The Snark Returns: Introducing Chlamydia Burana (warning: expletives undeleted)

First-time visitors to Megatonlove could be forgiven for thinking this is a gardening blog. It isn't. Only, with spring at full gallop, there's so much beauty outside that it would be churlish not to share some of its beauty with you. Mother's Day morning brought glorious sunshine, love notes and quirky hand-made presents from Legs & Noodle, and the discovery that the Papaver orientalis had started to open. I look forward to these Oriental poppies all winter long. They are the brazen hussies of the garden, their papery scarlet-orange skirts calling to mind the pleated costumes of Issey Miyake. They burst open with devil-may-care abandon, their flower heads unnaturally heavy for their stems, the ruffles and ridges of their mysterious centers coated in inky purple dust. In a few days they're gone, leaving large seed pods in their wake, victorious fists clenched to salute such fleeting splendor. As I photographed them in the early morning sun, I was filled with gladness for the mother that sustains us all. Mother Earth.

I compiled my new flower photos into an album and posted them on Facebook. Everything was grand until yesterday when I noticed that someone on my friends list had posted my photo album onto her Facebook Wall. Without my permission! It irritated me. Especially because this same person had committed the same transgression only the week before with one of my other photo albums. She'd blithely helped herself to my family pictures and posted them on her Wall without as much as a by-your-leave. I wrote her this message:

I would appreciate it if you would kindly take my album "Life in Belgium" off your FB wall as soon as possible. My family's privacy is very important to me and I would rather that my photo albums be visible only to people on my friends list. I hope you understand.

To give her credit, she complied promptly. She explained she only wanted to share them with her sister and friends - none of whom I know, by the way. I enjoy sharing my photographs with my family and friends on Facebook. It's a great way for me to stay in touch because I live so far away from my tribe. However, I remain extremely cautious about sharing my personal details on the web, and I've gone to certain lengths to protect the identities of my loved ones on this blog.

Being a thoughtful person, I'd like to respect my offender's anonymity, so I'll call her Chlamydia Burana. (Take a bow, Chlamydia, dear. This may be your moment of fame.) Chlamydia Burana is close enough to her real name, and it accurately defines someone "with an ability to establish long-term associations with host cells." Gee, thanks, Wikipedia, that scares the shit out of me. An easily-transmitted infection, terrific. Some of my Facebook friends reading this may know who I'm talking about because Chlamydia has wormed her way into their friends lists as well. When I was new to Facebook last year, Chlamydia sent me a friend request. She claimed to be my mother's cousin and, fool that I was, I accepted. I had never met her in person, she lives a safe distance away in Vafancouver, and I had no intention of ever interacting with her. I did wonder at the time why, if she was as close to my mother as she claimed to be, Mama had never mentioned Chlamydia to us while she was alive. Dear Chlammy lost no time friending more family members, and was soon busy busy busy leaving her syrupy pawprints everywhere. Secretly I began to regard her as the Dolores Umbridge of Facebook. The first comment she ever left me, on a photo album titled "What's Cooking in Megatonlove's Kitchen" annoyed me, and I knew it was more than just her appalling punctuation:

hi M, Chlamydia here, 2nd cousin of your very beautiful mommy, Daisy. your aunt P is my contemporary and i am more than happy to have found her on B's album. also, it would be much appreciated if you could post a family photo with your mommy and dad, when you can. apparently, you inherited your mom's cooking prowess. i love all of your creations but, as a vegetarian,this is my favorite! your pup eats better than i do...home cooking!! thanks for your friendship and, like what i wrote to your sister-in-law, J, i am so blessed and humbled to have touched base with family members of my most adored cousin. take care and much love...

Not an auspicious start, but knowing how prickly and saccharine-intolerant I am on a good day, I tried to ignore it and dismissed her as Gushy. Give me Cranky, give me Snooty, give me Bossy or Smelly or any of the other 27 dwarves. Just. Don't. Give. Me. Gushy. Because I'll puke all over her. And Chlamydia was world class Gushy. Upper case SMARMY too.

And so Chlamydia simpered on:

Beautiful children you have.

Legs looks like Little Daisy...

