Katy McDermott

It’s hip to bash Facebook these days, but I have to admit I kind of love it. I think of the site as a modern-day version of a medieval village square – without that inconvenient risk of catching bubonic plague.

Today’s society has made us so dependent on gadgets and technology that we often forget to interact anymore, and Facebook certainly contributes to that new reality. But happy surprises come with it too – what an unexpected little pleasure it is to trade movie quotes with someone you haven’t seen since high school graduation. Facebook can make you feel less alone, ironically. During a recent spate of snowstorms, I drew a lot of comfort from looking at the blizzard images posted by my “Facebook friends” and realizing that mine wasn’t the only deck smothered in two feet of frozen flakes.

On Facebook, everyone shows up eventually… the boss, the ex, the third cousin once removed. Instead of a town crier, there’s the News Feed. Instead of the stocks, there are links to Z-list celebrities’ embarrassing YouTube videos to fulfill our hunger for public tomato-hurling.

You’ve doubtless read stories about people being fired due to drunken pictures they’ve uploaded or status updates they’ve posted declaring how much they hate their job/boss/company. I have no sympathy for these people. Facebook is a public forum! If you reeled through the square, well into your cups and proclaiming that your boss was a fool, word would get around pretty fast. You might not be publicly flogged, but within a few days, you could very well find yourself back in the basement of your mother’s hovel while a more grateful employee was apprenticed to the blacksmith.

I’m guessing that back in the day, people donned their best breeches and brooches to gather in the village square. Similarly, Facebookers have profile pictures. Those of us who use an actual photo of ourselves (instead of a picture of our baby, pet, or other adorable dependent) spend hours choosing the perfect image. Is someone else in the shot? Crop them out! Is it from 20 years ago? Well, it’s still us, isn’t it?

Looks matter on Facebook, which is why you need to be careful uploading pictures to a photo album. You may think your friend looks terrific – but she’ll demand that you delete the photo at the slightest hint of a single crow’s foot or the merest shadow of a double chin.

Of course, there’s an etiquette to be followed when you “friend” or are “friended” by someone from your past. Regardless of gender, and even if your friend now resembles the Crypt Keeper, you should always comment on his or her agelessness (“Verity! You don’t look a day older than you did during the Crusades!”)

Facebook has also become a powerful way to demonstrate your affection for your significant other. The “like” button is the modern-day version of the sidelong glance, while a loving “comment” has replaced the bold hand-holding that once announced your betrothal to the populace. More than once, my husband has taken pains to point out his Facebook status to me in the hopes that I’ll comment on it – while we’re at home, together! And when we’re apart, it sometimes seems that the ultimate act of devotion is to search the other’s name on Facebook, much as you would have once made the effort to seek out your beloved in a jostling throng.

I’m guessing that your average village gathering offered plenty of opportunities for the townsfolk to waste time. Some things never change. The local palm reader may have been replaced with a daily horoscope app, dice games by Farkle, and livestock auctions by the far less smelly Farmville, but the principles are the same.

The site is what you make of it.

I use Facebook for many reasons. It’s a way to stay in touch with people I used to see only at parties. It’s a way to get back in touch with people I went to high school with – our lives have diverged, but it’s amazing how much common ground there still is. And of course, it’s a way to stay connected to far-flung family members: I doubt that I would ever have learned of my nephew’s paintball obsession or garage-band aspirations during a dutiful phone call.

The site can also be a fascinating reflection of history. I’d connected with a woman in Kenya for work-related reasons – she told me, via Facebook, that the residents of the tiny village where President Obama’s father was born were sacrificing goats and dancing in the streets as the returns poured in on election night. CNN and Time Magazine may have provided extensive coverage – but “sacrificed goats” was a detail I could only have learned through Facebook.

There are downsides to Facebook too, of course.

It’s easy to spend too much time on the site – to the detriment of your “real life.” It’s one thing to stay in touch, but when you find yourself eschewing face-to-face interactions with your family and friends in favor of updating your status and uploading links to funny YouTube videos, it might be time to rethink your priorities.

