Like me, really, really Like me!

I like you, you like me,
Facebook "like" me if you please...

Thank you to all Weekly Jules Likers, for liking me even though I was anonymous to just over half of you. I am trying now to build http://JulieDunlap.blogspot.com up to the same level WJ is/was so when potential clients view the JD page they will see how many dozens of people find me to be so freaking witty that I will not have to explain "well, I was really liked at WJ, much more than JD" like some sort of foreign sports star.

So please check out my Facebook author page when you get the chance (since I know most of you are sitting online waiting for winter to pass like I am) and "like" what you see. It's free and won't hurt or itch.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Julie-Dunlap/166165643405561

In return, I promise you will never receive a status update regarding things like what I had for lunch.

(Protein shake)

xo

Confessions of a Facebook Addict, Part II

I did not get to be on Oprah last week talking about Facebook. Mark Zuckerberg, the 24-year-old Facebook founder (and bazillionaire), stole my thunder and landed in the coveted seat next to O on Friday.

While I suppose he was qualified enough to speak with authority on the subject of Facebook, I cannot imagine that, at the age of 24, he is really in touch enough with the fastest-growing demographic, those over 30, to understand what kind of monster he has created for Generation X.

Facebook may have been marketed to the high school and college crowd, but my young FBBFF’s (I have a few, mostly relatives, others who don’t know how ancient I really am) are NEVER on Facebook as much as my over-thirty-five posse. Maybe it is because they are too busy texting ("text" can be a verb, right?), maybe they haven’t lived long enough to be able to write a list of 25 Things.

Truthfully, though, I believe my generation was simply born for this.

First of all, we are the original multi-taskers. We not only grew up walking and chewing gum at the same time (choking hazards were unheard of in the 1970’s), but we could do it all WHILE CROSSING THE LIVING ROOM TO CHANGE THE TV CHANNEL. Yep, those were tough times, but we persevered. We learned to rotary dial the phone with one hand while applying spray gel to our bangs with the other and never had to choose between a Coke or a smile.

Thanks to these many complexities of our upbringing, dragging our iPhones around the house to keep up-to-date on our FBBFF’s status while we cook, fold laundry, and shave our legs is not a challenge.

But not only are we a multi-tasking people, we are also a people unafraid to stir the cyberpot once in awhile. Remember, we did not have “sensitivity training” in the ‘70’s, and, yes, it probably shows. So what? At least we do not fear the possibility of a low Scramble score showing up on our walls.

And we Generation X-ers love our entertainment. We practically invented MTV. Or, at least, we figured out how to make our own music videos using our parents’ eight-tracks, a chorus line of Monchichi’s, and a Light Brite. Posting a David Hasselhoff video or a Snuggie parody to share comes naturally to us.

We also love our friends, probably because we played with them in our backyards, not next to them on a linked-in DS. In fact, my friends and I are already planning the nursing home we will all one day retire in, complete with a Cougar Wing, Hair Band Mixers, and nightly Happy Hour.

But the one thing that really sets us apart from the young kids, is that we have nothing to lose by Facebooking. We do not have to worry about incriminating photos surfacing on Facebook, because (thank you, God) no one carried a camera phone in the 1980’s and all negatives have long been destroyed. Furthermore, we already have our jobs and no longer worry about what our parents will say. So even if that picture from Spring Break ‘92… you know the one… should ever surface, we do not care. (No, Mom, I never did that.)

“What’s all the buzz about Facebook,” Oprah asked? Even Young Zuckerberg was at a loss as to why his little networking wonder is a Godsend to those of us who grew up playing with real people.

But any Gen-X-er (and most of our Boomer parents) can tell you it is the perfect way for a generation busy raising a generation of their own now to keep in touch with those friends from simpler days gone by.

So, Mark, thank you for expanding our worlds beyond the walls of our homes and cubicles. Thank you for giving us a place to come together, where we can talk about your generation and how spoiled you all are, where I can show off pictures of my kids and act like one myself, without judgment.

