Dear Facebook, We're Through...Kind Of

I'm breaking up with Facebook. For a week. I know. It's a trial separation leading up to what will be the inevitable divorce.

I'm sure everyone online is aware of the kerfuffle over Facebook's privacy policy. There's a movement to delete profiles on May 31st, another to not sign in on June 6th. Of course, the changes to the privacy policy to make them "simpler" have come through just in time to make those deadlines. By that, the deletion movement has lost some of its wind, as I'm sure has the June 6th protest. But, back in mid-May, I decided that, while I was too lazy to delete my account at this time, I would not sign in for a week to let Facebook (and my friends) know that I could indeed live without it. Facebook's advertisers would not get any hits or views from me in that time, making only a slight dent in FB's back pocket. Even though Facebook admitted to making some mistakes and have clarified the privacy policy, I'm not one to walk away from a commitment. So, I'll be signing off before midnight on the 30th and won't sign back in until the 7th. I'll also be deleting my BlackBerry Facebook app as well so there's no unintentional connection.

Why go to all of this bother, especially when it's only me doing it?

Well, for one, I think Mark Zuckerberg is the ultimate douche. He believes Facebook is too big to fail and that he can get away with just about anything because where else will people go? Back to MySpace? And, for the most part, he's right. Where would we move to if we made a mass exodus? (I say to a bar. Actually have real contact with real friends. But that's just me.) There are other social networks in development, most excitingly Diaspora. But, for now, there's no real, new alternative. So, maybe Mark is right. For now. Without a doubt, what happened to MySpace will happen to Facebook. Eventually. Everything changes. Nothing lasts forever. And, once you've reached the top, the only place to go is down.

Zuckerberg ought to tattoo that somewhere.

For the past two weeks, there were many interesting conversations and rants on the subject of To Delete or Not to Delete as well as Who Cares? I created a Facebook event and invited friends to join me in a week away. It was an underwhelming response with four yeses, 11 maybes and 33 noes. I wasn't surprised. We tend to be such good corporate lambs willing sacrifice privacy, among other things, for convenience or fun or to be part of the crowd.

But that's not what I signed up for.

I'm not so naïve to believe there's such a thing as actual privacy on the internet, or life in general, these days. I use a rewards card knowing they are keeping track of what I purchase. But, at least I'm getting money back for that. Not to mention I've been blogging for nearly a decade, and have been known to overshare. But, I'm not one to post photos or videos, or anything more compromising that an opinion on the internet. Yes, I blab on Twitter on a daily basis and tell people where I'm at via Foursquare. Obviously, I'm not *that* concerned with privacy. I just like to have a say in where what I post is going.

It's a fine line.

The Library of Congress is collecting my tweets. Google me and you'll know some of my innermost thoughts. But, I don't want to be on CNN.com and see what my friends have been reading. I find that incredibly creepy and assumptive. Like I need to be led by my friends' opinions as to what is relevant or cool.

No. I don't.

And, if it is something that's truly relevant to me, or super cool, my real friends will contact me directly.

*********

I will give Facebook its due credit. I've reconnected with countless people through it. Friends I hadn't talked to for ten or twenty years. That's an incredible thing. I also connected with total strangers who have become friends of sorts. And, in the beginning, I friended people I didn't know just to be polite, accepted requests from a friends' friends in order to not look like a jerk. I ended up with 160+ people connected to me who may or may not have the same views of privacy I do, and I started to ask, Why?

So, on Thursday, I did a mass deletion. I removed about 20 "friends". It felt kind of heartless at first. It's not like you have the option when you delete to send a note saying, "Hey, nothing personal, but I'm removing you from my list. No hard feelings, okay?" (And I didn't have the time to send out personal messages.) Half of the people I was deleting I had already hidden from my news feed, so what was the point of having them linked to me if I wasn't paying attention to what they said? The others removed were courtesy friends that I never really connected with, or actual friends who use Facebook as a promotion tool or their center stage. At the end of the day, I'm sure people won't notice or care that I am no longer their "friend", and, if they do, hopefully, they will find this and accept my apology, or will pick up the phone to ask why. Seriously. Facebook isn't the only form of communication left on the planet, you know?

*********

When I first joined Facebook, it was fun. I will admit that I was that annoying user whose zombie would attack your zombie with zeal, and would send you karma regularly. But, soon, I grew bored with that. I never got into mobs or farms or the like. Never played any games or IM-ed. Facebook, for me, was about connection and conversation, and the occasional pleasant surprise of catching up with a ghost from the past.