Then, of course, there’s the dreaded “defriending.” People might just be cleaning out their Facebook friend lists, or deactivating their Facebook accounts entirely, but a defriending can seem like a catastrophe. “What did I do?” “How did I offend So-And-So?” “Was it too many Farmville updates?” It’s almost like a public shunning, with townspeople averting their eyes as you try to greet them and buy them pints of grog…

But on balance, I think Facebook’s added a lot to our lives – to my life, anyway. Not only do I know things about people I never would have known otherwise, I’ve also found it an incredibly valuable tool as I try to get more people to know about (and hopefully like) my writing.

Actually, the fact that you’re reading this essay is probably evidence that I should remove that Scarlet F. That secret love of mine isn’t so secret anymore, is it?

(Deep breath… Happy place… Exhale slowly…) My name is Katy, and I’m 46 years old. I’m also a member of the growing Denial Demographic, and a “person of interest” to the medical profession.

Turning 40 was the catalyst for a number of “you’re going to stick that where?” medical tests. To add insult to invasion of privacy, these tests are not cheap. The speeches from my doctor went from standard (“a healthy diet and regular exercise are important for better health”) to scary (“you need to lose weight and exercise more NOW if you don’t want to be on heart medicine for the rest of your life.”) I quit smoking last year, now eat salads more often than I eat pizza, and absolutely have to get at least 7 hours of sleep a night.

Basically, I’ve made a 180-degree turn from my college lifestyle.

This fact is brought home to me by a certain 21-year-old. She lives with us, but I seldom see her, because she’s usually still asleep by the time I leave for work, and she’s usually dressing for the evening when I’m retiring for the night, a slave to the insistent 5:30am summons of my alarm clock.

She can eat whatever she wants too – sugary cereal straight from the box, chocolate-chip pancakes on weekends, fat-laden lattes every day – and she still weighs about 100 pounds. Loving her doesn’t make me any less annoyed by this…

I wonder how much money I’ve spent over the past few years trying to lose the pesky 10, 15, and now 20 extra pounds that have been among the dubious gifts of middle age. I’ve bought diet books, exercise equipment (Ab Roller, anyone?), workout DVDs (ha!), gym memberships (double ha!), special low-carb meal bars, sugar-free candy (what’s the point?), and clothes designed to camouflage my ever-thickening midsection.

This has probably run into the thousands of dollars by now.

Then there are the self-indulgent self-pity purchases. The logic behind these doesn’t hold up too well. It starts with the reasonable “I work really hard. I’m finally earning a decent salary. I can start putting away money for retirement at last.” But wait! Somehow, it morphs into, “I work really hard. I’m finally earning a decent salary. Why don’t I buy that fancypants SUV or book that Caribbean vacation I’ve always wanted?”

See what I mean? See how quickly this kind of thinking can get out of hand – and make your budget go off the rails?

We also have vanity. Vanity is extremely expensive. We’re caught between the party-til-3:00am-and-still-look-perfect-for-that-8:30am-class resilience of our 20s and the everyone-has-wrinkles-at-this-age acceptance of our 70s. We still harbor fantasies about those bodice-ripping novel covers, but our bosoms are now sagging rather than heaving, and Fabio never ran his fingers through a mane of iron-gray curls…

Enter the colorist, the aesthetician, and for those who can afford it and are willing to accept the risks, the plastic surgeon. Surgery scares me, but recently I did cave and visited a dermatologist’s office for a “skin evaluation.” They had a diabolical machine that “x-rays” your skin, then shows you what’s going on beneath the surface. Horrifying. Here’s how it went:

Dermatologist: See there, there, there, and there? (points out multiple spots on my face) That’s sun damage.

Me: Those are freckles.

Dermatologist: No, I’m afraid that’s sun damage.

Me (with fingers in my ears): I’m telling you, they’re freckles! I’m Irish! They’re natural!

