Facebook simply does NOT get it at all.
A few weeks ago, I logged on to Facebook because I needed to be reminded how old and completely unhip I am, and no one does that quite as well as Facebook. And there, bold as brass, was the following statement:
"38 people think DeNae is narcissistic. Do you think DeNae is narcissistic, too? Sign up here!"
I am totally and completely not kidding. That's what it said. To me. About me. And evidently it was starting a freakin' CLUB in honor of the whole thing!
So, naturally, I picked up one of the mirrors I keep around me at all times, and I said, "Do YOU think I'm narcissistic? It's OK, you can tell me. We're friends."
And the mirror said, "Of course not. Don't be silly. Is it YOUR fault you are without a doubt the coolest person in this conversation? No. So don't you worry your pretty, nay, GORGEOUS head about it any more."
Well, with an honest assessment of the facts like that, there was nothing for it but to have one of those dreamy flashback sequences where the screen goes all wavy while a picture of me gazing thoughtfully upward faaaades awaaaayyyy...
And there I was, being cool in High School.
With my madrigal group, singing and dancing in the -- again, not kidding -- "Rendezvous Lounge" of the SS Azure Seas, aboard which we little Utah yokels were cruising all the way from Los Angeles to Ensenada, Mexico, which I now suspect is actually just a suburb of L.A.
Did we care that the ship stayed so close to land we could have hopped overboard and walked to San Diego? Nope. Did it matter that the only people watching our performance in the "Rendezvous Lounge" were a couple who, near as we could tell, had arrived plastered and were closing in on catatonic, and therefore met the required elements for fan-hood of the GHS Madrigal-slash-Lounge Singers? Not a bit.
We. Had. Arrived.
New York had that groovy High School for the Performing Arts, where, according to the wildly popular TV series "Fame", students were full-on flunked if they didn't dance on the lunch tables at least once per semester. And Salt Lake City had us.
Wavy screen, dreamy fade-out....
And now, here I was, being cool in college.
While visiting my mentor and choir director in his office as Music Department Chair, a call came in from the minions who do all the pre-concert work for the rock group Foreigner. It seemed the band required back-up singers for the song "I Wanna Know What Love Is", which was later hijacked by Wynona in what could arguably be called an act of war.
Anyway, Dr. Thompson took the call, and assured the head minion that he could put together a contingent of extremely hip music majors and have them down at the Salt Palace by 4:00 that afternoon.
He's so cute when he lies like that. There is no such thing as a "hip" music major.
But a bunch of us regular music majors headed over to the Salt Palace, got all trained-up by a truly hip woman (so gorgeous, so totally put together, such a fabulous singer, we all had to secretly conclude she picks her nose when no one's looking, just so we could stand to be in the same room with her), donned our choir robes, and, eventually, several, you know, hours later, waltzed out onto that stage and BACKED UP FOREIGNER!!
And then the screen got all wavy....
...and there I was, last Saturday, having lunch and accidentally blowing off the afternoon session of conference with my darling little sister, beautiful-even-when-having-a-bad-hair-day Sher, and the ever mysterious, ever exotic Motherboard.
That's right, folks. I am THAT cool.
Can I just say, it was the funnest, awesomest, most hilarious and thoroughly enjoyable reunion from the pre-existence I've ever had? That lunch knocked Foreigner and the Rendezvous Lounge AND the time Robert Redford came backstage during a Utah Symphony (and Chorus) performance because he wanted to meet the singers doing the off-stage angel parts -- and I was one of them! -- right off the list.
Of course, I recognized Motherboard immediately. She was the only two-dimensional, purple-on-purple customer in the place. Plus the host said something about that lady over there waiting for three other ladies to join her.
MB and I were roomies back at the Pre-Ex dorms. I have no doubt of that. And we were the ones running up and down the halls, knocking on doors and blowing air horns and ditching the RA's and then peeing ourselves laughing, hiding in our jammies behind the bicycle racks.
One of the more interesting and little-known facts about her is that her name really is Motherboard. It's right there, on her driver's license: "Board comma Mother." So there's one mystery solved. You're welcome.
And as can only happen in real life because no one would believe it in fiction, it turns out her BFF is a dear friend of mine from college. I mean, REALLY good friend. Christmas letter exchanging, praying for her when she scares us all with cancer, meeting her dad for dinner whenever he's in Vegas kind of good friend.
And how funny is this? She (the friend) was one of those be-choir-robed singers back in the Foreigner gig! So she's very cool, too.
Everyone who meets Sherrie Shepherd and then talks about her starts with how beautiful she is, which she is, and which was the first thing I told her. But she is also such a kick, such a story-telling, belly-laughing doll that it doesn't take long to realize -- that skin-deep thing has got NOTHIN' on the beauty inside this lovely woman.
As soon as she pulled out her hip flask and offered me a hit, I knew I had found a soul mate. It also helped to know that she shared my abhorrence of all-things Pepsi. (Although that didn't keep us from drinking, between us, 17 gallons of the stuff over the four, count 'em, FOUR hours we 'lunched' together!)
My sister Amber is the funniest person I know. When MB pulled out a camera that looked like something they'd mount on the Hubble Telescope, Amber exclaimed, "Geez, why didn't you bring the BIG one??" She's smart and wry and quick and clever, and she never met a soul who didn't instantly covet the position of "Amber's Best Friend For All Time".
She's a two-time cancer survivor who talks frankly and openly about everything those words mean, and yet somehow manages to convey the feeling that, hey, everything works out OK in the end, so why fuss?
Oh, my. We gabbed and yakked and gabbed some more. And we discussed real things, things that mattered to us, things that really showed who we were. And we ran to the potty multiple times on account of our drinking so much Pepsi and whatever that magic stuff was that was in Sher's hip flask, and our post-partum bladders just couldn't take all the laughing.
Such a good time.
And with those wavy lines bringing us back to now, I can honestly say that Facebook is just clueless. I am really only as cool as the experiences and associations and relationships in my life permit. I am humble enough to admit that without all those things, I'm as dull as dirt. I'm just a boring old housewife living a boring old life and occasionally writing about it on my boring old blog.
But, after Saturday, well, I am left with no choice but to narcissistically declare:
I am as COOL as they come.