And, as an aside to Mark Consuelos, I would friend you in a heartbeat!

An Olympian, A Televangelist, And A Senator Walk Into A Bar...

This has been a big week for people in the spotlight, a week that has left me perplexed, and I welcome any input you might have on the matter...

Let’s just say for a moment, you are famous. Maybe you are not as big as Ryan Seacrest, but you are still important. And almost everyone knows your name.

Own that one for a moment, and then answer me this: How hard can it possibly be to follow a few basic rules in public?

Maybe you’ve won some gold medals. Eight of them, hypothetically, in a sport like swimming. And, as a result of your careful attention to health and fitness, you’ve been offered a number of spokesperson contracts that turn out to be worth a truckload more than swimming typically pays.

And then a couple months later, you’re out with some buddies, and one of them pulls out a water bong the size of a small child and offers it to you.

And at that same moment, another buddy pulls out his phone camera with the number to the Associated Press on speed dial and says, “Hey, look over here! Hold up the bong, dude! Wait, I can’t see your face… hang on… hand me that bag of Cheetos (your buddy eats Cheetos for the next 15 minutes)… okay… dude, I’m ready now… hold it up… dude, quit laughing and look at me… tilt your head down so I can see your eyes… say ‘Rosetta Stoned!’… no, in English, dude... “

Do you look the camera in the eye while taking a hit or do you hide the monster pipe behind your massive delts and flash that wholesome Frosted Flake’s smile?

Or perhaps you are a Baptist minister. On TV. Who has made a living and won the hearts of many a God-fearing American with your unbending stance against one of the 'N Sync kids, the Purple Teletubbie, and every other homosexual on the planet, most of whom have nothing to with you.

And then, one day, you find yourself alone in a hotel room you drove to and paid for, with a few extra Benjamins burning a hole in your pocket and a gay hooker at your door waiting to help you spend them.

Does it not occur to you that there is a high probability that answering the door would likely land you on a couch next to Oprah two years later, outing your story to the entire world, a world that, quite frankly, would have left you alone had you not chatted it up with Oprah… or maybe not been such a closeted hypocrite in the first place?

Or maybe you are a politician. Charming enough to be a U.S. Senator, bright enough to serve on a Presidential Cabinet.

And you kick off the interview like this, “why, yes, I would be honored to serve on your Cabinet, Mr. President… my records? Absolutely, they are all up-to-date and squeaky-clean… surprises? Nope, I have never even inhaled… No, sir, I have never spent time toe-tapping in an airport restroom... Huh-uh, never cheated on my wife either, what kind of jacka-… Oh… you mean on my taxes… well, there was this one time… “

Seriously?

Have these people learned nothing from the fallen celebs who have tumbled before them?

Gone are the days when a celebrity can confidently hire a prostitute for a little recreational S&M, knowing it will stay private. And the days of being able to drive your car into the river on a Massachusetts resort island and still keep your job in Congress the next 40 years are far in the past.

This is a whole new world we live in. Thanks to YouTube, athletes can no longer party like Matthew McConaughey. Thanks to Karma, homophobic pastors will eventually be caught with their pants down. And, thanks to Facebook (I assume), EVERYONE now has access to your tax records.

Oh, you can try to explain it away if you get caught, but, let’s face it…

“I made a mistake” works fine for people who went to see “Four Christmases” after reading the reviews.

“I used poor judgment” is a perfectly acceptable excuse for someone caught wearing linen pants in November.

“I’m only human” explains well the second glance at the neighbor mowing her lawn in a push-up and stilettos.

… those excuses are not going to cut it for these guys. I know plenty of “humans” who aren’t being photographed smoking an Olympic-sized bong, who have never hired a hooker, and who are fully paid on all their taxes.