Dermatologist (less patiently): Sun damage.

Me (finally remembering all the hours I spent slathered in baby oil at the shore in my youth, trying desperately to find the tan that always eluded me): Oh.

If I didn’t want (or, more accurately, couldn’t afford) to inject fillers or Botox into my face, it seemed I’d need to start taking care of my skin. Taking serious care of it – I tried buying generic eye cream at a drug store (hey, it was only $15.00!), and developed a rash that made me look like a raccoon after a hard night’s drinking. (Silver lining: I had vivid, livid proof for my husband that I was allergic to the cheap stuff.)

After the drug store eye cream disaster, I went to a makeup and skincare superstore. (Were there this many superstores 20 years ago? Is the fact that I remember a world without them simply further evidence of my age?) To say that the 16-year-old salesgirl saw me coming wouldn’t be quite accurate. She took one look at my panicked expression and started calculating how much skankwear at Hot Topic her commission would buy.

I learned a lot that day. It seems that the more words in the name of a product, the more expensive it is. Skin-Enhancing Intensive Super-Hydrating Facial Serum for Day with SPF 20? Yeah, here are five $20s – I won’t wait for change.

Then the salesgirl said the magic word.

Anti-aging.

Hallelujah! Price is no object! I’ll take three!

(Told you she saw me coming. Probably added black leather jeans to the cropped t-shirts she was already getting.)

As she was ringing up my purchases ($138 for a tiny tube of moisturizer – what hath my dermatologist wrought?), she threw a handful of samples into the bag. There were little packets of skin-smoothing night cream, fine-line-reducing “facial revitalizer,” and a product simply called “Heel Repair.”

“Heel Repair?” My heels are deteriorating too? What’s next – “Earlobe Rejuvenator?” “Five-Minute Forearm Fix?”

“Heel Repair.” Sheesh.

I won’t be buying that, but you can bet I’m going back for more anti-aging moisturizer the second I run out.

My name is Katy.

I’m 46 years old.

And I’m fighting middle age like a toddler fights bedtime.

I want to enjoy St. Patrick’s Day, I really do. But in America, it’s become an amateur-night drinking-fest that turns otherwise normal people into escapees from an Irish Spring commercial.

Granted, the stereotype of “Irishness” lends itself to a raucous holiday: roguish charm, infectious songs, massive beer consumption. Think about it. Is there any other nationality that has an entire holiday devoted to it?

The fact that St. Patrick’s Day – in Ireland – is actually a Holy Day of Obligation (meaning Catholics have to attend Mass) and is usually followed by a sedate family meal no longer matters. In the American version, starting with the first St. Patrick’s Day parade (not in Dublin but in New York City, in 1762), March 17 is a Celtic ethnic free-for-all. How authentic are you? How many “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” buttons, shamrock ties, and Kelly green sweaters are you wearing? Do you know all the words to “Danny Boy?” Have a small Irish flag to wave at your city’s parade?

I braved a bar once on St. Patrick’s Day. I was in college (and therefore adventurous). We arrived early, stayed late, and heard what we assumed was traditional music played by a trio on fiddle, penny whistle, and guitar. The audience slurred along, and the band was resigned to performing those St. Paddy’s Day stalwarts that would guarantee them good tips. (Bonus points for a brogue, real or otherwise). As the night grew later, we grew louder. Poor band.

These days, I don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in any meaningful way (although I confess to wearing a “McDermott’s Celtic Ale” sweatshirt I stole from my husband). I guess my trip to Ireland 4 years ago spoiled me for the “Lucky Charms and green beer” route the holiday seems to be taking over here. I know it’s not right to generalize, but there are aspects of my personality that I never fully understood until I was there.

I’ve been mocked for years for being too forthcoming, too open to talking (and listening) to complete strangers. In Ireland, though – well, it was like coming home. Everyone talks a lot. Everyone listens to stories from strangers. Not just the obvious people like bartenders and bus drivers – regular people. Regular Irish people. An elderly gentleman told me about the many exploits of his newly-confirmed grandson. A Cork city cab driver regaled me with tales of sharing whisky in a paper bag with “the Rastas” in New York City’s Stuyvesant Park. Talkative grandfathers and verbose cabbies. Land of my fathers!

