Tag Archives: facebook

Going, going,… gone! The free original art piece that was … raffled off to celebrate the launch of my book

And the winner was … one of Facebook users who commented (and shared!) on a Free Original Art contest with a simple math problem (it involved the cover of WHO IS MR. PLUTIN? and counting).

Then there were days and days of me working with oil paint, gold leaf, matryoshkas, and recycled wood — and voila.

I give you the piece that’s called RUSSIA.


Any thoughts on what I am trying to say here?


One crazy, two crazy

I thought I had successfully eliminated all the crazies from my Facebook feed by not friending people I don’t know in real life. And since I pride myself on never hanging out with anyone who seems weird in a serial-killer, Westboro Baptist Church, or David Duke-kind of way, I thought I could sit back, relax, and enjoy the cute toddler photos.

Okay, that sounded creepy. Let me re-phrase. I thought I could sit back and enjoy photos of my friends’ kids (kids that are mostly toddlers because once those kids reach the teen years, the adorability factor drops and there isn’t much to post except for the videos of shouting matches.)

But I digress. It turns out I thought wrong. It turns out I have two crazies on my newsfeed.

 Crazy #1

I’ve known Crazy #1 since the time we both obsessed over Wham and blackheads in our skin. Yes, the George Michael Wham. And now that I’ve just dated myself, let me go on. I haven’t spoken to this person in over fifteen years but since our past adolescent connection was too difficult for my inner adolescent to ignore, I sent her a friend request as soon as she joined Facebook a few years ago.

Now I am debating whether I should un-friend her or continue to enjoy the exercise my eyes get when I roll them reading her posts.

She is both very opinionated and  passionate about certain political issues. And most of her passion lies way to the right of mine. Yet that’s not what earned her the crazy label. It’s how she expresses that passion. The words in her posts – wait, even the letters! – alternate between caps and lowercase like they’ve been DRINking cachaça beFORE theY DEcided to FORM sentencES. See what I just did there?

It’s nauseating.

Crazy #2

This one is a recent acquaintance. I met him while on an expat assignment to a country that’s not proving to be the world’s darling at the moment. After I left that country I promptly forgot about Crazy #2 but when he sent me a friend request I agreed. Why not, I thought?

Now I know why not. For the past several months Crazy #2 has been weaving elaborate theories on how his ex-wife, her alleged lover, the CIA, the FBI, his wife’s country’s intelligence services, the Martians, and the little people who live under the roots of birch trees have all conspired to defraud him. He posts photos of women with whom he apparently had a lot of sex and then proceeds to describe that sex in 50-Shades-of-Grey details. He puts up pictures of both his friends and foes and then tells the world about how they amass capital, avoid taxes, and do drugs. And after he’s done all that, he tags his teenage son in those posts — while at the same time calling his ex-wife (and the mother of his son) a working girl.


I know I should erase the guy from the list of my Facebook friends but I am hooked. This is like a storyline for a novel, inside into a character, and a thriller-in-the-making — all in one. How can I stop? It’s research.

Victory Day time machine

I feel nostalgic towards my birth country twice a year. Due to current and historical reasons, none of which I am going to discuss here because of both space and your sanity, I never think of myself as Russian. I left Moscow long ago, have no plans to return, and only enjoy Russian food when prepared by my mother and no more than once a year.

But today, on the 9th of May, I feel Russian. It’s not really a choice I consciously make but a feeling that overtakes me when I log into my Facebook account. Even though my friends’ list is international, on this day my newsfeed is overwhelmed with posts from those either born in Russia or now working there. And most posts are about World War II.

Every year on the 9th of May Russia marks its victory over Nazi Germany. It celebrates by putting on a military parade worthy of the Oscars, the Emmys, and the Golden Globes combined. The reasons are purely political and those have been examined to death in other, more high-brow outlets. Which is why I am not going to focus on that or any other ridiculous exhibition of might that today’s Russia employs to make its people feel good. It’s not news to me — I already know about those tricks. I’ve lived through them.

But that’s not the reason that makes me feel Russian on the 9th of May. I feel Russian because remembering that war transports me directly into my childhood. The childhood in which we didn’t learn only the historical facts of that war (heavily edited by the Communist Party, of course) but we learned to identify with it on a primal, almost visceral level. I’ve been now away from Moscow for longer than I lived there but I still get goose bumps when I see clips of Soviet war movies and hear melodies of war songs. And I am not the only one. Those religions of the world that have trouble spiritualizing their followers should research how the Soviet propaganda machine turned World War II into the reliquary for the masses.

First as a young girl and later as a teen, I spent every 9th of May in Moscow’s Gorky Park with my grandfather. He fought in the war, survived it, and went to Gorky Park every year to see his former comrades-in-arms. Regardless of the weather, on that day the grounds of the park filled up with people young and old. Old, scanning the crowds for the names and numbers of their Red Army units, and young, walking from one group of veterans to another, thanking them for their courage, and giving out flowers to everyone with a medal on their chest. It was a day of profound sadness and profound happiness—both at the same time.

This would probably be an appropriate spot to break into criticizing the role that Russia is playing in the world today and the way Putin’s been using World War II for his rhetoric on Ukraine and Crimea. But I’ll save it for another post. The post that I can write on a day when I am not thinking of my grandfather, his fellow servicemen and women, the red-carnations-full Gorky Park, and the time when everything seemed much, much simpler. My childhood.

A true story from the “this is totally f*$%#ed up, man” category

I was minding my own business, procrastinating as I often do on Facebook, when I saw a post from an acquaintance. “Friends,” it read, “is anyone planning to travel from City A to City B anytime soon? We forgot Justin’s iPad in City A and it’s a real tragedy.” ***

Justin is her son. He is two, maybe three.

If this post wasn’t enough to move me into a fully judgmental mode, the post that immediately followed it, did the trick. Right below this my-toddler-needs-his-iPad cry for help, was an article about the kidnapped Nigerian girls.

My first inclination was to comment with any of the following:

“Really? A forgotten iPad for a toddler is a tragedy?”


“Your 3-yr old has his own iPad????”


“Tragedy for him or for you?”




“Define tragedy please.”

Cue in a snarky emoticon for each one.

My second inclination was to snicker, roll eyes, ignore, and repeat. Then go on a rant about it in a blog post.

As you can see I went with the second one. But not before I thought for a while about what would possess someone to post that particular information. Because, if you think about it, appealing for help in bringing a forgotten toy isn’t really from “this is totally f*$%#ed up, man” category. Appealing for help vis-à-vis an expensive electronic device owned by a three-year old while declaring its absence a “real tragedy” kind-of is – especially if followed by a photo of grief-stricken mothers holding signs “bring back our girls.”

So maybe it’s Facebook’s fault. If the article about the Nigerian kidnappings didn’t show up right under her post, I’d probably dismiss it as stuck-up, conceited, and vain. But now it sounds worse. Now it sounds dickish.

Which actually presents a dilemma. Should I delete her off my newsfeed, use her prototype as a character in one of my stories, or stop procrastinating on Facebook all together?

*** (All names are changed. Obviously.)