So I hope you all will remember this piece of advice from Weekly Jules if you ever spend enough time in the spotlight to earn your own Wikipedia page, and watch yourself. Because you never know who else is.

O, My!

I swear I had no intention (this time) of writing to Oprah, but somehow my search for information on her site about this kid ended with me answering the question, “Are you too old to be on Facebook?” with a link to this story.

Now, having written to Oprah dozens of times in the past 20-some years and never yet stepping foot in Harpo Studios, I had little reason to give it another thought. So you can imagine my surprise when, just a few days later, I found the following email in my inbox from Oprah(‘s assistant producer) herself:

“My name is Allyson and I work on a production team here at The Oprah Show. I read the email you submitted and I'd love to ask you a few more questions if you have a moment this week?”

I could hardly breathe. Oprah(‘s assistant producer)? Wanted to talk to me?

I left her a voicemail saying I would be available to chat the next day. And the next. And the next. And any day after that for the rest of my life.

And in less than 24 hours, my phone rang again.

This is it, this is what “The Secret” is all about, I thought, ready to charm the socks off that lady. Allyson was about to be blown away by the quick wit and charm of Jules, yes she was. I envisioned the limo pulling up to my house, Nate Berkus greeting me at the door holding a monster bouquet of fresh flowers to liven up my home and confessing his secret crush on me. Maybe Bono would be on the show that day too. In fact, maybe I would get to help Bono set up a Facebook account of his own!

I let it ring one more time, not so much because I’m cool like that, but because, after one more glance at the “Harpo Studios” on my Caller ID, I suddenly felt light-headed.

Uh-oh, this cannot go well.

I answered anyway.

“Hello?” I said with a smile as my heart raced, my face flushed, and my pits ran with sweat.

“Hi, is Jules available?” Allyson asked. She sounded young. Very young. What if she thinks I really am too old for Facebook? What if she thinks I am too old to even watch TV, much less be on it? Wait---that’s ridiculous. I’m almost 17 ½ years younger than Oprah, and she’s on TV. But she’s Oprah. Of course she gets to be on TV. Wait, did she just ask me a question?

“Yes, this is Jules,” I said.

“Hi, Jules, this is Allyson from the ‘Oprah Winfrey Show.’ Did I catch you at a good time?” she asked.

No! I’m completely and totally freaking out, and you aren’t even the real Oprah! You are one of her many assistants... with the best job ever!

“Absolutely! How are you?” Good move, Jules, ask a question, put the ball in her court. Make her work for you.

WAIT!

Bad move. What if she doesn’t want to work for you? What if she just wanted you to say, “Yes, and I’m 100% ready to be on the show, I’ve even picked out my outfit. What time will the limo be here?” What if she decides to move on to a more cooperative old person who uses Facebook?

“Great,” her perky voice cheered. “I got your letter and I have a few questions for you, if that’s okay?”

“Of course!” I said… Allyson, I’ll fold all your laundry and wash your car if it means I get to meet Oprah. And Bon Jovi too, if he’s available for lunch or dinner or whatever that day.

She proceeded to ask me a number of questions which I easily nailed, and, just when I thought I was doing great, she asked me if I update my “Facebook status” daily.

“Oh, I do… ” I humbly started, “but I don’t like to be too literal. My friends and I really just use it as a way to make each other laugh.” I am so clever!!

“Really? What are some of the funny updates you’ve listed?” she sounded interested.

Ahh, this is my moment to stand out. My moment to shine, to show this gal we old people can be hilarious when we want to! Which is the exact moment early-onset dementia kicked in. I drew a blank

“Oh? Well, uh," Snap out of it and speak, Jules!

“What are some things you and your friends post for each other?” she merrily pressed on.

SAY ANYTHING!

“Movie references from the '80's?” I started, “um, pop culture stuff… TV theme songs... ” I replied with a wince, kissing my opportunity to sing Motown up and down the Miracle Mile in the back of a limo with Gayle King goodbye.

