An Open Letter to My FaceBook Friend-To-Be

Dear Friendless,

I see by my little pop up timer that you want to be my friend. That’s thoughtful of you and I’m sure you have a great personality; a people person that draws other folks to you like barbecue draws rednecks. But upon searching my memory banks, my old address books, and the pictures from my high school yearbook, I find I have no clue to your identity. I’m afraid to check the mug shots on the county jail website.

I asked my children if they had teachers that might be motivated to make my acquaintance on the sly. I wondered if my coworkers had friends with motives for revenge. Aside from folks touched by that episode with the chocolate diaper in the microwave, I can’t think of any work-related citizens who might bear ill will toward me.

I’d like to think you’re a fan, too shy to say anything out loud, but wanting to duplicate my every move so that you can be more like me every day.

Sort of like a stalker with poor life choices.

Sort of like the shy girl who sits in the corner by the cheese dip waiting for the chance to say “No problem” when someone drops a jalapeño in her shoe.

Sort of like the fellow that knew how to work the slide rule in math class back before everybody had calculators that could figure the change in your body fat ratio before you ate the chocolate chip cookie.

I married that guy.

I was going to ignore your friend request. I was going to go gleefully on my way accepting gifts for my virtual megafarm. I was going to go toss a pie at one of my less needy friends.

But then I looked closer. That’s not a stalker. It’s not even a fan. It’s a picture of me at a recent Christmas party.

I’m sitting by the cheese dip.

And eating out of the bowl.

And picking a jalapeno out of my shoe.

Picture ID

Because my immediate interests leaned more toward napping than writing, I was hard at work practicing clever bio introductions one afternoon when Son Two leaned over my shoulder. He was fourteen at the time, and therefore omniscient. Also, the world revolves around him, rotating on an axis made of pizza and chocolate bars.

“Are you gonna put that?”

“What?”

“That part about your name.”

“It’s kind of an important item in a biography.”

“Oh.” Chewing noises sounded in my ear. “Aren’t you afraid somebody’s gonna find out it’s you?”

Nothing like a rousing pep talk from your own flesh to make you feel appreciated.

“That’s the idea. I want to get credit for the work I did.”

“Well, don’t use my name, okay?”

The only one left in the family willing to let me use her name in connection with mine is Lucy, the Dachshund, whom I bribe with bologna sandwiches and barbecue chips to guarantee loyalty. Ruling out family names, lame jokes, and references to obscure medical journals doesn’t leave much material. I got back to work.

“Amy Mullis wrote this piece. She lives in. . .”

“Mom! Don’t put where we live. My friends might figure out it’s us.”

I’m more familiar with the delete key than Simon Cowell is with dirty looks.

“Amy Mullis wrote this piece.”

“Can you use your last initial instead of your whole name?”

“Amy M. wrote this piece.”

“Piece of what?”

“Amy M. Wrote this.”

He rolled his eyes. If my tires worked that well I’d get a million miles on every one. “It sounds like it should be on a tombstone.”

“Okay, Smart Guy. What can I say in a three-line biography that won’t make me look dumb?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Just don’t send a picture.”