TEXTUAL HEALING

My nanny is supposed to be at work in an hour. Anytime the phone rings within an hour of an employee’s designated arrival time, I brace myself for the inevitable “Dog ate my homework” excuse for why they can’t work. I pick up the phone already canceling my plans in my head.

Instead of my French nanny’s voice, I hear a computerized voice akin to a serial killer. It’s the only voice I’ve ever heard with less charm than hers

“You…have…a…cell…to…land…line…text…coming, please…hold.”

I do.

The computerize voice then recites the text:

“Getting on a flight to Paris. Death in the family. Not my fault.”

As they say in French, c’est tout. That’s it. Three lines, 13 words, no class. You see I would feel badly if Frenchie had lost a family member, if she actually lost a family member. But young Frenchie made a Cardinal mistake, just days before, leaving a note to herself to book an Air France ticket on her parents’ miles. Either Frenchie is incredibly psychic or Frenchie’s got some explaining to do. Possibly she can text me the real story, since this one is bullshit.

Every time I get a text, I feel like I’m fifteen. Maybe that’s because texts should really only be sent by fifteen year olds. When I was a teen, I spent hours of my after school time on the phone with the same people I had just seen all day. We’d watch “Days of Our Lives” and eat Doritos, each at our own house, connected by the widespread grasp of Ma Bell. Now, fifteen year-olds spend hours on their Sidekicks or Iphones, texting back and forth, talking about nothing. Each text is stream of consciousness, diarrhea of the brain, meant to be read, responded to and deleted immediately. But that’s what you do when you’re fifteen: waste time and talk about it.

Not when you’re a grown up, with a job, being depended on. Possibly leaving the country on a moment’s notice might warrant a bit more communication than 13 impersonal words. Of course that’s probably why she sent a text, no communication.

I’ve tried to think back on where I may have gone wrong. Sure, part of this was my fault. I hired a French nanny, after all. I’m lucky she didn’t send a text that read: “I surrender.”

With every hiring and the inevitable un-hiring, I’m left picking up the pieces, wondering what I did wrong. Then I’ll talk to a friend or two, each with similar stories, each reminding me there are just a lot of crazy people in the world. Hiring a nanny is a tricky thing. Moms are supposed to thank the nanny profusely for achieving the simple task of doing her job. We’re supposed to treat a nanny like family, but she’s not expected to do so in return. We’re expected to pay on time, give healthy Christmas bonuses, but have no recourse when a nanny decides Paris beckons.

Somewhere out there is a reliable employee. Ideally she will have good English, a reliable car, and good references. But most important, hopefully she’ll have no cell phone. That way when she quits, she’ll at least have to tell me in person.

I’m sure I’ll hear from Frenchie. Undoubtedly, she’ll return in a month of two from her existential crisis in Paris, realize that it’s hard to live without an income, and will have assumed I kept her job for her. She’ll send a text:

“Back from funeral. Can work tomorrow.”

I’ll spend some time thinking of how to respond, knowing there is only one response. But unfortunately, I can’t remember how to say it in French. If only I’d paid better attention in 7th grade, I’d be able to remember how to text; “Go fuck yourself.” But since I don’t, I’ll settle for the alternative.

“Merci, mais non merci.”

Thanks but no thanks.

FACETIME

If you were to look at my Facebook page, you would see that I have a lot of friends, over one hundred to be exact. According to the Internet, I’m connected, maybe even popular. When I first joined Facebook, on a lark sparked by curiosity, my only “friends” were people I already spoke to all the time. But with time, I found old friends to whom I hadn’t spoken in years, long lost high school or college buds all of whom I liked, but apparently not enough to stay in touch with over the years. Our lives had taken different paths, we’d gone our own ways, but are now re-united under the intimate umbrella of the world wide net.

It’s been nice to get back in touch, find out what happened to each, how life turned out. Most people’s stories seem to be the same; exploration in the form of humiliation in their 20’s, a desire to “get it together” in their early 30’s, followed by the inevitable spouse, house, and child in the early to mid to late 30’s, which brings us to now.

A few singles are hanging on, men and women alike assuring anyone who asks that they’re really, really happy with their life but if you happen to know anyone to set them up with, they’d be even really, really happier. A few marrieds are hanging on, assuring anyone who asks that they’re really, really happy with their life, but if you happen to know a good divorce attorney they’d be even really, really happier. The ones with newborns haven’t slept, the ones with toddlers haven’t sat down and the one’s whose kids are hitting double digits long for an infant or toddler, apparently tired of all the sleeping and sitting one does when their kids aren’t quite so needy. And most people seem to like their job until you ask them if they like their job, the question receiving a unanimous, no-recount on this vote needed, “No.” But still, they’re really, really happy.

The chances that I will actually see in person most of my over one hundred friends is slim to none. I barely see my friends who live five minutes from me much less the ones I haven’t seen in years. We’ll be cyber friends forever, but we’ll probably never speak to or see one another again. But I know everything about them, or at least what they put on their Facebook profile. I know what one friend had for breakfast, that another friend’s kid doesn’t sleep through the night, and where another friend traveled on Thanksgiving. I know everything about my “friends”, I just know nothing about my friends. People seem to be too busy, too overworked, too something to actually make, and (God forbid) keep a plan. Possibly, the people I know would have more time to see or speak to actual humans in person were they not spending so much time on the Internet updating their Facebook page every time they have a successful bowel movement.

The older I get, the less real friends I have. I can count on one hand the amount of friends or family members I speak to with any regularity, the number who actually know the details of my current life even less. I have friends and family members who've never come to see my child and I live down the block from two friends whom I never see. But I do know which Facebook friend is on a raw food diet, which one really like her kids’ Halloween costumes, and whose afraid to turn 40. I know the Cliffnotes of my friends lives.

I’ve enjoyed being on Facebook. It’s provided me the opportunity to find old friends whom I’d lost touch with for no other reason than we lost touch. I’ve seen photos of their children, most of whom I’ll never meet due to distance. And I’ve reconnected with a part of my life I’d long since abandoned. But I’ve come to realize that knowing someone isn’t knowing the stats of their life. Friendship isn’t catching up, it’s moving forward. So the next time I go on a raw food diet, like my kid’s Halloween costume, or have a successful b.m., I’m going to call an actual real live human person whom I consider a friend. And if I want to know their response, I’ll click on Facebook, chances are that’s where to find them.