“How many friends do you have on Facebook?” It’s my twenty-year-old son asking me this. His questions are generally meant to make me look bad.
Can you do a one-armed handstand? Do you know how to do the wop? How many boyfriends did you have in high school? No, no, and none? Loser. Stuff like that.
I haven’t answered the Facebook question yet. I’m trying to think. In the end, I have to look it up. “Two hundred and twenty-five,” I say. To me, that’s a lot. It’s not like I have four.
“You added some of them, right?” he smirks.
“Of course,” I say. “Who gets all of their friends without adding any?”
“Our cat, that’s who. Archie has eighty-two friends, and he didn’t add ANY of his. They all added him.”
Yes, our cat has his own Facebook account, which – as reported by my all-knowing children – is more common than you might think. According to his information, Archie’s even in a “domestic partnership” with some woman named Ruby Rose. Plus, he’s interested in both women AND men. When he has the time for that, I’ll never know. And this is his current profile picture.
“Awesome,” I say to my son about the cat not having to add a single friend on Facebook. See what I mean about his quest to make me look bad?
And then he turns the screws in a little tighter. “I have thirteen hundred friends, and I didn’t add very many of mine either.”
I give up. “OK, well you and Archie and probably the rest of the world are all Facebook superstars, and I’m just a complete and utter Facebook loser.” I feel marginally inept.
“You said it, not me.” He shrugs his shoulders, and goes back to watching stupid Youtube videos.
Some day – when people like me more than they like him (which may be never, because he IS pretty popular) – I’m going to get that boy, and by “get” I mean, put some diced tomatoes in his spaghetti sauce because he REALLY hates that. Like what does he think they make spaghetti sauce out of anyway, chocolate? They just blend it so you can’t see the pieces.