Facebook's Timeline

While I'm no maverick, I don't want Mark Zuckerberg's programatons dictating my use. I chafe against being herded toward the promised land of social media. But on August 25th, I'll have no choice but to become cyber cattle. And unlike Sarah Palin, I can't go rogue.

As someone farther along on the OCD path than most, I like to organize...a lot. And I don't cotton to some chump developer's idea of organizing and classifying information for my supposed benefit and ease of use. I can work with chronological dumping on my Wall, listing posts and messages with the most recent on top, the way it's been displayed up to now. That makes sense. That should have been called Timeline.

Bitching about Facebook changes is nothing new. But it's new to me. I've figured that Facebook, as a free social network, has the right to do whatever it wants. I still do. But it's finally gotten my goat because, like  multi-line slot machines, Timeline doesn't make sense. I don't understand the logic behind it, and that causes me agita. Why is my friend's comment showing up in the right-hand column? Why are there two columns to begin with? Why are some things and not others listed in my Recent Activity? What if I don't want people to see what I've been listening to on Stitcher? And for the love of Tim Berners-Lee, why is the cover photo taking up so much real estate? Most of us aren't good enough photographers to take really sharp, well-composed photos, let alone ones that are wildly landscape in their dimensions. I'm a words person and I would much prefer that space to be utilized in a more meaningful way than showing one big-ass blurry snapshot that's supposed to sum me up in a glance.

Fuck you, Timeline, and your activity log, too.

Have you liked TIWTPITF on Facebook? There's a lot of good conversation going on there, if you can figure out where to look.

Autocorrect

In this age of hustle bustle, packed Outlook schedules, fast-talkers, and even faster walkers, it's nice to have technology clean up after us. 

However.

Autocorrect is a handy tool, sure, particularly if you’re illiterate or have sausages for fingers. But as a persnickety gal in a hurry, I don't fancy my phone's inner editor redlining and overruling my words in the most supercilious manner, even when I spell them correctly. When I text about my cat Frida, she becomes Friday. Higgs boson defaulted to Hugs Bosom,which would be an AWESOME porn or drag name but not quite what I was going for when trying to rock a particle physics confab. I wished a dashing young man luck on a potential job and his reply? "From your lipids to God's ears."

Not exactly what he was going for, methinks, although my triglycerides are pretty fucking awesome.

While trying to be helpful, this presumptuous hit, I mean, git is putting words in my mouth, or at least on my screen. If I wanted to be second-guessed and condescended to, I'd ring up my ex-boyfriend. He was a champion speller of jackassian proportions and he had a Prius, I mean, penis.


(photo: damnyouautocorrect.com)

Passwords

Every since I was a wittle gurl, I liked security. In the form of my binkie, my mother's bedtime kiss, a sturdy deadbolt. And I thought passwords were the shit. They were currency into the cool kids' clubhouse, sometimes literally.

And then…the internet. In its infancy, I could use one password—a pet's name, some iteration of my birthdate, a word that always makes me giggle—for everything.

And then…now. With secure office servers, viruses, hackers, and just plain annoyingly efficient websites requiring frequent password resets, my mind and my secret codes are a jumble. Some are written down in various notebooks, some are trapped in my mind, hanging out on the trashheap of other lost memories like the last name of that nimrod boyfriend who always kept his gum tucked behind a molar when kissing me, and some are plopped God knows where on my laptop. 

Technology is supposed to make life easier, not remind me at every turn of how old and infirm my mind is becoming. 

macdaddy18

MacDaddy2000

TIWTPITF2012

TrueLove1

Haircut100

LakersRule86

IH8Scrabble

FUpassword

Butterfield8 

maisoui123

No, they're not vanity plates. These are my desperate attempts to find the right combination to unlock my iTunes/Facebook/Twitter/Pinterest/LinkedIn/Microsoft/GoogleYouTubeFlickr/bank/investment/online retailer account. Maybe I should just reset everything right now to Amnesiac4ever.

Don't talk to me about security questions. I'm too busy trying to remember my family's first phone number.

(art: sync-blog.com)

Cyberstalking

It was hard enough to get over someone when my options were limited, way back when all I could do was drive or ride my bike by an ex’s apartment or parents’ house (stalking starts early in my family). These days, my obsession runs unchecked. Even if I find the strength to unfollow or unfriend Alexandre Dumbass, he often has a public profile, which presents a problem when I’m feeling vulnerable or having a bad day. One click is all it takes to find out that the dude is coping with the loss of me by pretending he’s doing great and that he’s moved on.

I know better.

In my daily drive-bys, I read between the lines. A status update that says, “Mass Effect + new flat screen = srsly awesome“ means “I can’t remember the last time I showered; I’m that depressed.” A tweet that proclaims, “This new IPA is blowin’ my mind!!!!” translates as “I’m drowning my heartbreak in beer and since I’m drinking alone, I’ll tell 1,000 of my closest tweeple.” Then there's the guy I met on an online dating site. I thought we had serious chemistry and loads in common. Then after yet another marathon date, he goes MIA…until I see that he's back in the match.com saddle and has been active within the last hour. He's "online now!" at 3 pm, 4 pm, 5 pm, 2 am… Around 7 am, I see he's changed his profile and added a few more pictures, one of which I took!

I wish I could stop the men madness but as long as there’s a wireless signal, I’m caught in the web. I don't want to punch my iPhone or laptop, so I'm just going to have to keep fixating on (i.e. adoring) my misguided (i.e. temporary) ex-boyfriends from 500 feet (my fingertips) and hope that they go offline, or at least change their settings to "private."

(photo: lisasteadman.com)

Group e-mail forwards

Tis the season…to forward e-mails. Therefore, it’s also the season that makes me want to punch my computer screen in the face.

Apparently I belong to a lot of folks’ e-mail groups. And apparently those folks suck, because they hex me with chain letters I don’t forward to 10 people (I actually like my friends), clog my in-box with e-mails that dance and twinkle with snowman and heavenly images of Christ our lord and savior, push their political agendas, and otherwise shower me with cyber presents I have no interest in regifting.

I’m as hopeful as the next person but please don’t send me an e-mail telling me that I’ll win a Macy’s gift card or an iPod by filling out a survey. I’m pretty confident I’ll see a unicorn before I see one of these mythical gifts. The best gift you could give me would be to remove me from all e-mail groups. Like Groucho Marx said, “I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member."

What's the most irksome e-mail forward you've received lately?

(Phot0: girl-woman-beauty-brains-blog.com)