She gave me one last shot. “Like, what do you have posted right now?”

“Ummm… ” I replied, racing to the computer to find out. Get it together, Jules, before she decides you're just another James Frye! My tongue swelled up, my lips turned numb, it was as if I had just swallowed a vial of botox-injected collagen. I tried to rattle off my last few updates from the computer, but I’m pretty sure nothing else I said to her from that point on made any kind of impact. Or sense, really.

So if Allyson finds herself with a severe shortage of potential guests and I end up spending a night in Chi-town, drinking in my New Earth from the All-Suite Omni Hotel and having brunch in the Harpo green room, I will be sure to fill you in. But after her very polite, “I'll be in touch if I have anything else for you,” I am not holding my breath.

Unless it makes me look slimmer on camera, of course.

Auld Lang Syne (Whatever That Is)

Here we are, the week between Christmas and New Year’s. A week best known for drinking leftover eggnog and polishing off Mom’s rum cake because – let’s face it – another 1200 calories, at this point, isn’t going to matter much.

This is the week we spend un-decking the halls, shopping for half-price Reese’s Peanut Butter Trees with the same people we complained about the day after Thanksgiving, and debating whether we should put in some face time at work or simply find a new job with a more compassionate company that knows well enough to just shut down for the last 10 days of the year.

But this is also a week of introspection and personal review. Have we accomplished everything we set out to achieve for the year? Or at least all the things we bragged about in our Christmas letters? Did we convert all the old VHS tapes to Blue Ray or even begin that Toni Morrison novel? Of course not. But we don’t spent time fretting about that. Instead we pour the champagne and turn our attention to the changes sure to abound in the coming year.

There are plenty of us with plans to get fit, get organized, and get a life… and some who might even do it. There are some of us who will vow to spend more time reaching out to the needy and less time Facebooking… and others who know better that to set ourselves up for that kind of failure.

I, myself, don't attempt New Year’s Resolutions. Forty days of Lent is plenty for me. An entire year of bettering myself is impossible to ask. So since I technically still have some time to come up with my own self-improvement list, I am currently free to dream up resolutions for you, my fellow earthlings, to achieve. A “List of Resolutions I’d like to See the World Embrace,” as I call it.

My list is meager, an attainable set of goals for us to work on: an end to illness, corporate corruption, global warming, violence, and TMZ’s coverage of all Simpsons – Ashleigh, Jessica, OJ, Bart – and anyone else who shares the last name.

However, if by chance the New Year’s Baby pops out of Brangelina Thursday (she is pregnant with one, isn’t she?) and actually offers to grant me just one item as part of some World-Wide New Year’s Bailout Package, I am prepared to do a little down-sizing.

Obviously the first item off my list would be an end to illness, and I’m not just saying that because without strep throat or pink eye my family-practice-doctor-husband couldn’t pay the mortgage. I’m looking at the bigger picture here, and how it affects us all. You see, without illness in the world, we could never call in sick to work again:

“Hey, boss, (cough cough sniffle) I can’t make it to work today.”
“Why not?”
“Can’t you tell? I’m sick.”
“No, illness was wished away by Weekly Jules earlier this year. Now get your a$$ to work or you’re covering for the entire office this Christmas, you faker!”

Next to go would be corporate corruption, as it has its place in our lives as well. Yes, we cringe and judge away at the shamelessness of crooked and greedy CEO’s, but the truth is we count on them. After all, a-holes like Bernie Madoff make us feel, when we are at our most self-centered and lazy, as though we are not the biggest pricks on the planet.

Now, having seen “An Inconvenient Truth,” I’m just as concerned about the earth as the next gal, which is exactly why I never let my 98,000-mile (American-made) minivan idle, at least not while I’m at the McDonald’s drive-thru. But to see a complete end to global warming has its downside as well, so I’m not sure I could keep that one on the list either. I mean, I kind of like watching Zac Efron cool off at the beach with his shirt off and am not quite ready to see that one end.

