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Fletch looks from his polar garb to the frosty sliding glass door, shaking his head as he surveys the deluge of fresh flakes filling the canal we had to hack out between two frozen feet of snow in order for the dogs to do their business. We’ve been shoveling, salting, sanding, and deicing now for four months, as it snows three inches here approximately every five minutes. At this point, we don’t know how to
not
navigate the Arctic clime.

“Huh,” he says, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “With our fat coats and our snow tires and our superior shoveling skills, we’d be weather gods down there.”

The imagery makes me laugh, so I’m inspired to write a quick “twisted” Facebook post about Julia’s note and weather karma and include a shot of Fletch driving while wearing his Canadian-down-filled, coyote-fur-trimmed
Nanook of the North
coat.

By the way, why does he look cute in down, while I resemble wildlife/movie monsters?

At the end of the post, I make sure to say that I hope the storm wasn’t too scary and that no one’s been inconvenienced in my favorite town and I wish everyone smooth sailing across calm seas.

Somehow this post ranks up there with disasters such as running the Exxon Valdez aground, introducing New Coke, and casting Lindsay Lohan to play Liz Taylor in that Lifetime movie.

The outrage comes fast and furious.

As I hadn’t read the newspaper and didn’t know that some people had indeed had a very scary experience, and because I wasn’t actually poking fun at anyone, I could not understand the vitriol. Like, why would I laugh at those who live in a place where they don’t usually have inclement weather? I thought it was clear that I was actually
envious
of them.

Obviously, it was not.

On top of the general outrage at my blatant insensitivity, my comments section turns into a massive North versus South battleground as potshots fly back and forth across the Mason-Dixon line.

Apparently NO ONE is over the War Between the States.

Did not see that coming.

I apologize, I retract, I rescind, but apparently that’s not enough and somehow over the course of the day, it becomes MY fault that the city of Atlanta doesn’t have the infrastructure to deal with snow removal, and MY fault that their mayor didn’t declare a state of emergency until far too late, and MY fault that families had to sleep on the floors of the Home Depot because traffic was at a standstill.

Have I actually turned into a capricious god who controls the weather and no one told me?

E-mails pour in telling me I’m vile and that they’ll never read my books again. They wish my Yankee ass was dead. They wish Fletch’s Yankee ass was dead. They don’t say anything about the dogs’ Yankee asses, but I suspect they’re on the bubble.

How did this happen?

I guarantee that tonight people like Jon Stewart and Jimmy Kimmel will make plenty of jokes about the storm, far less good-spirited. Will folks raise their pitchforks to them as well?

After I put out a heartfelt apology, explaining everything within its context, and say I’m sorry again and again, I begin to hear from other readers who are deeply disappointed that I have given in to a vocal minority and thought I had more strength in my own convictions.

Every move I make is the wrong one.

I take to the basement and try to shake it all off while I sand and wax.

Over the course of three days, my posts go viral, reaching more than half a million people,
none of whom like me.

I am the worst self-promoter ever.

How did something so innocuous and good-spirited turn so ugly so fast? It was almost as though people were sitting by their computers waiting to find a fight they could join.

Fortunately, the uproar’s short-lived, because even though the Internet is forever, there’s always something newer and more scandalous around the corner.

After this I resolve to limit my time online, especially in regard to social networking. If I’m truly to live a life without regrets, then I have to stop pursuing something that brings no tangible joy.

This should be easy because I’ve fallen out of love with Facebook. First, I want to be the kind of friend who hears about others’ milestones in person. I hate learning about major life events buried in a timeline between photos of fresh pedicures and pictures of lunch. When someone close to me has a baby or goes through emergency surgery or suffers a loss, they deserve more than a “like.” A click should never take the place of real interaction.

Plus, I almost never visit anyone else’s page because I’m uncomfortable with all the fighting and the general mood of disrespect. There’s an excellent reason someone came up with the expression to never talk about politics or religion in polite company because
it quickly ceases to be polite
.

I mean, I don’t want to have to find a new plumber when I
see that my current guy “likes” the a-holes who are always protesting at soldiers’ funerals. I’ve spent four years in search of a decent colorist in the suburbs; I don’t want to have to start the process all over again when my present stylist reposts an anti-Semitic rant. And please don’t give me a front-row seat to a family about to disintegrate as a couple of ex-high-school sweethearts rediscover each other online, flirtations growing more and more blatant over status updates.

While none of the above are true stories (to my knowledge), the fact that this does happen all day, every day, is what makes me want to run away in the first place.

And what of the Fear of Missing Out? And the exclusionary and incendiary nature of strategically timed unfollows, or of not accepting friend requests? Personally, I stopped following those who follow me on Twitter because the interface changed and now I don’t know how to add the new people. And I feel bad that my not following back might possibly upset someone, even though it has nothing to do with them and everything to do with my not knowing how to find that screen.

As for privacy? I’ll never fathom how so many hesitate so little to share even the most esoteric details of their lives online because almost every Web site out there makes it so damn easy.

“Do you want to tweet about your So-and-So Pizza Company order to your followers?”

NO. NO, I DO NOT.

Number one, why would I believe I’m so important that it’s imperative the universe be informed in real time that I’m having extra pineapple on my So-and-So’s Famous Blue Hawaiian ’Za, and number two, why would I invite others to have an opinion on what I’ve chosen for dinner?