But now? Well, now, I've just about caught up with everyone I want to. I don't need a four-digit friend count to feel a sense of self. And I really couldn't give a rat's backside about what anyone "likes". Facebook has become a bit of a yawn, sort of like a dinner party that's gone on too long and the conversation is dying out.

Still, no one seems ready to leave. Yet. But, I do believe that Facebook has jumped the shark. With competition brewing, the next year of social media is sure to be interesting. It's time for something new. A new group of people. New conversations. A different way to connect. Like, perhaps, in person.

So, a week without Facebook is soon to begin. I'm sure it will be a bit awkward at first. A habit to be broken. But, I'll still be on Twitter. I still have email, and three phone numbers for friends to call or be called. This isn't a way of disconnecting from friends but perhaps connecting with them better. Yet, what I'm most curious to find is how often I will be back on Facebook once the week is through? Or if I will at all.

Any word on when Diaspora will launch?

Ask A Simple Question...Get A Stupid Answer

ME: So, where are you from?

HE: Well, I'm from a lot of places.

ME: [Silently, to self: No, that's impossible. You can only be from one location.] Okay, name a few.

HE: San Francisco, Colorado, Florida.

ME: [Silently to self: What, are you in Witness Protection?]

HE: But, I've been in L.A. for so long, it's like I'm from here.

ME: [Silently to self: Which is what every native of L.A. hates to hear and completely disagrees with.] Okay, but where were you born?

HE: Detroit, Michigan.

ME: [Silently to self: See, was that so effing hard to cough out?] I have family from Michigan. They do that weird thing where they grab your had to show you where we are and where we are going.

HE: [Smiles, nods. Probably what every native of Michigan hates to hear but has to acknowledge because they all do it.]

ME: So, where did you go to college?

HE: University of Michigan.

ME: Oh. [So, basically, you've spent most of your life in Michigan yet aren't really "from" there. Interesting take.]

HE: But I thought about going to school in Colorado or Boston.

ME: Because they have such better weather than Michigan?

HE: [Laughs]

ME: So, you're in real estate. Kind of a tough time.

HE: Yeah. Did you know the mortgage crisis is really Obama's fault?

ME: [*crickets*]

HE: No, really, it is.

ME: [Silently to self: REDACTED.] Wow, will you look at the time. Gotta go. Buh-bye.

Feeling the Burn

Ladies, we are a smart lot. When we set out minds to accomplish something, it's done. So why, in the history of womankind and snogging, have we not come up with a cure, balm or salve for beard burn?

Seriously. You'd have thunk we'd have come up with that by now. I mean, exfoliation is good to a point...but then you hit disaster.

The problem with beard burn is that you don't feel it while it's happening. Not if you're doing it right. It's not until you wake up the next morning, late for a meeting, and look in the mirror that you realize no amount of moisturizer or makeup is going to hide the fact you were up to some good the night before. Or a few nights before, depending on the level of the burn. It's clear your face has been met with some friction, even if the stubble was slight. A little stubble and a long snog can be big trouble. And, if you aren't wearing a ring on your left hand's third finger, or haven't declared yourself in a deeply committed relationship, you get a look. The look can range from "Good for you!" to "Hussy!", depending on who's shooting it. Either way, your private life is on display. It's a bit un-fun.

So, ladies, I'm putting it to you to solve the beard burn issue. We can't leave it to the guys because they already have the answer: SHAVE! And a girl should still be able to get caught up in the moment and take off half her face. So, send in your remedies. Put your chemistry cap on and save face. Thank you.

Oh, and guys...even if you think your Miami Vice-esque (be it a Johnson or Farrell), one-to-three day growth is hot, it's not. It burns. Take care of it and the ladies. Thanks. xo

So Lonely

Today, Salon has a article on loneliness. Because, I guess, it's that time of year.

While I don't quibble with people who suffer from depression, or those who have to deal with SAD each winter, I think most of the ho-hum that comes at the holidays is the clash of our natural instincts to hibernate by the fire with a cup of spiked nog watching "A Christmas Story" and the obligations to dress up, be cheery and bear the cold to make a meal of bad hors d'oeuvres while enduring mind-numbing chit-chat during this highly social season. Or maybe that's just me.