But while I expected the Irish people to be gregarious, nothing could have prepared me for their fierce, almost tribal loyalty to a sport most Americans have never heard of: hurling. (Yes, it’s called “hurling” – go ahead and snicker – I’ll wait…)

Early in our vacation, my husband ventured out in search of unusual souvenirs – no Blarney Stone key chains for him. We were in County Cork, and he returned with a sports jersey for what looked like soccer or rugby – in bright red. Now, non-traditional is one thing, but I admit I wouldn’t have minded a bit of green. But if he wanted a bright red sports jersey, so be it – besides, I had my eye on a sterling silver Celtic cross necklace that was at least recognizably Irish.

My husband’s not the neatest of men, so he tossed the bright red jersey to the floor of our hotel room, where it lay wadded in a heap while we took in the sights. When we returned hours later, Housekeeping had clearly been in to clean. The linens were freshly changed, the bathroom sparkling, and our clutter tidied into piles. And the center of the bed featured the bright red jersey, unfolded, de-wadded, and lovingly positioned “just so.” But it was only a jersey, right? In order to unravel the mystery, it seemed a discussion with the garrulous front desk clerk was in order…

Turns out the jersey was a hurling jersey, and we learned that each county in Ireland fields its own team. The Irish don’t choose their hurling teams – they’re born into them. Hurling is sort of like lacrosse, but with no nets at the end of the sticks. Oh, and no pads either. Or picture a game similar to soccer, but with all the players wielding vicious-looking clubs. It’s wickedly fast and features a murky scoring system that everyone in Ireland understands from birth.

By the time we’d reached Dublin, my husband and I had acquired a number of other hurling jerseys. They turned out to be quite the conversation starters (and I thought the Irish were talkative before!) A young tour guide fondly recalled a match he’d seen back in the 1990s that amounted to “organized thuggery.” A waitress struggled to retain her “be nice to the tourists” demeanor as she asked politely if I supported Galway, since I was wearing a Galway jersey in Dublin.

(Oops.)

On our next-to-last day in Ireland, it rained, so rather than trek through sodden ruins of medieval churches and distilleries, we took a behind-the-scenes tour of Croke Park in Dublin. Croke Park is where almost all hurling matches in Ireland take place: an enormous, multi-tiered facility reminiscent of a typical football stadium in the States. We visited the locker rooms and the players’ lounge (with its own ornate bar.) We discovered its political history (it seems that every site in Ireland is connected in some way with the Irish Revolution, and Croke Park is no exception – along with the hurling matches came a bloody uprising in 1920). We learned that, astonishingly, all the players are amateurs. Schoolteacher or plumber by day, world-class athlete by night – and no paycheck at all. No wonder they have an ornate bar…

We subscribe to a special cable channel now that sometimes features hurling matches. It’s lovely to hear those accents again, even if the scoring system still defies our understanding.

The fans, though, are eerily familiar. They wear Kelly green sweaters, sport shamrock ties up in the executive boxes, wave Irish flags, and guzzle beer like crazy.

Kind of like St. Patrick’s Day here.

People are boring.

This was the only conclusion I could reach after a recent visit to a pet supply store. Animal stuff is just so much more exciting than human stuff. And the clientele is pretty exciting too – large dogs dislocate their owners’ shoulders straining at leashes, small dogs launch themselves four feet in the air to lick the face of anyone who glances their way, unkempt dogs wrestle with groomers (and leave with bows in their hair that will last approximately 6.5 seconds), Shih Tzus sniff the butts of Dobermans. What human store offers such raw drama?

And the merchandise is stop-in-your-tracks astonishing. A friend of mine got a puppy not long ago, so I visited a pet supply store to pick up some toys and treats on my way to meet him.