It’s not so much that I don’t care if a follower doesn’t like pineapple pizza, it’s just that . . . wait, actually, I
don’t
care if someone who isn’t eating with me doesn’t like pineapple because that
has no bearing on my life. Will this knowledge make me a better person? Will I be edified? Informed? Inspired? Spurred into action? Overcome by beauty? No? Then there’s no reason to offer this information. Unless I’m trying to figure out whether or not to take an upside-down cake to a couple’s next dinner party, then their pineapple preferences are their own damn business.

If I don’t ask, then no one is obligated to tell.

And what’s the benefit of sharing data on who we’re with and what we’re doing, other than it makes it easier for companies to target us with their marketing? Is this about saving five percent on our next latte? Really? Personally, I believe my privacy is worth more than thirteen cents. Or does this desire to share speak to a yearning for connection? In my opinion, anyone who wants to connect should put down her damn phone and actually talk to the person sitting in front of her.

Going forward, I’ll ask myself if my words or images enlighten, amuse, or entertain, and if it’s none of the above, then I need not post. I decide I should maintain current accounts because lots of nice people do offer that which is enlightening, amusing, and entertaining (like the watermelon lady) and for that, I’m thankful. I figure I’ll occasionally share my interests, such as book suggestions, but I’m no longer going to invest the time or the effort it takes to garner “likes.”

I’m through stopping midconversation to post a funny quote because I feel like it’s my job. I’m done creating “link-bait.” I’m going to
be
in the moment rather than upload the moment, because the purpose of my life is not public consumption.

I don’t want to measure my success in clicks.

I don’t want my value as a person determined by retweets.

When I die, I guarantee I won’t care how many Tumblr followers I’ve had.

And why is anyone following me in the first place, as I’ve yet to determine where I’m going?

Satisfied with my decision to take a giant step back, I pour my nervous energy into my newest find, a freshly glued fifteen-dollar rocking chair that I’ve made fabulous with mint green paint edged with golden gilding.

I want to learn from this situation and to figure out what’s next. Yet I’m thrown by how quickly people turned on me.

With Ed Lover spinning the hits of 1992, I buff the rocker’s spindles to a glossy sheen. I reflect on the clusterfuckery of the past couple of days, trying to reframe the experience into something positive.

All I can do is to take comfort in knowing that at least no one can post naked pictures of me.

•   •   •

Despite WEATHERGATE, my tour proceeds without a hitch, and I’m psyched to have Fletch join me for the Florida portion. He said the logistics seemed too complicated so he wouldn’t come, but as he sat there alone in our freezing cold house, looking outside at the glacial monotony of gray and white, he wondered if he’d made the wrong call. And then Loki began to slowly and methodically lick a portion of the couch while staring directly at Fletch.

Lick, stare. Lick, stare.

That’s when Fletch snapped . . . into action. In the hour I spent having a drink with a reporter in Jacksonville, he not only booked a flight, but arranged for a cat sitter, and found a local kennel where all the staff brought their pit bulls to work, so he knew our guys would be well cared for.

My Florida events are extra festive with him in tow, and we return from tour refreshed, relaxed, and ever so slightly tanned. Even the dogs are reinvigorated, ecstatic to have gone to the kind of happy-fun camp they didn’t even know existed.

The only odd bit is what happens after we’ve been home for a few days. Fletch’s contact information is listed on my Web site in case any 501(c) organizations have a charitable request. Once in a
great while he’ll receive an appeal that, um . . . stretches the boundaries of charity, like when a husband asked Fletch to have me call his wife. Apparently the man had cheated on her and he figured if the entreaty to forgive him came from me, she would comply.

Oh, honey.

No.

Fletch comes into my office with a sheet of paper. “You need to read this to believe it.”

He hands me the printout of an e-mail. Someone’s contacted him to say how
he’s
really the star of the show and it’s not fair that I’m always going around saying I’m his meal ticket.

Beg your pardon?

“He says I tell everyone I’m your ‘meal ticket’? I mean, (a) horseshit, and (b) since when? Have I ever once said anything like that? Because I vaguely recall you working a lot of thankless jobs to support us while I tried to build a career,” I reply. “If I’m your meal ticket, then it took you eight years of starving before I figured out a damn thing.”

“Yeah, the meal ticket part’s news to me,” he says. “Keep going, it gets better.”

I read how the man says he approached me in Florida, asking to have a book autographed for a friend with cancer. According to him, I snapped, “Signing’s over, go home,” which would never happen for myriad reasons. I’m thoroughly wigged out that some stranger would e-mail Fletch to lie about me as a way to curry favor. How bizarre is that?

The more I sit with this, the angrier I get. “This is so creepy. If he’d actually come to the event, he’d have seen that you were
there with me the entire time
. This is why I want to learn self-defense. Oh, I will karate chop a lying motherfucker. Ninja all over his deceitful ass. So, what are you going to do? Are you writing back to him? Will you tell him to pound sand?”

“Absolutely not. What’s my policy?”

I sigh.
“‘Don’t engage The Crazy.’”

“Bingo.” He goes to sit down with the dogs on the bed across from my desk. The girls, who collectively can’t weigh more than one hundred and fifteen pounds, are sprawled out to all four corners. Fletch manages to wedge his way in, so they both place their heads in his lap. “Honestly, I figured you’d get a kick out of this. I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be mad.”

“I’m not mad, just . . . bothered. I feel like everyone’s ganging up on me lately. You don’t believe him, right?”

Fletch laughs hard enough to disturb the dogs. “Please, I was there, I know you, and like you’d
ever
pass up the chance to give someone your autograph. Just thought it was funny, that’s all.”

I nod as I don’t have anything else to say.

Fletch scans my face, noting how I’m gritting my teeth.