I have a love hate thing going with Facebook. Every day, I love it. And once a year for some interminable period of time, I hate it. I don’t really know when that time is going to hit or how long it’s going to last. I’m not really even sure who institutes the chain of events that leads to my momentary (sometimes month-long) hate of Facebook.
It’s breast cancer awareness week, month, day whatever. Where it comes from, when it’s actually scheduled, who determines the subject has never been clear to me. Usually I realize that period of annoyance is upon me when I begin to get about a 100 Facebook messages a day from a variety of girls, girlfriends, friends of girlfriends, friends of friends girlfriends, pervy guy posing as a girlfriend and Bill Clinton. All delightfully excited to clue me in about the latest and greatest Facebook “raise awareness for breast cancer” meme. “Shhhhhh….it’s a big secret. Don’t tell the guys what we’re doing. Let’s keep them guessing.”
Let me fill you in on a few secrets, first off, the average guy cares about a gals vaguebook post for about 2.25 seconds. Long enough to say, “I don’t get it.” Scratch himself and go resume his online poker game. So if you think for one minute that vaguebooking about the color of your bra, where you like your purse or a random going on vacation post is going to make him get his stinky, sloppy butt up off the couch and send $10 to one of the 10 million research foundations out there, you need to take a double dose of your Haldol and lie down for a while.
Second secret, there isn’t really anyone in the world who hasn’t heard of breasts and hasn’t heard them in the same sentence as cancer. I mean, except for that one tribe you have to ride on a swamp boat for 3 days, and trek on foot for another 2 days just so you can ride a crocodile the last 200 miles to their village. They probably haven’t heard of breast cancer. But since they don’t have a Facebook account, let alone a computer, electricity or even running water, I think breast cancer is the least of their worries. Probably the big bones pierced through their nipples hurt more than the cancer ever will. (Admit it, that’s why you read National Geographic.)
Third secret, these Facebook memes are nothing more than a huge advertising push by the 10 million research organizations. Someone in marketing had the brilliant idea that if I’m worried that I might possibly, potentially, maybe have felt a small, weird lump the last time I groped myself, not only will I get my own sloppy, stinky butt off the couch and drag myself to my PCP (Primary Care Provider), I might also get enough of a scare to send a few dollars their way to so they can do more “research”.
I’m all for finding a cure. Research is the only way to find it. But take the Susan G. Komen Foundation for example. This particular organization spends millions every year retaining staff lawyers. NOT, so they can make sure and conduct ethical research and not erroneously grope the wrong pair, nope, these high-priced suits are hired for their ability to scour web, news and radio for any mention of the phrase, “For the Cure”. They then take another huge chunk of the “research” monies you have guiltily sent them and spend it suing the hapless person who might possibly have slighted their marketing department in the use of their catch-phrase. Hmmm…I’ll be expecting a call from a suit any day now, thanks to my reference to it.
By now, if you haven’t already stopped reading, you’re probably ready to write me all kinds of hate mail about your dearly departed friends, mother’s, sister-in-law’s best girl who died from breast cancer. Hold your hate mail for a second and hear me out.
Yes, breast cancer sucks. My grandmother died of it. All cancer sucks. DH fought and beat the living crap out of colon cancer. Get it, the colon produces crap…never mind. It was a funny pun in my head. Anyway, he is now 3 years cancer free. By all means, we need to find a cure for cancer and kick it out of our planet. What we don’t need is more hysteria, raising awareness for a disease 99.9% of the civilized world has heard of.
If you want to feel you are doing something, by all means, find a legitimate research organization and send a few dollars their way. Better yet, volunteer for a few hours a month at a free clinic and remind women to do BSE’s (Breast Self-Exams). Or even better still, if you’re married, teach your hubby to do your BSE on you. You can return the favor and do his PSE (Prostate Self-Exam). I’ll be waiting for his thank-you comments to me later.
But please, for the love of all that is buxom and plump, can we leave Facebook out of it? I’m not going to France for 9 months. I don’t like it on the kitchen table. And beige isn’t really anything to brag about unless you’re 85 and proud of the fact that you are still a perky 42 DD and not a 42 long like the rest of your old and saggy friends.