excuse me if I quote my good friend Wile E. Coyote, “Gad, I’m such a genius!”

Bitter Irish Rant ;)

Well tomorrow’s St. Patrick’s day and for us Irish it’s a bit of a mixed emotion. It’s a great party that ends up being the “Joes VS. Pros” of drinking. Now, while having hordes of amateur drinkers clad in green Dr. Seuss hats and oversized shamrock sunglasses trying to kiss me simply for my nationality is slightly annoying, the term “Luck of the Irish” bugs me even more. Really? You really want the luck of the Irish? Let’s think about that for a moment. What’s so damn lucky about being enslaved, starved, forced from home and treated like dirt everywhere you land? Lucky isn’t exactly the first adjective that pops to mind. In fact, that phrase was originally used to explain away the accomplishments of successful, business savvy “paddies”. They couldn’t have done it by their hard work or whit, it must have been luck.


Freud said, “The Irish as a race are impervious to psycho analysis.” While it’s true we’re that messed up (though not nearly as messed up as Freud), we are also that grounded in reality. We know there’s nothing to analyze, life sucks. Why do you think we drink so much? So while it may defy logic, the truth is; the balance cold reality with warm drunken blarney just works.

So what did we do as a race to deserve this treatment? Well, we single handedly kept western civilization from doing a complete hard reset and total loss of data. If it weren’t for the Irish “warrior monks” of the middle ages, there would be no monasteries all over Europe, no beer, no good wine and no classical literature of any kind. You would never have heard of Aristotle, Plato or Socrates. You’re welcome.

When Christianity came to Ireland they found the last bastion the wild Celtic civilization that once ruled all of northern Europe from Ireland to Turkey. (Here’s a Snapple fun fact - Paul’s letter to the Galatians is to a group of Turkish Celts who most likely joined up because the whole wine on Sundays beat the crap out of no pork and a veils for the women.) Ireland is the only place that was not Romanized by Christianity. The church didn’t know what to do with things like naked coed horse races on the beach, female chieftains as well as male or a people that could fight as well as they farmed. When you’re used to being attacked by Vikings on a regular basis, the church showing up was more like really entertaining Jehovah’s witnesses.

So who are the Irish today? We Irish prize strong drink and stronger women, working hard and playing harder and most of all; we’re just a bunch of sentimental psychopaths. So before you decide to become Irish for a day, remember to be careful what you wish for.