Getting on FaceBook with Betty
Getting on FaceBook with Betty
My guy is good to me. He buys these great cards for birthdays, Valentines, or anniversaries and props them around the house for me to find. They’re funny. They’re romantic. They’re all perfect. And he writes a little something in each one.
My cards suck.
I never find anything I like as much as his. He’s, also, very busy and I happen to know he’s forgotten my birthday on at least one occasion. Yet, he always manages to pull it off and still produce a great card.
And flowers. I love getting flowers. There’s something a bit frivolous about them. And fresh and fragile. My dear friend, Michelle, can make a stump sprout blossoms. I envy her. I kill plants. Any plant will grow better for someone else than for me. One of our daughters, knowing this, wisely gave us a terrarium. It grows all by itself, just a spritz of water every two weeks. Which is also why, if you read about my herb garden or lettuce garden, you are reading about true miracles.
I was positive he’d forgotten my last birthday because there were no cards or ‘Happy Birthdays’ happening anywhere. That afternoon, he came home with a birthday card, a gift card, dinner plans, and flowers. Lovely, tall, white things growing on stalks from bulbs. The tag said, ‘Patented flower . . . Bethlehem.’ We’ve never seen one before.
I put it in a planter my folks had brought me from one of their trips years ago. A beautiful planter I’d never had just the right kind of plant for— until now. I could have put in a pot of ivy, I suppose, but I’d never had the kind that would set off both the planter and the plant.
Now I did!!
And it looked perfect. So I thought, send a picture to Betty so she can see her planter at its best!
Betty and Tom live life as we all wish we could— doing pretty much what they want, when they want, and in pretty good health. They are young 80s— the new 60s.
Now, there are times when I’m overwhelmed with all the technology we deal with, so I’m very proud of them. I can’t imagine how different their lives were when they were children as compared to today. But, they use their computers mainly for games and docs and don’t have phones that show pictures. I’ll post it on FaceBook for her.
And so began my phone call with Betty . . .
“Get on Facebook. I posted a picture I want you to see.”
“Ok, let me turn it back on. It’s coming around. Give it some more time. O-o-ka-ay . . . now what? Facebook? Am I on Facebook?”
“Yes, I opened you and Daddy a page about three years ago.”
“Well, where is it?”
“Type the word Facebook in that white bar at the top of your screen. Then, login.”
“Ok. Now, it says email and password.”
“That’s where you login. Just type in your email— you and Daddy share one, don’t you? Just type that in. Then, your password.”
“I use the same password for everything.”
“Well, type it in the password space.”
“There’s a password already in it, but you can’t read it.”
“That’s there because . . . I don’t know why actually, just erase it and type your own.”
“Yes, hit the backspace key, then enter.”
“Ok, now what?”
“Did it take you to your page?”
“Yes, I think so. I see a picture of your dad with the kids at boot camp graduation.”
“That’s it. That’s the picture I posted when I first created it.”
“Ok, what am I looking for?”
“I posted a photo of some white flowers. Do you see them?”
“Scroll down. Use that little bar on the side to scroll lower on your page.”
“I don’t see it. This doesn’t have one.”
“Don’t you use a mouse? Isn’t there a little wheel in the middle you can scroll up and down with?”
“I think so. I don’t know.”
“Ok, do you see your friends? I sent you a friend request when I set this up. We’re friends, so click on my name and you’ll go to my page and you can see it there.”
“I don’t see you in my friends.”
“You never friended me?”
“I would friend you.”
“Well, you have to accept my friend request to be friends and you may not have. You delete all your emails when you don’t want to read them, so maybe you deleted this, too.”
“I still don’t see you.”
“Try this. Go back to that white bar and type in w-w-w-.-facebook-.-com-/ . . . and then, my name.”
“OK. w-w-w dot f-a-c-e-b-o-o-k dot c-o-m f-o-r-w-a-r-d-s-l-a-s-h . . . ”
“No, Mom. Not the word. Forward slash is that little leaning line on the question mark key. Just touch that key.”
“You mean just touch it or do I mash it?”
“Well, press it to make it work. Like a typewriter key.”
“Now, I have a long string of those little lines going across that white bar.”
“Ok, hit your backspace and erase them.”
“It sure is taking a long time.”
(Tell me about it.) “Now, type in my name after the forward slash and it’ll take you to my page.”
“What’s your name? Susan L . . . what’s the L for?”
“My middle initial.”
“Oh, yeah, I knew that.”
“Try this. I’ve just sent you an email with a link on it to my page. Click that link and you’ll go directly to my page that way.”
“I see your email here. You didn’t put in a subject.”
“No, that doesn’t matter. Go to the body of the email. Do you see a string of characters in blue with a line underneath?”
“Yes, put you cursor on it, does it turn into a little hand? Left click it with your mouse.”
“Oh, oh. Ok. I see your picture. That’s a nice picture of you.”
“You see my picture with the blue clouds behind it? Good.”
“No, you have brown stuff behind you.”
“No, behind the picture, isn’t there a large picture of the sky and blue clouds?”
“Oh, yeah, yeah. I see that.”
“Ok, scroll down. Do you see the white flowers?”
“No, I see books and movies. Oh, and pictures of the baby. Those are so cute.”
“That’s on the side bar. What about on my timeline?”
“What’s your timeline?”
“It would take too long for me to explain right now. Just look in the middle. Go back to the top of the page and start scrolling again.”
“Oh, there they are. Those are pretty. Where did you get them?”
“My birthday.” (I knew she meant ‘why’.) “Look at the pot.”
“Oh! That’s the flower pot we brought you from that trip we took to Michigan.”
“Yes. That’s what I wanted you to see.”
(I wonder if this undoes some of the crappy things I did as a kid.)
More AFFAIRS in your life?