Whenever I Call You Friend

So I have embarked on a new relationship. A new relationship that began with Facebook and stands to be complicated by Facebook.

This fact, like the relationship itself, is new territory for me. And frankly, I am like Lewis and Clark. Without Sacagawea. Maybe even without Clark.

Scott and I are Facebook Friends. FBFs. Which is not to be confused with BFFs. That is how it all began, you may recall.

And as FBFs, we can see each other's posts. That is sort of the point. Before you accept someone's Friend Request, consider whether you want them reading your posts. And word to the wise, don't Facebook Friend anyone you currently work with...it will lead to nothing good, believe me. Consider the nitwit who called out sick from work and then posted her status as "Shopping "til I Drop," or something similar. Evidently she wound up with all the time in the world to shop when she returned to the office the next day.

And some people will actually use FB to spy on you. Live vicariously through you. Start a nasty little thread of gossip about you. Interfere with your life because they can (and their lives are not worth paying any attention to.) J.'s only reasons for opening a profile on FB and friending me me were suspicious and untoward. He wanted to know how and with whom I was corresponding. And wanted insight into the secret life he had convinced himself I was leading. Like it would give him a clue about why we were falling apart. He didn't need FB for that. He needed a mirror. A little introspection (and a little time on the psychiatrist couch) would have done more for him than any voyeuristic FB activities. Loser.

Seeing each of your friends' posts, and they yours, is sort of the fun of it. I can float a post that mildly and innocently suggests that I had a super dreamy date the night before (like the one I posted about some mornings just inspiring a girl to sing show tunes) and thereby send a smoke signal into the air for my friends who know my code to interpret. And chances are my less informed Great Aunt Lulu won't really get it. She'll just think I woke up with Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair on the brain since I sat at home dateless with a tub of Ben and Jerry's and a DVD of South Pacific the night before.

And I can send a thinly veiled love note to Scott that says something meaningful to him, And is understood by my friends, but not to the extent that is speaks to Scott.

For someone who really enjoys the written word, who loves a good double entendre, who loves plays on words, this is loads of fun.

For the slow-witted who might have a view of your posts over another's shoulder, it might take on a different tone. A different tack. One where they are inspired to make ham-handed, crude or even slapstick replies that are not only pathetic but frankly, unwelcome.

And here is where it gets tricky.

Scott has FBFs. I have FBFs. And for a time, there was no overlap at all. But when he would post something, and I would comment, often with my typical wit, and with a comment that would be made with a wink and a nod to him, his FBFs would be able to see it, and feel compelled to comment, too.

But not necessarily to just his post. Often, to my comment.

And some of the comments were sort of offensive. And a little...well...territorial.