Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

“I have to go on Facebook to find out you’re sick???”

Throw in an “oy vey” and yup, we’ve got mega Jewish Mother Syndrome at work here. (I knew there was an explanation for all those food parcels containing Manischewitz Matzo Ball Soup Mix.) This is pretty much typical of what I get on a daily basis from South Florida. Oh, the joys of social networking sites! Not only does the entire universe know your business (including stalkers, potential stalkers, serial killers and hapless suitors), but you get your mama nosing around to see what you’re up to. Not that I’m ever up to much of anything, but…

I actually posted a status update saying that I wished my mother would stop spying on my Facebook. And guess who saw it? Yeah, my mother. Just as I knew she would, which is why I posted the status update in the first place. It only took a few minutes and there she was, posting a maternal retort on my page, saying “you thought I wouldn’t see that?”. Well, of course I thought she’d see it. That was the whole point!

It’s all my fault. I’m the one who turned her onto Facebook. I’m no better than a schoolyard dope peddler. (“Hey kid, wanna get high?”) And what do you think mummy dearest does to thank me for my social networking kindless and generosity? Steal my friends. Not only that, she donates a bunch of her friends to me as if I’m some Facebook Johnny No Mates (hell, I’m almost at the 5,000 friends limit!), only to later ask who’s that crazy Hungarian woman who keeps poking her or who’s that lad in Moscow who wrote on my wall? – to which I have to remind her that SHE was the one who gave these people to ME! And if that’s not enough, I’ve even seen several of my friends go over to her camp. Then when I ask her about it, she goes all innocent and claims they sent friend requests and since she saw they knew me she accepted their add. Hmmm…

I’m now wondering if it’s only a coincidence that she got bounced off Facebook at the exact same time I did a few months back. That was when the site was changing over to their new security system, resulting in disaster for a number of users, myself included. Between the two of us (and a slew of Facebook friends I’d recruited for this purpose) we were launching email tirades at every Facebook employee we could find to get our profiles back up and running again. I’m sure there are photos of us on the walls of their Palo Alto headquarters that have been made into dartboards. In fact, I’ve heard Mark Zuckerberg‘s got a full-length one of me in his office – and I won’t even tell you where he aims his darts. (Let’s just say that if I ever do another volume of Wicked: Sexy Tales of Legendary Lovers, he won’t be one of the legendary lovers.)

As for my mother and her keen interest in my Facebook goings-on, I’m certain I’ll catch hell for this blog post, but in the words of former Prime Minister John Major, “Get your tractor off my lawn!”

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Seriously, you have GOT to play this video: http://www.youtube.com

And give this one a listen too: http://www.youtube.com

It’s often been suggested to me that I should seek out the office of British Prime Minister. Okay, so maybe it hasn’t been suggested – or not that much anyway. Granted, I don’t have the dark jowly Scottish charm of Gordon Brown (or thankfully the stomach), but what the hey?  I’ve been in England long enough - I’m really more English than American, so why not become Prime Minister? I can’t drink tea without milk, my sense of humour is warped (Papa Lazarou is my idol, Dave), and I’ll take a pint of beer over a glass of wine at the pub any day. Now I ask you: is that English or wot? The only thing that needs sorting is an appropriate political party; I don’t fit into either Labour or the Tories, and as for the Green Party or the Lib Dems, nah. Dull, the whole lot of them! So here is what I propose: The Erotic Party. You’ve got to admit, it has cache. It just rolls off the tongue (ahem), doesn’t it?

The thing is, do I really want to live at Number 10 with folk coming and going at all times of the day and night? What if Maggie Thatcher popped round for a cuppa? Bet she’ll use up all my demerara sugar, like the workmen always do whenever they come by to do repairs. I’ve yet to meet an English repairman who doesn’t take 3 sugars in his tea. And then there’s the Queen. Oh, I’ve no quarrel with her, she’s a fabulous old bird, but that husband of hers is a real lech. I don’t fancy fending off his roaming hands at a cocktail party. And I know already that it’ll be a major hassle to get all these visitors to remove their shoes before they come indoors; I’ll have to appoint someone specifically for this task – the Shoe Removal Whip or some such. Whip? Hmm… considering that I’ll be the leader of The Erotic Party, that might lead to some unwanted speculation. As for Number 10 itself as a place of residence, I’ve heard it’s cramped, and I suspect there might be rising damp. Are those windows double glazed? Doesn’t look like it to me. If you’ve been through an English winter (and spring, and summer, and autumn), you’ll know all about the importance of good double glazing and proper insulation.

I suppose I’ll have to give this a bit more thought before I decide. Do I give up the exciting jetsetting life of writer, editor (and occasional teacher) of erotic literature just for some silly little job of running an entire country?

I ask you, what would you do?