Each time she left a comment, my Bullshit Meter would ricochet. Yesterday, when I saw that she had filched another of my photo albums and posted it on her Wall, after already having been cautioned once, it was a bit much. I sent her another message, more business-like this time:

Once again, Chlamydia, may I ask you to please not post any of my photos on your wall without asking me first? I really find this most intrusive and a complete disregard of my privacy. Although we might be related, I have never actually met you and I do not appreciate the liberties you are taking. You could at least have asked me first. It might be just pictures of my garden, but still. Kindly POST YOUR OWN STUFF on your wall. Thank you, etc.

To which she messaged back:

So sorry again, my niece...

My initial sigh of relief at her reply disintegrated into snorts of exasperation when I saw that my photos were still up on her wall. What the fuck, ya great galoot?! Pathetically, I checked her Wall every half hour. No change. By then, my knickers were dancing the proverbial twist.

This time, for variety, I brazenly wrote on her Wall:

Chlamydia, this is my THIRD and final request: will you PLEASE take MY photo album off your Wall? My photos are my property, and they are not yours to do with as you please. Surely this is not too much to ask? I would not dream of posting anyone's pictures on my wall without asking their permission first. Thanks.

Adrenalin provoked un derangement in me. I decided some extra spleen might not come amiss. Going for broke, I replied to her message:

I will not accept your apology until you take my photos off your wall. For god's sake, Chlamydia, I've had enough of your games. Do you ask permission from the other people whose stuff you put on your wall? Or do you think that because this is Facebook you can help yourself to whatever you want?

Silence. My blasted photos remained on her Wall. Was she suffering an attack of sudden illiteracy? Had her computer crashed? Or was she just being an utter fuckwit? All of the above? I gave it one last huzzah:

Chlamydia, I am now very angry that after asking you 3 times, you still haven't seen fit to remove my photos from your wall. What part of my request didn't you understand? I saw that you removed my comment, but my album is still there. And please don't patronize me by referring to me as "your niece" if you cannot respect my privacy on Facebook.

Nada. I had to admit defeat. I knew what my next step would have to be. Reader, I DELETED her.

Lessons learned, in no particular order:

1. I can't seem to count beyond 3 when I'm angry.
   
2. C'est la folie to ignore mon Bullshit Meter, parce que, mon dew, il est toujours spot-on.
   
3. Facebook's Privacy settings are a JOKE. There is no way to remove the Share option from my photos to stop others from posting them to their profile. And not only that, even after deleting Chlamydia from my friends list, my photos remain on her wall. Well, Facebook, as far as I'm concerned, you are now officially Fuckbook.
   
4. Some relatives can be downright shits. Bet y'all already knew that.
   
5. It feels great to let go of snakes masquerading as friends .
   

Before I go, I want to leave you with an imaginary message I wrote but will of course never send to her. Unless she tracks me down and reads it here:

Dear Chlamydia, what'll you do now that I've dumped you? I know I was one of the most colorful characters on your Friends List, and you will miss my saucy posts. How dreary your life will be without me. Never mind. Every cloud has a silver lining. Now that Bernard Madoff faces spending the rest of his life in prison, there may be a vacancy for you at Weasels Sans Frontieres.

Imelda Staunton as Professor Dolores Umbridge in "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix"

N.B. Megatonlove wishes to thank a certain lizard for helping her find the right name.

On Angrrr

I was incandescent with fury the other day. A friend called to break a long-standing commitment with me, and as a consequence of her actions I'll be out of pocket by several hundred Euros that I don't have because I am essentially a poor person. Don't get me wrong - I am rich in many ways; money just ain't one of them.

Anger is a fascinating exercise. These days, I can actually listen to what my anger tells me I want. It requires me to get to a place of calm and quiet the noises in my head so I can listen to what I need to do to take care of myself instead of the other person. The other day it started with a slow burn, the getting-hot-under-the-collar bit when calm gave way to pique and swiftly morphed into indignation after my friend announced that her pillock of a husband insisted on tagging along to a week-long class she and I are taking in Ireland this June. This man likes to keep his wife on a very tight rein. Feminist snark that I am, I'm very allergic to neanderthals who behave as if they own their wives. Him coming means I lose my roommate and will then have to spend more on a single room which I can't afford. My carefully drawn budget was in tatters and all patience and compassion went pffft. I was furious at him for derailing our plans, and at her for failing to stand up to him and for not having the backbone to honor her commitment. Isn't anger amazing? In a heartbeat it transforms my reasonably sane and cheerful everyday self into a self-righteous, judgmental, napalm-breathing battleaxe. I can be pretty scary when I'm angry. How easy it is to wimp into coward mode and find fault with others rather than to face what's really going on inside.

