Someone sent me a squirrel.
If I wanted to know who sent it, Facebook said, I had to send squirrels to sixteen other people.
I have more than sixteen FB friends, but I wasn’t sure they wanted squirrels. In fact, I was afraid they might be offended or, worse yet, think I was trying to attract undue attention. Or, worse than that, think I wanted them to send me a squirrel by return click.
I didn’t want to be unfriended over an unwelcome rodent.
But I wanted to know who sent the squirrel, so I tried to outwit the system. I clicked on three names–teenagers I thought might like being singled out for the honor–and sent them squirrels. Then I clicked on the link promising to identify my benefactor.
The resulting page complained that I hadn’t followed instructions. “Sixteen people” means sixteen people. I was thirteen short. Until I sent squirrels to those thirteen, my squirrel-giver would remain anonymous.
A footnote, however, contained an out. If I didn’t want to bestow squirrels on the majority of my friends list, but still wanted to know whence mine came, I could do so by acquiring Giftie Credits.
Curious, I pursued this option.
Curiosity waned when I discovered that Giftie Credits come with a price.
I could get 160 Giftie Credits for ten dollars.
Or I could perform certain actions:
- subscribing to a DVD service would bring me 317 Giftie Credits;
- participating in a trial of green tea would bring 455 Giftie Credits;
- ordering a trial something-or-other designed to allay my fear of wearing a bikini next summer would net 380 Giftie Credits.
Because I get DVDs from Netflix, don’t care that much for green tea, and don’t own a bikini, I declined those offers.
The “FREE Slim Seduction Trial”–408 GCs–sounded interesting but didn’t seem practical, so I passed that up as well.
Instead, I slid the pointer up to the toolbar and flew to my very own Facebook Home page, where commerce does not dwell.
When I joined Facebook, I intended to keep up with family, friends, and my old paralegal school. I wanted to make professional contacts. I thought I might get in touch with former students and co-workers. I expected to read about piano recitals, graduations, and book signings.
I didn’t expect the squirrel.
And I still don’t know who sent it.
In fact, I haven’t even seen the little devil. I’m sure he, or she, is as cute as a bug, probably a lot like Perri on the cover of the Disney LP I had when I was eight. But I don’t know where he is or where he came from.
Not knowing isn’t acceptable. I want answers. I don’t like to be left hanging.
I shall try to be patient. Perhaps in time the craving will dissipate.
But if it doesn’t–if the desire to know becomes unbearable–I might be forced to check out the Slim Seduction Trial.
With 408 Giftie Credits, I could send a lot of squirrels.
“Squirrels and Seduction” appeared in Whiskertips in 2009. An updated, revised, and corrected version appears here at the request of my most ardent fan, who does not want to write a post from scratch tonight.