I politely cleared my schedule this weekend. I was tired, not feeling especially social, and desperately wanted to avoid the panicked-shopper traffic this weekend seems to bring. Most of my social obligations had been met by Friday anyway. The remainder can be made up after Boxing Day. So, I snuggled up, wrapped in my Four Seasons Hotel robe, and watched movies I've seen three hundred times before.

Don't ask me why I willing watch "Terms of Endearment" when I know I'm going to cry when Huckleberry Fox does after Debra Winger tells her sons she's not getting better. Ugh. But, sometimes, I long for weekends like this. Quiet time alone. Perhaps it's part of a certain type of writer's personality. I think we are solitary creatures by nature only because there are a bunch of characters living in our heads all the time. It's sort of exhausting, at least mentally. So, if I can get those characters to be quiet, I kind of blow off the rest of the characters in my life. Which sort of makes me a cruddy friend, I suppose. But, my friends are used to it to a degree. Writers are also like exotic pets to some. Our idiosyncrasies are considered part of the charm (as long as we don't claw the furniture or crap on the rug).

Inevitably, I get a bit bored at the end of my hibernation. Typically, as I'm getting my second wind, friends have lost theirs. They are donning their robes and either nursing lingering hangovers, or trying to psyche themselves up for Monday...or neither of us is willing to drive to the other's part of town, so we end up gabbing on the phone instead of in person. Which is just as well, because I was still in my robe and didn't bother blow-drying my hair after my shower.

Then, I stumbled on the Salon article. I've always been a loner but, for a moment, I became slightly panicked that I was actually chronically lonely, and without even realizing I was! I took the lonely test and ended up in the gray zone between the "normal" and "severe" range. Then I realized that I had forgotten about the "rarely" option. Never give me four choices. It's one more than I can handle.

There's a thin line between being lonely and alone. I'm quite comfortable being alone -- which is both a good and bad thing. I like the self-sufficiency, but it can also be a bit of a bad habit. Fortunately, I have friends that will call me on my idiosyncrasies and force me to be social. They know the magic words: "Drinks", "Hal's" or "A Votre Sante". And I love them for it.

Unfortunately, they disabled the embed (where's the love, Universal Music Group?), so click here for a little slice of Charlie Sexton. Just in case your beat's so lonely, too.

Something Old, Something New

You can run from your past, if you so choose. However, you can't hide from it if you are on Facebook.

In many ways, Facebook is wonderful. Extraordinary, actually. The way you can find old friends and reconnect is utterly fantastic. Last week alone I had dinner with one friend I hadn't seen in twenty years and saw two more I hadn't seen in over ten. You can always tell a true friendship by the ability to pick up right where you left off, as if it were only a week that had past since your last visit. These are people you were meant to know. Meant to have in your life, even though they were misplaced for a spell. Even those I haven't been able to meet up with, I enjoy our communications. Phone dates. Endless emails and electronic drink sending. Bad pennies, we are told, always turn up. On the flip side of that coin, so do dear friends.

Eventually, you befriend other long-lost classmates and, eventually, you will suspect a few might have "peaked" in high school, because, in spite of having careers and spouses and offspring, they somehow have the time to upload every picture from that time and tag the people in them. W. T. F? If I had that kind of time, I would be ruling the world right now.

I don't mind a stroll down memory lane every now and then. I like to hear what old chums are doing today, who is up to what. But, I don't expect them to be the same as they were when we were in grade whatever. Hopefully, we all evolve. Maybe it's a side-effect of getting older for some, this need to keep the past alive and well and part of the present. I don't know. I just prefer to move forward and take something old and turn it into something new.

Turkey

Of all the words that need to make a comeback, "turkey" tops my list. It's terribly retro, I know. It screams double-knit polyester jumpsuit, flare pants and corduroy. But it's also kind of perfect in a G-rated with R subtext sort of way.

I've been trying to cut down on my swearing. I've already been known to make truck drivers, sailors and frat boys blush, but the litanies I've let loose in the past two weeks, well, I've even started to shock myself. Shouting out sockcucking futhermucker in the office isn't really professional or polite, especially considering that we work in a single room and conversations (or outbursts) can be easily overheard on the phone. Not the level of integrity I usually take to the office. And just another reason why I'm not cut out for nine-to-five life. Somehow, people expect a certain level of decorum, even if aptitude is optional. You have no idea of the level of "genius" I sometimes have to deal with...or, maybe you get to frolic in it, too. Now I understand why God invented Happy Hour...and why it goes on for two or three.

