In honor of National Cliche Day, I am doing some hating on Facebook. Again. Because I’m too tired to have an affair with my tennis pro and too busy not working on my novel for NaNoWriMo to go to Starbucks for a half-caff pumpkin latte with a whisper of cinnamon.
The new Facebook is, well, interesting. I created a little fan page for my blog. My dream was to have a gazillion people “like” my blog. Because as we know, a “like” on Facebook really means love. And I need to be loved. Nothing says “You’re awesome, and therefore not a waste of space,” like the approval of complete strangers.
So now they’ve changed the format of their page a bit. And for fan pages, that means nifty little analytics. Instead of counting views or “hits,” now we’re collecting “impressions.” Cool. The problem is that the impression my page is doing looks to be Marcel Marceau.
Seriously. The hits on my blog have increased to a satisfying level, but I don’t have Facebook to thank. In the last two week, the site stats on Wordpress indicate I have gotten exactly one hit from Facebook. That means that twice as many people have found my blog using the search engine terms “nudists” and “peed pants Halloween” and exactly the same number using the term “pooped undies” as have found it by following me on Facebook. Let that sink in for a moment. Or not.
I know that at least some of my followers would read the posts if they could find them.Or at least click the links to shut me up. Because we are related, and they’d like to avoid uncomfortable confrontations at Thanksgiving. At least the confrontations that don’t pertain to Uncle Bert’s affair with a local TV personality. Some things simply must be talked about. Family is family, after all. And a friend did mention that she hasn’t actually seen a post from me in a couple of weeks. Awesome. I post five days a week.
I know what you’re thinking. “Get a clue, sister. You suck. I hate you.” And that’s possible, especially if you are my actual sister. And you’d be within your rights. Sorry, sis! But it’s not just happening to me. One of my favorite pages has achieved enviable levels of cyber-stranger-approval, and the owner added a new post a few days ago. But I didn’t find it on Facebook without actually looking for it. A post with 1,800 comments and 11,000 “likes” got buried in my news feed about as quickly as it got posted. Instead, I found it on Twitter. Interesting.
Another beef that I have about Facebook is that it is so hard to find people you actually know in real life. I get suggestions all the time to friend people who went to school with somebody I once met on the bus, but rarely are they someone I really know. And forget searching for them. When I typed in “Elizabeth with the beautiful hair who invited me to her birthday party but I couldn’t go and then she moved away at the end of kindergarten and I never saw her again,” I got no results at all. Not a single one. I got some link to an article about Obama and a profile that appears to belong to a dog. Come on, Facebook. If you can’t help me stay in touch with the people I hold dear, or at least the people I vaguely remember who occur to me while I’m distracting myself instead of writing on my novel, what good are you?
In conclusion, I am concluding. My hate is spent, and I really need to go to the grocery store. Nothing squelches creativity (and self-respect) like a trip to Wal-mart, but if I feed the kids all-purpose flour and cherry pie filling again, they might complain.
And all is not lost for me. I am coming to the conclusion that there are more important things than being “liked” and read on Facebook. There are things that are better indicators of my worth in the world. Like being “followed” on Twitter.