Feeding Frenzy on Facebook

8:15 AM: I find a happy photo with a meme and I post it on my feed. I am the first to “like” it so that it will push to the top of the main FB feed my friends see.

- Like # 2

- Like #3

- Grumpy Face. A link is attached. There is NOTHING happy about last night’s catastrophe, controversy, corruption! (I do not respond.)

8:20 AM: I post a corny, non-political, joke. I like puns. I “like” it.

- Like# 2, 3, 4, 5

- A “friend” corrects an irksome, grammatical error as if I hadn’t noticed it also. (I do not acknowledge. I refuse to be put on the defensive.)

8:25 AM: I try my luck with an uplifting quote, a familiar verse often used in literature and song. I “like” it.

- Like #2

- Scolded again. This time for forcing a Bible verse on those who prefer I keep religious references to myself. (I remind myself to do this again tomorrow.)

8:30 AM: I post a link on my feed, current news. I share without a “like,” without a comment, without an emoji.

- An immediate slam, an accusation of being vile, complicit, divisive. (I delete this comment. It is MY feed. I unfriend this person, ban them from my posts.)

I log out. I need a breather, a cup of coffee, breakfast.

1 PM: HoneyBunch and I return from running errands in town. Lunch at a new place. I tag the place, post a photo of my order, and a nice comment on the food and the service. Again, I “like” my own comment to boost it on the main feed.

- Some stranger (not on my friend list) contradicts my comments. They found lipstick on their glass of ice tea, they had to swat at flies in the dining room, the server was rude. . ..

- I delete their libelous comment. Again, it is MY post, not theirs.

7 PM: I post a picture of the novel I just finished. I congratulate and tag the author on a job well done. (I “like” my comment.)

- Like #2, 3, 4

- Comments of agreement. I interact with them and ask for other book suggestions.

- One person talks about the slow pacing, the historical inconsistencies, the exorbitant price, best to buy it second hand. Author So and So did a better job on the same topic.

- I consider deleting this comment, but when others come on and disagree with this person, I leave it at that.

7:15 PM: Wow! Look at this recipe. (Like.)

- Like # 2. 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

- I can’t have sugar. Can you post this recipe without sugar?

- Is this gluten free?

- It has chocolate. I don’t eat chocolate that is not ethically harvested!

- I comment that the recipe is not mine. I just like to look at doughnuts.

9 PM: I log out. I know I should post consistently but I have had enough of “prime time” FB. (7 pm – 9 pm)

3 AM: Insomnia. I scroll though FB, searching for posts I want to post on my feed. No one bothers me as I read and post. I ignore spam, click-bait, and anything I dislike. I post something funny, and I “like” it.

- Aw. Are you up? Insomnia?

- Something bothering you?

- Do you need a virtual hug? An emoji? A gif?

I log out and go to bed.

Happy Breastday to Me!

I gave myself a very special birthday present this year – I had surgery. Before you think it was to increase, decrease, or “lift” something, let me tell you it was not cosmetic (though I could probably use a few nips and tucks at my age; the infinite number of creams I buy OTC are not working their promised magic). About four or five months ago, I discovered a hard lump about the size of a large marble in my left armpit. I had been feeling small pangs of pain in my left chest for several months, but I figured it was just my turn to dance with heart disease. Everyone in my immediate family is diabetic and suffers from strokes or heart attacks, so I thought – here we go; my turn. I was going to tell my internist about the pangs during my next visit, so imagine my surprise when I discovered the lump. The Drama Queen in me immediately manifested herself – cancer, I thought. I have cancer. I searched some more and found that the texture on the left side of my left breast felt diffe

Dating Challenged

I stink at dating – always have. I sputter. I hyperventilate. I fail miserably every time. I blame a pathetically underdeveloped gene that got little use before I married in my early twenties, then atrophied, gathering dust and rust, until I became single again in my fifties. I decided to use this defect to my advantage when I needed to do some investigative reporting a few years back. While on a newspaper writing assignment on Boomer-aged dating, I sacrificed my dignity and my vanity for the sake of the story (and I got several). Thank goodness, HoneyBunch saved me from all this when we married. (He comes up with the best dates.) I’ve decided I will “show you mine if you show me yours.” I will swap dating horror stories with you, but you have to promise to play along. The trick here is to tell about your worst date in 25 words or less. You must keep it clean and you cannot name names. Our little contest will run only this week and before my next blogger posting. Me

The Girl Who Eats Canned Spinach

I went to a Catholic elementary school run by strict Belgian nuns, and we could not leave the cafeteria until we ate everything served on our food tray. Once a week, they served warmed, canned spinach with our meal. The spinach tasted nothing like the way my grandmother made it, but I ate it. I gulped it down in three or four bites and it amazed my table mates. I told them we ate it at home so I was used to the taste. Now, my real problem began the day I ate the spinach off my friends’ trays so we could go play outside. As soon as the nun monitoring the cafeteria turned her back, my friends ate something off my tray I didn’t want, and I ate their serving of spinach. I only did it for two of my table mates, but the word spread. On the next Spinach Day, kids followed me to my table. I was suddenly very popular, and as soon as the nun marched off to the other end of the cafeteria, my friends and an army of others who only knew me as The Girl Who Eats Spinach, begged me to take

Raquel Martina Martinez

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