As I've been trying to spare the ears of my two colleagues, I've tried to be creative with my outbursts. Farg has become a regular expletive substitute for me. "Wait. Did you just say 'farg'?" my co-worker asked yesterday, obviously more accustomed to hearing the blue streak. "Yeah. Just trying to cut down on the bad words." She gave a nod that was both slightly confused and a tad grateful.

Rice crispies is another good term to use when around children or old people. It's sort of a mouthful to say, and is confusing to the listener. However, it hasn't really found its way into the workplace as yet.

Douche bag, on the other hand, has been falling out of my mouth pretty regularly. About every five to fifteen minutes or so. I try to throw in Massengill every now and then, just for kicks, but even I've grown tired of using an antiquated and unhealthy feminine "hygiene" apparatus to express my disgust.

So, it's time for turkey. I warned the girls it was coming. They kind of dig it, too. I can't wait to roll down the window and scream it at the next douche bag futhermucker ass clown inept driver that cuts me off. The look on that turkey's face will be so worth it.

Notice Me! Notice Me!

It always astounds me that those who so desperately need attention will go to extreme lengths to disturb any occasion, no matter how peaceful the scene. The impetus of this post is the laundromat, natch, of which I am arriving rather old-lady early these days. If I get there in the 8 o'clock hour, I am pretty much guaranteed not only "my" machines, but no loud cell phone talkers or sugar-hyper kids. It's worth the lack of sleep to get in while the place is relatively empty and quiet but for the hum of the dryers and the whirl of the washing machines.

But, there always seems to be a turd in my punchbowl lately. And this one was wearing pigtails (which should be noted as Notice Me effort #1).

She first came to my attention when she burst through the swinging door of the attached cafe and yelled across the room to her husband. With the extra poundage she was sporting, it might have been more prudent to walk the twenty feet to her husband. I think walking burns for calories than a shout, otherwise I'd be screaming all day. Like a well-trained Labrador, her husband followed her call and back into the cafe they went. Ten minutes or so later, he returned, and ten seconds after that, she burst through the door and shouted for him again. Apparently, nothing really existed unless he saw it, too.

Now, let me map this out for you. I sit in the back of the laundromat, sipping my soy latte, reading Sedaris, minding my own business...quietly. To the left of my perch, about six feet away, is the swinging door to/from the cafe I mentioned earlier. On his third trip back, her husband must have breezed by me when I was finishing the burning mouse story, but I nearly came out of my skin when Miss Pigtails kicked (KICKED!) open the door, and hard. I looked over in surprise to find her smiling and, in each hand, holding a full-sugared soda. I suppose it did not occur to her that the light-weight door could have easily been bumped open with her backside, but I might have missed her grand entrance had she done something that subtle.

I suppose none of this would have bothered me if: 1) I had been listening to NIN (but it was so meditatively peaceful, I decided to go with the rhythm of the 'mat as I read); and 2) she wasn't wearing a similar ensemble to mine -- which, embarrassingly enough, consisted of black track pants and a black tee. I'm not going to apologize for my lack of fashion. It's effing laundry day. Anyway, I at least had my hair up in a French twist (the first since I got Boop'ed) and not in pigtails that are not only age inappropriate for someone 40+, but also exposed a good inch of her gray rootage. That is something most of us try not to have others notice. Every atom of her being seemed to scream, "Notice me! Notice me!" Finally, they seemed settled in the cafe. His attention now solely on her, she no longer had to beg the rest of us to bear witness.

Many moons ago, my friend, Snap and I discovered the Notice Me! Notice Me! phenomenon back when we were film students at CalArts. We soon learned how to discern which student belonged to which school. Those donning baseball caps and playing hacky sack were the animators who would go off to Pixar after a year and make bank. Those who could not stop swaying and had magnificent posture were the dancers. Those whom we never saw much socially were the music students. The emo-sullen were the art students, except for a gregarious few who were the graphic artists (mostly they were chicks; though there were still plenty of sullen GAs of both genders, and they usually silkscreened t-shirts). Film student were pale (from spending so much time in dark theatres or the subterranean edit bays) and sleep deprived (from long, night shoots and editing through dawn), but carried an optimism/delusion that they would breakthrough and be the next Tarantino. However, the most easy to define area of study was the Theatre student/acting major. Snap and I could be sitting quietly in the coffee house, splitting a six-pack of Bud Light (don't ask -- for some reason he claimed that was a more gay-friendly beer) and be deep in a great philosophical conversation and suddenly the whole place would come to a halt because a Theatre student would need to act out the conversation with wild physicality and projected vocals. He and I would soon come to mock them by waving our arms for dramatic effect as we sang out, "Notice me! Notice me!" Then we would giggle a bit and go back to our beer and repartee until we were interrupted again. (Don't be mad, my Theatre alum friends. You know what I mean. And we loved you for it.)