And finding a way to rid the world of violence would certainly make a leisurely drive through East St. Louis more appealing, but without it, Jack Bauer and his quest to save the world from total destruction in 24 hours every year would lose all believability.

So this leaves me with TMZ’s coverage of all Simpsons. And that one is non-negotiable. I don’t care if one of them cures cancer or finds a way to resurrect Mother Teresa, I don’t want to hear about it. Although if one of them discovers a way to eliminate stretch marks without surgery, call me.

As for my own set of goals, I hope to be on Oprah, of course. But that’s been on the list every year since 1985. Most of all, I hope to keep dishing out stories with no purpose other than to give you something to laugh about. And for joy to pave your journey in 2009.


For my 10-year-old, Amelia, cursed with a birthday between Christmas and New Year's. What were her parents thinking??

Status Update

Hi, thank you for being here. What I'm about to do is not easy for me. But the time has come for me to step forward and own my addiction.

I started doing it, sadly, because a friend told me to. "It's totally safe. Don't be so paranoid," she told me.

My husband was already doing it, and he seemed to handle it just fine. "Don't worry. You're in complete control,” were his words.

And so, with nothing but an anonymous photo and my back-up email address, I joined Facebook.

Was I nervous? Yes, I'd heard stories. Stories of online predators waiting for me to post something they could use to find my family and hold us captive as musical servants in the hills of West Virginia. Stories of respected citizens shamed by pictures from college resurfacing online. So I set my profile to private, believing I was safe from the dangers of Facebook.

But, alas, no one had warned me of its addiction and the havoc it can wreak on an otherwise nearly-functional housewife.

It started out so harmless, with requests to be friends with people whom I already considered to be friends. My husband, a brother, a couple of friends from college, even a priest for heaven's sake. We wrote on walls, sent free virtual gifts, played a game or two.

But one friend led to another. I found old pals from college, high school, even grade school. Next thing I knew I was a part of a virtual mafia family (thanks, Danny) and planting acres of cyberplants (thanks, Amy and Drew).

And that's when I got comfortable.

I collected flair. I joined causes. I opened up about books I had read, my activities and interests, favorite books. I unleashed with rapid velocity not witnessed by any therapist my entire past and all my hopes and dreams with just a few clicks of the mouse.

Oh, and I "friended" people. Yes, I just used "friend" as a past-tense verb. I've not only plastered masses of ridiculously boring trivia about myself all over my own profile, but I've spent precious minutes, okay hours – whatever – DAYS reading about people I barely know, at the expense of clean laundry and home-cooked meals.

(Is there ANYONE left on the planet who has yet to read Eat, Pray, Love? Or who came of age in the 80's and DIDN'T find "Say Anything" to be life-changing?)

I'm not sure how the sun used to rise each morning without knowing it would find me at work every day tagging photos, managing my wall, and finding friends (and by "finding friends" I should clarify that I 100% mean stalking old boyfriends).

THIS is why my kids suggested I come to Career Day and speak about my role in the Oprah Winfrey Facebook Fan Club or my newest endeavor, United To Get Broeckelmann Onto Facebook. And don’t even get me started on the many perils of Facebooking under the influence.

I've tried to cut back. But the fact remains that I have FBBFF’s ranging from immediate family to mere acquaintances, people overseas to people I see in the flesh every day. And, thanks to the Status Update, I even know, at any given minute, which of those FBBFF’s …is wishing it was Friday, …is enjoying a beautiful fall day, and …is STILL eating her kids’ Halloween candy. How did I get through my days before without knowing any of this?!?!

(sigh) I'm not saying I’m proud. What I'm trying to say is…

My name is Weekly Jules, and I am a Facebook addict. And if any of you know of a Power higher than that of the Live News Feed, I beg you to tell me. Please. My kids are starting to smell funny.



(dedicated to Tracie and all my FBBFF's)