If I catch myself early enough and if the irritant is minor, taking deep breaths often helps. When I remember to, I pray the Serenity Prayer while being mindful of my breathing, and that's even better. But sometimes that slow burn comes to a rolling boil before I realize what's hit me, and when it happens, people who know me wisely clear out of my way. Fast. Nowhere is it more evident that I am a double Leo with Aries rising than when I'm angry. I burn; sparks fly. I swear like a linguistically-gifted Captain Haddock, only I spew epithets far ruder than "Blistering barnacles." Let me not name them here.

I'm not a hurler or a breaker. I like things too much to throw them at people, and I hate it when I miss. And what would be the point of pounding a pillow when it's much more satisfying to pound the object of my anger? Except that I don't; not anymore. My brothers who are now in their 40s have a pet name for me. They call me Sidekick, a reference to our childhood in Bacolod when I had the temper of Yosemite Sam and the unerring aim of Bruce Lee whose films I adored as a child. When provoked, I'd aim for their nether parts. My ruthless right foot rarely missed its mark, hence the justly-deserved Sidekick honorific.


Being angry is healthy. Staying resentful is toxic. Years ago, when I was more volatile and less wise, anger was a more frequent visitor. It turned me into a good bread baker. Into the dough would metaphorically go the object of my ire, then I'd knead my angst away. By the time golden loaves emerged from the oven my anger had usually dissolved, and fragrant bread was my reward. It taught me that anger didn't have to be destructive, it could be made positive and creative. Now that I have less time for bread-baking, I've discovered other constructive ways of expressing my anger. Dancing, writing, weeding or pruning in the garden, honing my knife skills in the kitchen are all good circuit breakers. Murderous thoughts still race through my head even as I engage in these calming measures. Thoughts that I am powerless to stop and deeply grateful that I don't need to act upon. So when fury came calling the other day, here's what I did. I remembered to breathe, and I used a Jin Shin Jyutsu self-help technique that involves nothing more complex than gently holding all my fingers one by one. I poured myself a restorative (read: very large) malt whisky, neat, and danced like a dervish to "Happiness" by A. Skillz & Krafty Kuts with the volume cranked waaay up. I sharpened my kitchen knives and cooked a pork belly-chili pepper stir fry. By bedtime I found myself oddly tranquil again. I put it all in God's hands and slept like a baby.

Only when I consciously surrender to the arc of my anger - owning it, expressing it, and letting it go - can I find release from its tenacious grip and accept the gifts of a cleansing fire. Once the ashes have cooled, peace and sanity are reborn. I am restored to the flow.

The Serenity Prayer

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.


~ attributed to the theologian Reinhold Niebuhr

Painting by Youngheui Lee Lim

Calming The Snark: When IS ain't necessarily so.

Gotta hand it to Facebook. Or specifically to the little window at the top of my profile page that prompts me to share what's on my mind. Unbeknownst to me, these little status posts have worked like literary WD-40 on the corroded parts of my brain where my writing used to live. Updating my status posts regularly feels a bit like hitting a tennis ball against a wall and observing my wonky swing grow steadier over time. It tells my friends what's going on with me and helps me stay in the now.

However. I get this frisson of irritation when I log on to Facebook to see what my friends are up to, and read the following status post yet again:

Joe Blow is.

Is what? Yo, Joe Blow, in your IS-ness, have you truly achieved the Zen-like state of being that continues to elude me? Or are you just a bloody bore with neither the imagination nor the gumption to come up with something more interesting to say about yourself? What's the point of friending (I fucking hate that verb) me on FB and then not interacting with me at all? When I agree to, ahem, friend someone on Facebook it's because I'm genuinely interested in what they've been up to since I last saw them in 1981, and I enjoy reading their status posts and seeing pictures of their family. Why have cyberspace friendships gotten so superficial that the only way some people can show others they're thinking of them is to throw sheep, race virtual cars, take idiotic quizzes, pat virtual pets, send virtual Ferraris plants drinks mandalas pizzas Prada handbags snowballs Christmas ornaments Valentine hearts Easter eggs and mysterious chocolate objects that look remarkably like dog turds? That's just lame. And it feels like being stalked. In a friendly way of course, but it's still stalking to me.