Snap and I will still call someone out on that behavior. One was my ex's now-wife, whom for some reason absolutely hates me. This is rather perplexing, because, at that point, she and I had never met. At least give me a minute to piss you off. Jeebus.

We were at my favorite brekky spot for brunch. I hadn't seen the ex (nicknamed here as Almost) in about a year. I noticed him when the two of them pulled up on his motorcycle not realizing it was him at the moment, just wondering who the fuck would be wearing such thick leather jackets on such a hot day. My ex and his girl evidently. (The motorcycle came after our breakup. Had it happened before, he would have had a smarter getup.). He didn't see me and I was kind of hoping we could "miss" each other on this occasion, but the Irish waitress bellowed out my name and he leapt up as I passed. He introduced her to me. She gave me her wet-noodle handshake, but failed to look in my direction as I said, "So nice to meet you." Whatever.

As luck (?) would have it, they were seated across the aisle from Snap and me. His back was to our booth, but she faced us. Every time the waitress came by their table, she would talk so loudly that Snap and I would have to stop our conversation, unable to hear each other but for telepathy, where we both were like, "Why the hell does she have to talk so bloody loudly? We don't give a toss that they just got back from Hawaii. Shut it." However, when the waitress wasn't around, the two of them were quiet lambs. Barely an audible bah between them.

"She really wants you to notice her," Snap said. "You should go over and sit in his lap and give them a proper hello." Don't worry, I'm not that kind of a girl. I was happy for the both of them. Just puzzled at her behavior. Snap and I just tried to ignore her (which wasn't easy) and enjoy our brunch.

Finally, after a few more visits from the waitress, they left. She shot out of the room, but Almost waved goodbye to us and we awkwardly returned the gesture. Once he was out of earshot, we let loose. Snap mocked her with his arms waving in the air and a high volume parroting of, "BLAH blah blah blah blah and BLAH blah blah blah blah and BLAH..." which was interrupted when Almost walked back to the table to leave the tip. He looked at us, knowing what we were doing, and kind of gave an acknowledging glance. We looked back contrite. I didn't want to hurt his feelings, or hers. But we were caught. Nailed by our own Notice Me behavior. We waved again and said how good it was to see him. Have a nice day and all that. And please, give her my best.

Somehow, I doubt she got that message, or cared if she did.

Yes? Yes? No!

About two months ago, I had a conversation with a certain someone on the East Coast. He mentioned he would be coming home for Thanksgiving and inquired if I might have time to see him while he was in town. I said yes.

About three weeks ago, I had a conversation with the same certain someone and he asked me again. I politely (for me) reminded him that we had that conversation before and that I recalled answering him. Did he, by chance, remember that? He said yes; he was just checking to be sure. I suggested he might want to find a better way to check rather than ask the question like it had never been asked (or answered) before.

I stopped him last night when he started to ask again. "Jeebus," I exclaimed, my fuse lit in a way only he can ignite. "Have we not solidified these plans twice now?" He confirmed we had, he was just checking. Again. "Seriously," I said, my eyes rolling so far back a contact was momentarily stuck, "if you ask me again, the answer will be no." He asked if we could change the subject.

Now, in all fairness, I can understand (as I'm sure you do) why he's probably keeping our date in pencil. Thanksgiving is still weeks away. Things could easily go pear-shaped between now and then. Our history, after all, has been a tad turbulent. The last date we had ended with a row in the back of a cab. Kind of hard to play make-up with three-thousand miles between you. So I do get the air of caution he's taking. But, criminy. He's a clever man. I'm confident he could inquire in another manner. Or just simply take me at my word since I'm not the kind to be flip about my calendar. It's Tiffany. I don't like eraser droppings in it let alone black ink exes marking the spot of a botched plan. I know that schedules are constantly in flux and that we end up overbooking ourselves. I respect and appreciate a secondary confirmation, but not as a repeat proposal. What girl would?

It took me a good ten minutes on our call to lessen my irritation. "You know," he said, "I think it's kind of cute when you chide me." He was lucky those three-thousand miles were there as a buffer, or it would have been a long cab ride home.

