I have been going to the same doctor for a decade. Dr. Nofry knows things about me that even Tim doesn’t know. My cholesterol count for one. My weight for another.
When I checked in this time, however, the receptionist asked for my driver’s license.
“Excuse me?” I said. “Don’t you all know who I am by now?”
“I know who you are,” she replied, sweetly. “I just need a record of it.” Then she took my driver’s license and ran it through some sort of body scanner for plastic cards and handed it back. “Now we have a photo of you on record.”
If all she wanted was a photo, why didn’t she just friend me on Facebook?
Speaking of Facebook, have you noticed that the only people who have any semblance of privacy anymore are those pinched face employees known as the generic Facebook Team? Have you ever tried to actually get in touch with anyone at Facebook, for any reason?
In reviewing my credit card statement this week, I came across a $75 charge to Facebook. I had no idea what the charge was for and neither did my husband. So I called the credit card company and told them I was disputing the charge. They asked me if I had gotten ahold of the vendor first.
“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “Have you ever tried to get in touch with anyone who actually works at Facebook?”
“Can I put you on hold?” the nice fellow asked.
Five minutes passed before he returned. Five minutes in which I was subjected to elevator music created by stoned construction workers.
“We will remove these charges from your account.”
“Great,” I said. “What did Facebook say about the charge?”
“Uh, I didn’t actually get in touch with anybody at Facebook,” said the sheepish boy. “Apparently you can’t call the people at Facebook unless you are in law enforcement.”
I laughed. Loudly. It was borderline rude. I couldn’t help myself. While nostalgic Americans throw open the doors of our lives and our Skype accounts to the unscrupulous creeps at the NSA, the one person who has made stalking a national past-time is as unapproachable and unreachable as the Wizard of Oz.
Oprah and God are easier to get in touch with than Mark Zuckerberg and his ever-elusive Facebook Team.
And, while I’m at it, please indulge me for a moment: The problem with Americans not knowing their First Amendment Rights is that they have no idea what all is being taken from then until it’s gone.
Allowing this administration and their friends unfettered access into our lives in the name of national security is like leaving the backdoor open so that the creeps assualting Lady Liberty are at least people we know. They are our neighbors. They are us.
It’s freaking scary.
And I voted for the guy twice.
Shame on me.
Shame on Obama.
Having a King pry into every aspect of a peasant’s life is exactly why people puked their way across the Atlantic to America.
They wanted freedom.
We apparently don’t give a hoot about freedom.
Or privacy – which was highly valued until it, like every other tradition we used to cherish, has been mocked and ridiculed and bullied to death.
As it turns out I didn’t even end up seeing the doctor, although my appointment had been scheduled for weeks in advance. He was running nearly an hour behind. It seems the more tools you give a man to do his job the longer it takes him to get the job done.
I wonder what that receptionist would have done if I had refused to give her my driver’s license?
Is it just me, or do you ever feel like you are living in the middle of a sit-com gone bad? It’s like we all waiting on Agent 86 to show up and fix everything.
Trust me, this invasion of privacy on behalf of this administration, and the one prior to it, is no laughing matter. For many, it’s a matter of life and death.
Just ask a Syrian what it’s like to live in their country.