But what do I know? Perhaps they're busy with other stuff like falling in (or out of) love, texting, watching TV, driving their kids or being driven mad by them, digging a garden, playing golf, studying for exams, hanging on to a job or looking for one, trying to make ends meet, going to therapy, shopping, taking a loved one to chemo, trying to stay sober, blogging, eBaying, wrangling laundry, gaming, cooking, meditating, writing code, having plastic surgery, learning to belly dance, looking at porn, going to the gym, painting, going on holiday, saving coral reefs, getting Brazilian waxed, making music, making whoopie or whatever it is that takes up people's time these days.

Below are some of my status posts since joining FB in July last year to the most recent. Snapshots of The Snark.

• M is wondering if summer will ever come to Belgium (my first FB post on 17 July 2008)
• M and Skunk are off to Ireland for a week: to Norrie in Carrickmacross for Jin Shin Jyutsu, and to Galway, Connemara and the Aran Islands for regeneration.
• M is enjoying the dog days of summer. They, too, shall pass.
• M thinks iceberg lettuce is the polyester of all vegetables.
• M is trying to keep her cool against an onslaught of teenage hormones.
• M makes plans, Life makes others.
• M is trying to get her taichi groove back. Everything aches! Serves me right for slacking all summer.
• M is listening to Mission Control at CERN as the first beams are injected into the Large Hadron Collider. What a moment!
• M feels humbled to witness the birth of a new era of understanding about the origins and evolution of the universe. Now where'd that Higgs boson go?
• M is disgusted by all her shoes. Is there a 12-Step program for shoe addiction?
• M misses the good old days when Skunk used to dance like the guys in this Duffy video.
• M has been over-doing it and will now sit still and have a cuppa and listen to John Coltrane.
• M is having a Saturday morning wake-up booty shake to The BPA featuring Dizzee Rascal & David Byrne – ‘Toe Jam (Stanton Warriors Remix)’. Woohooo!!!
• M's lunchtime guests have just waddled off into a dark, rainy night, leaving half their possessions (cell phones, jewelry...) behind. Food coma in progress.
• M is celebrating 20 years of two-getherness with Skunk today.
• M is getting a bit nervous about cooking for a real-life chef on Sunday
• M is still half asleep and is making Belgian waffles for breakfast.
• M has just made a killer curry, saffron rice and a pile of triple chocolate chip cookies and hopes everyone's hungry.
• M is still buzzzzing from last night's unforgettable performance by the Dave Holland Quintet, and is now looking forward to Seun Kuti & Fela's Egypt 80 tonight.
• M is lost in the magic of Juan Luna's Revolver by Luisa A. Igloria.
• M is ready for change and prays that Obama wins!
• M's still thrilled about Tuesday and glad to see that woman (Palin) back in Alaska where she can think paranoid thoughts about socialists.
• M would love to see a rescue pit bull as the new First Puppy at the White House. They could call it Sarah! Arf!!!
• M is vampire-proof. (garlic-related, natch)
• M is off to a monastery in the Flemish countryside to study more Jin Shin Jyutsu.
• M is still tingling from the pleasure of discovering Bob Brozman's music last night.
• M is ignoring the messy house and making fish curry with Persian steamed crusty rice pilaf for Jaki tonight.
• M is grateful she's not rich - no sleepless nights obsessing about the state of the economy.
• M has just woken up to heavy snow. Beautiful. Now I gotta drive in this shit.
• M is having even more fun now the snow has melted and turned to black ice on the roads. Oh, the joys of winter!
• M is dreaming of siopao. Does anyone out there have a siopao recipe they can share with me please?
• M's head is still spinning from Cirque du Soleil's Quidam. Amaaaayzing!
• M is tired after baking 9 Christmas cakes.
• M is thoroughly flummoxed!
• M & Skunk are taking the kids to an all night dubstep/triphop/drum'n'bass/hiphop/crunk/ragga/electro-funk/techno meltdown at the AB on Saturday. Must be mad.
• M thinks Christmas can be one great big pain in the arse. There. I've finally said it.
• M is having a Christmas bypass.
• M is wearing a silly red hat (thanks, Legs) that makes her look like a demented cupcake. (on Christmas morning)
• M has a date with some dead bodies.
• M's just been to Gunther von Hagen's Bodyworlds exhibition and is both awed and humbled by the majesty of the human body.
• M is getting ready to end the year dancing and wishes everyone a Happy New NEW.
• M is paying a heavy price for last night's excesses and is trying to ignore the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed were-gerbil she lives with. (first real hangover in 15 years)
• M has proof that older does not always mean wiser.
• M hopes that the global economic downturn will motivate more people to go back to the garden.
• M is laughing at Mia doing zoomies in the snow. It's minus 12 Celsius and flipping c-c-cold outside.
• M is grateful for the warmth of Aran sweaters, insulated boots and ALL her body fat.
• M wishes L and B a big, phat, insanely joyful Filipino wedding and wishes she could be there too.
• M is DELIGHTED that a Filipina chef will be doing the cooking for the Obamas. Next step: plant an organic garden to supply the White House kitchen!
• M thinks it's FANTASTIC that the next US president is black and has Hussein as his middle name. And if some FB friends don't like my opinions, well, tough.
• M is glad that Obama can say "nuclear" correctly, and won't be mangling the English language like his predecessor or that Alaskan moose murderer. Also, he's hot!
• M has the house to herself and is listening to Marvin Gaye while eating dark Belgian chocolate with Malabar cardamom. Bliss.
• M is grateful to Barack Obama for making smart the new cool.
• M is bowing her head in prayer, watching Barach Obama claim his place in history. (posted the exact moment he was being sworn-in, 21 January 2009. Can't cry and spell at the same time.)
• M is feeling very wobbly after seeing a dream come true and thinks some champagne might steady her. BARACK the WORLD!!!!!! (And good riddance, Dubya!)
• M wants to know if teenagers have a sell-by date. Because her patience is nearing its expiry date.
• M has surrendered to dark chocolate and a bag of Cheetos. Too many late nights and frozen brain cells can result in bizarre food pairings.
• M has orange fingers and hiccups.
• M is lovin' her handles. (that would be love handles)
• M has evil designs on a friend's neighbour's Aston Martin.
• M has just come down to breakfast to find six bottles of red wine from her love. (on Valentine's Day, because he knows cut flowers make me sad)
• M curses Mondays. And bugger the dirty laundry too.
• M is listening to the birds trilling the earth awake.
• M is going to make dark chocolate brownies marbled with dulce de leche, just to avoid having to wash her car. (photo doesn't show how filthy my car really was)
  