Spokesperson/Translator Wanted Full-Time

I never thought I would actually want to be like Sarah Palin, but I do. I know. You must be shocked. I totally am. But, I started thinking: Wouldn't it be great to have a spokesperson following me around to translate? Someone paid to take the foot out of my mouth and give it a pedicure. Where do I get one?! How much do they cost?!

I mean, that's better than a housekeeper or a personal trainer. I would live with dust bunnies and thimples if I could have someone smoothing all the feathers I tend to ruffle. I could just blurt away and not have to worry about the consequences. The Spokesperson/Translator would make everything better. I imagine it would go a little something like this:

POLITICS

ME: I think you are a friggin' idiot for saying something like that.

SPOKESPERSON/TRANSLATOR: What Ms. Miller actually meant was that you are a unique thinker with an interesting perspective. She finds that quite impressive.

ME: Seriously. You should get a refund from your college.

SP/T: With your impressive mind, the institution of higher learning that you attended must be honored to have you as an alum. They should set up a scholarship in your name.

ME: Douche.

SP/T: Weren't you the one to stop The Bridge to Nowhere?


SOCIAL GATHERINGS (Within 5 minutes of arriving.)

ME: South Park nailed Scientology. Like, who really buys the whole Xenu thing? Why not believe in the Easter Bunny? At least he's the kind of guy to bring chocolate.

RANDOM FRIEND'S FRIEND: I'm a Scientologist.

ME: Travolta, is that you?

SP/T: Mr. Travolta, let me assure you that Ms. Miller appreciates religious freedom and embraces diversity. Her comments were pertaining to the level of artistry, creativity and tongue-in-cheek humor of the show that, at times, boarders on genius. And, you have to admit, the whole Tom Cruise/closet thing was pretty well done. M&Ms?


WORKPLACE

ME: You know, if you just read the email and answered the questions I put in there -- in English so basic that it barely qualifies as first-grade level -- this whole process would go a lot quicker.

SP/T: Ms. Miller enjoys collaborating with you and hopes the working relationship will be long-term.


Imagine all the vodka-soaked debates a Spokesperson/Translator could repair. The relationships that would be saved. The verbal equivalents of floral arrangements sent to colleagues you insulted without even meaning to, let alone the ones you did intend to affront. This could be the greatest accessory ever invented; to always look good, even when you sound like an utter moron. I would pay just about any price for that. But, if we don't start paying attention to the policies instead of the spin, it's surely going to cost us all.

Crickets

I tend to be one who speaks her mind. It's almost like I have a congenital defect or a mutated case of Tourette's. Whatever little filter most people are born with that keeps things from going straight from brain to mouth I don't have. I say what I think and I mean what I say. That can cause more than a few awkward moments and I've become accustomed the taste of my pedicure. I lack tact. I tend to be blunt as well as sharp witted. I am carefully placed at dinner parties.

I don't always get a kick out of making people uncomfortable (unless they are absolute wankers; then I quite like it). I might want to make a point, but hurt feelings aren't part of the plan. Friends are used to my communication style. They've come to accept it as part of my charm. Which is why they grow concerned when I go silent.

I'm just too busy to put forth much of an effort these days, so now, when I'm confronted with an absolute ass, I tend to go mute. I say nothing. I simply stare at the offender and wait for the crickets to chirp. This is overwhelmingly effective over the phone. In that deafening silence, I can hear wheels turning, cheeks clenching and the stunning realization of, "Man, she thinks I'm a complete moron." Yes, I do. And the beauty of it is, I didn't have to say it. I don't have to say anything at all. Not a word. Not even bother with telepathy; the silence says it all.

I usually wait for the dunce to utter, "Hello?" or I hear their heart beating through the phone line before I speak. Sometimes the person just keeps filling that silent expanse by over-explaining. As they drone on, I simply sit there and sip my tea. Doodle a bit. It's sublime. Silence is the perfect tactic for the tactless, because I can't be accused of being the jerk by imparting my Tourettic honesty. "Well, what did she say to you?" "Uh...nothing?" Off the hook entirely. A simple change of subject and suddenly I've become the class act. Me. That is truly gobsmacking.

For someone who can easily end a conversation, relationship or career in one rapier response, keeping quiet is like donning a bulletproof vest designed by Chanel. Silence is a powerful language that I'm learning to appreciate more and more. And the sound of crickets is quickly becoming my favorite song.