It’s better than a mass e-mail

I wish I could say I am not one of those people who checks Facebook multiple times a day. I can’t. Because I do.

Just because I don’t update my status every three minutes – “Sara is drinking tea. … Sara is heading to the gym. … Sara is hitting the refresh key on her e-mail waiting for a response to a job application….” – doesn’t mean I am not trolling the site, checking other people’s status, new photos, posted links.

Why? What is it about this social network that sucks me in for a few minutes here and there all day long?

Why do I care that Kevin changed his profile picture to a giant octopus drawing? Or that Jaime was tagged in a photo from the Winter 2009 album? What does it matter to me that a mouse was photographed holding a tiny stuffed bear? (Oh wait, that was a link I posted to Facebook. Whoops.)

I can’t help it. I joined several months ago thinking it would be a good way to keep in touch with colleagues and old friends, which it has been. And it’s not creepy like Myspace where random people can see your profile and send you notes. (“Hey cutie, I live in Chicago, too. Let’s hang out.” Eew.) It’s just me and my 212 closest buds exchanging wall posts, status updates and pokes (actually, I have not idea what a poke is exactly, but I hear they exist in Facebookland).

And now it’s become a supremely effective way to waste time. I read wall posts that really should be sent in e-mails, peruse other friends of friend’s newly posted photos and follow suggested links to stories and blogs and YouTube videos. To its credit, Facebook has been a good way to keep in touch people I might not be close enough to e-mail or easily connect to folks I just met or am introduced to through another friend. I tell myself it’s a good networking tool, right? And sitting at home alone unemployed feels less … shall I say, lonely? .. than it might otherwise feel when I can just check Facebook and see what other people are up to.

So this is my open letter to Facebook:

Dear Facebook,

You are an addictive time suck that keeps me entertained and wasting time periodically throughout the day. And for that I both shake my fist at you and thank you.

All the best,

Sara

p.s. I know there was a recent fracas over your new user terms, and that did upset me a bit, but I hope you got it all straightened out, because I just couldn’t be bothered with reading through all the legalese and trying to determine if that was enough for me to walk away.

In an effort to ease the blow of the paper closing, I recently wrote ten things I would not miss about that job. I guess I have had some time for it to sink in, did a piece on what it all meant to me, and I can now reflect on some things I will miss about it (also had a former editor suggest this, and really, it only seems fair).

1. Working a job where every single day is different. One morning might be spent at a press conference on a health care plan, another digging through a study on cancer genes.

2. The din of the newsroom, including the hum of the television news and the banter between reporters and editors. (OK, sometimes the latter made me a little nuts, but now that I don’t have it, I miss it.)

3. Learning something new all the time, like that some caffeinated energy drinks have ten times the caffeine as a soda or that the leading ingredient in antibacterial soap never breaks down and is choking the Chesapeake Bay.

4. Being able to read my lede out loud to colleagues for critiques or suggestions or getting help with words or phrases.

5. Writing. Just the act of it, choosing the right words or phrases and stringing them together each day.

6. Seeing my byline on top of a story I worked hard on and cared about.

7. La Boheme, the little cafe downstairs from our office. Just kidding. That place was a supreme rip off, but for some reason – perhaps convenience – we were always willing to spend $8 for a sandwich or $5 for a bunch of grapes and a slice of cheese. Not to mention the near-daily Diet Coke. My colleague would go in at least three times a week for her “usual” (a BLT), which about half the time they would get right.

8. Knowing things. At the dog park each morning in the days after the mayor’s indictment or the killing of a former councilman, my fellow dog walkers would ask me what I knew, what’s the real story, what’s going to happen next. I wasn’t even covering the story, but being at a newspaper gave me a bit of insider knowledge – real or perceived – on major stories. That’s fun. I also knew random facts about news events like the salmonella-peanut butter scare.

9. Mattering. After writing a story on Celiac disease, a reader told me her husband had some of those symptoms and was going to the doctor. Another source e-mailed me a school project his son did on current affiars: A summary of one of my environmental stories. (He got a 100 A+, of course.)

10. My fellow reporters. They were all bright, talented, eager and shared a passion for daily news.

About a week or so ago, my best girl friend who lives just a few blocks away gave birth to the most spectacular, beautiful, perfectly formed baby boy. Another friend of ours is days away from having a baby girl. (Baby cage fighting match to be scheduled soon. I haven’t seen the competition – because, well she hasn’t been born – but that sweet baby Mo is already flexing his arms and testing out his grip. I think his training starts soon, so my money’s on him.)