• M is keeping it locked to breakbeats on Annie Nightingale on the Beeb. Oh lordy, my chi is UP!
• M is staring at hillocks of dirty laundry. The thilly theathon ith over. For now.
• M wouldn't mind roughing it in a hot smelly tent in Darfur if George Clooney would be my roommate. Seriously.
• M is now vacuuming books, for crying out loud.
• M is convinced that only a 10 year old boy would think that Chaume cheese and Skippy Super Chunk Peanut Butter on the same piece of toast is a good idea.
• M is up at sparrow's fart to take Mr. Chaume&PeanutButter to swim training.
• M is tending to sulking orchid plants and wondering what on earth made me think keeping orchids would be a good way to learn patience?
• M wishes all her Brent schoolmates a great Centennial reunion. Will you guys please let rip, you're too damn old to still behave yourselves.
• M is getting ready to groove to John Legend in Brussels tonight.
• M is fed up with the indiscriminate use of the word "like."
• M wonders why God created teenagers and early mornings. And He expects me to combine the two? In a sane and loving way? Hello!
• M wasn't sure a hiphop concert was what I needed but dancing to Q-Tip with a full live band sure chased my big blue funk away. (the day after our cat Trouble died)
• M delights in the abundance and creativity of the number 13.
• My kids are being bolshy, I have workmen underfoot, and the dog wants to supervise me in the kitchen. Get me outta here!
• M is looking for that Rumi poem where he says there is no room in the small heart for a separate "I" - can anyone help?
• M just spent 10 minutes trying to explain what a leprechaun is to a deaf Walloon farmer. Now we're BOTH confused. I need a Guinness, now! (on St. Patrick's day)
• M is giving up Worry for Lent. Chocolate would have been easier.
• M loves the way her kids say, "Oooh, can WE bake this chocolate caramel tart," when what they really mean is can I do it so THEY can inhale it in 15 minutes flat.
• M salutes friend & hero Roger Doiron for his work in persuading the Obamas to plant an organic vegetable garden on the White House lawn. It's finally happening!!!