Wow. Good thing I’m not a vegetarian (although I’m beginning to consider it!)

The dog treat aisle at your average pet supply store is a PETA member’s worst nightmare – actual cow hooves, “pork chips” made of pig skin, and my all-time gross-out favorite: beef trachea. (Ingredients: beef trachea. Honestly, what can you add to that?)

There are also lots of toys designed by people who are humorous, sadistic, or both. Toys in the shape of feet and fire hydrants and ducks. Toys that squeak. Toys that mimic the calls of migratory birds. (Which must be such a welcome sound to dog owners at 3:00 in the morning. I can just picture the scene: a bleary-eyed, pajama-clad husband mumbling, “Honey, did you forget to put the goose out again?”)

Increasingly, dog clothes are becoming quite the thing, and this particular store had a rack dedicated to coats, t-shirts, booties (yes, booties), and even caps for every size and shape of chilly hound. Perusing the t-shirts was especially fun, as it was clear some anonymous copywriter had a hoot and a half coming up with these slogans: “Desperate Housedog,” “I Chase Tail,” and my personal favorite, “Bitch Magnet.”

But these stores don’t just cater to dogs, of course. Cat accoutrements take up roughly the same amount of shelf space as dog accessories, and what cats’ equipment lacks in evisceration of larger species, it makes up for in sheer perversity. Most cat toys are designed – on purpose – to make cats crazy. This claim is emblazoned on many of the packages containing everything from laser lights to remote-control mice: “Makes cats crazy!” As if that’s somehow a desirable thing, as if cats are overly sedate by nature.

Clearly, the manufacturers have never met an actual cat.

We have several, and I’ve had many in my lifetime. Far from being sedate, most cats I’ve known could benefit from being sedated. They chase imaginary leaves, for God’s sake, and rocket from room to room, slamming into walls, for no reason at all. You want a cat toy idea? How about Valium-filled furry mice?

At a pet supply store, you can even find an entire aisle dedicated to hamster wheels and treats for your guinea pig (“Veggie Puffs – Rodents Love ’Em!”). Which makes me wonder: how can you tell if a guinea pig has been especially good and deserves a treat?

Then there are the lizards. Full disclosure: I’m not a reptile person, but I admit I fail to see why anyone would pay good money for a Burmese Python who looks like its favorite snack would be your fingers.

But back to the mammalian clientele for a moment (snakes creep me out, and I’d like to change the subject…) Aside from people, of course, most of the customers you see in these stores are dogs. (Have you ever seen a cat on a leash? Of course not – they’re too busy chasing imaginary leaves.) The dogs add most of the entertainment value.

A few months back, I accompanied my friend as she took her “puppy” (I use the quotation marks advisedly – he’s a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, and at that time weighed something like 40 pounds) to get his shots at the in-store veterinary clinic. As she signed papers, she turned Phineas over to me, with instructions to “let him pick out a treat.” I did my best to control him – and at the very least, I did prevent him from eating an appetizer-sized Chihuahua.

But Phin had some definite opinions when it came to choosing a treat for himself. I tried to interest him in a normal-sized bone, and even proffered a genuine pig’s ear. Phin, however, was insistent. He’d chosen a peanut-butter-filled rawhide bone roughly the size of his own foreleg, and trotted up to my friend with an air of such joyous possession that she had no choice but to buy it for him. One glance at his floppy ears and hopeful eyes was all it took. It kind of made me wish I was a dog.

That’s the true magic of the pet supply store. Otherwise responsible adults spend actual money – money they could use to pay bills or buy groceries! – on ferret hammocks and elaborate scratching posts. Dogs are aware of this – in fact, they exploit it, which explains the market for foreleg-sized rawhide bones. Of course, I wouldn’t buy overly expensive and largely useless items for my pets. Those Christmas stockings filled with tuna-flavored treats and chase toys that make crinkly sounds were exceptions – after all, it was the holidays…

It turns out that people aren’t just boring. They’re also suckers.