My visits over there have basically entailed us staring at him and petting him and smelling him and cuddling him. It’s awesome. I know all this stroking and oogling someone else’s baby might seem strange, but arguably when you’ve been best friends with someone for 15 years or so, you have some kind of stake in the offspring, no?

It’s very true that it changes everything, and I can’t even imagine the world-shift the parents are experiencing.

So I thought a weekend in New York with my college friends, none of whom have babies, would provide a dose of baby-free shenanigans. Surely, babies couldn’t possibly be the topic of conversation among these women, right?

Wrong. It seemed to be all we could talk about: When do you want to have babies? When will you start “trying”? (I use quotes here because I don’t want to claim that term as my own. It’s sex, people. Only instead of trying so hard not get pregnant, you are doing it with hopes that you might. The term “trying” makes it sound like a science experiment.) You know it’s hard to conceive after 30/35/25? How many babies do want?

I won’t count myself out of these conversations, either. I didn’t know I wanted to talk about babies (that is, non-existant, future fantasy babies), but it just kept coming up. Even my brother got into the mix, and this part is hazy courtesy the gin and tonics, but I think we embarked on a challenge that the one who has a baby boy first lays claim to our father’s name. Creepy.

On a side note, I must admit here a nearly debilitating fear of not being able to conceive. Although I might not be baby crazed, the death of my own mother at a young age has seared this desire to have children of my own, and I would really, really like it if those future plans are not foiled.

My friend – the same one who just had baby Mo – once threw out the idea that you never going to feel completely ready to have a baby. You just do it. She might be right. How do you know? I like babies alright and I love my husband and I know I want babies one day (what does that even mean, “one day”?), but I don’t awake in the middle of the night to the sound of my biological clock ticking. I don’t look at pictures of babies on the Internet. I don’t read books about how to get ready for pregnancy.

But, then again, what am I waiting for? A memo? A certain magical amount of money earned or career goals accomplished (which, we all know have veered from desired trajectory for the moment)? A milestone on renovating the house? The end of the recession or a winning lottery ticket? A nudge from my ovaries telling me that if I don’t get to cooking soon, I might miss my window?

When I tell my husband this, that my childless friends and I managed to talk a considerable amount about babies, he rolls his eyes. So… I am guessing he’s not ready?

If I had more readers and this was more than just an exercise in self-absorbtion, I’d ask for suggestions on what people do when their unemployed. Besides job hunting.

How do you find creativity and motivation? How do you continue to feel smart and engaging when you’re sitting around your house checking Facebook and ignoring your confused dog who whines and paces for attention?

(Wow, it’s not looking good for the Sara Betterment Phase. I even Googled the phrase “What do to when you’re unemployed” and a list actually told me half of the things I have been doing already: blogging, cooking, crafts.)

I will say I am surprised at the amount of people at home during the day. It’s almost offensive. What are they doing? Are they also out of work? Are they all really collecting disability checks? Seriously, I have seen more of my neighbors today than in the last month. What are the chances they work evening jobs or just have off on Tuesdays?

Well, it’s a rocky start to my unemployment. Although I have nailed down a couple freelance gigs and set up an informal interview for a prospective job lead, it seems like the afternoon stretches out in front of me.

I guess I’ll go paint my fingernails.

This is the first official day of my laid-offdom.

Technically I am on “administrative leave” and will still see a paycheck for a bit, thanks to a 1980s federal law that requires employers to give two months notice before closing a plant. But today was the first work day that I didn’t have to get up to go to work.

Yes, it’s not even 8 a.m. and I am up, but I blame my eager and consistent dog for that. Or maybe it hasn’t really sunk in yet.

I actually have a long list of things to do today, but really these are things that could be done any day this week. I am trying to stay busy. Stay busy and stay positive.

So commence the Sara Betterment Phase, longer title Sara Personal and Professional Better Phase. SBP entails me building my professional skills (Final Cut, Web design, freelancing) and nurturing some personal areas (running again, taking up another hobby such as knitting or more yoga). During this SBP, whether it lasts two weeks or six months (good heavens I don’t know if I can handle six months), I will focus on doing things that make me feel good about myself and ultimately make me a better person.

SBP starts, as I am now, by drinking a cup of coffee and writing.