Celebrating birthdays in today’s world is not like it used to be. As a kid, all you had to worry about was whether or not your grandmother would remember that you really, really wanted Milky the Milking Cow for your big day. This involved an elaborate plan of mentioning it every weekend when you saw her. Would Grandma deliver? (If she was my grandmother, you bet your bonnet she would.)

These days, there’s less cake and toy cows and more obligations. I am talking, of course, about the Facebook Birthday Phenomenon.
 
If it happens to be your birthday, and you happen to be on Facebook, you may want to take the day off. You’ll be spending your day thanking everyone who wishes you a happy birthday. How will they know? Because Facebook sends a notification to all 634 people on your friends list on your big day. And many of them, in turn, will write on your timeline.
 
My birthday was this week. When I woke up at 6:15, ten people had written on my timeline to wish me a happy day. I individually thanked each of them.
 
By the time I got to work, sixty-eight people had posted on my wall. Some of them were pretty funny. (For example, I will often post a picture of Tim Curry as Pennywise the Clown, holding balloons, on my friends’ walls for their birthdays. My pal Barry posted this in return.)

I thanked twenty more people, but honestly, I had a job to do. I switched to “liking” most of the posts, and commenting on the photos.
 
By 11 AM, I was overwhelmed. I had Manson family birthday wishes and a Ron Dickie balloon buttocks birthday photo (and trust me, if I hadn’t gotten it, I would’ve been upset). There were silly posts and sentimental posts and one half-hearted “HBD” post. 

There were celebrity posts and disturbing posts and a Dali cake. I gave up trying to comment on the photos, and just resorted to the “like” button for everyone. I couldn’t help it. My boss was expecting me to actually do my job.
 
By the end of the day, I was exhausted. I still had 126 “likes” I owed people, and major guilt that I hadn't gotten to them yet. I missed the days when the only thing I had to worry about was my penmanship on the “Thank you for Milky the Cow” note I sent my grandmother. I came home, rushed through dinner, and got back online. It took me an hour to catch up with all of the well-wishers.
 
Then, right as I was going to bed, my thumbs numb from all the liking, this came in:

I was back online in an instant. That, my friends, is a “steal-worthy” photo. And a nice reminder that I have a lot of fabulous Facebook friends. So thank you all for the birthday wishes. I loved every single post.

I’m a little disappointed in my fellow man these days. I’d thought “paying it forward” was a universal rule, at least on the road. But then, one woman on Wednesday quashed my whole belief system.

I started off my commute as normal. I have to leave my house ten minutes earlier than I really should, because there’s a problematic traffic pattern in town that turns the one stoplight in our rural area into a gridlocked Los Angeles highway come 7 a.m. If I leave ten minutes early, I’ll get through the light just fine, and wind up at work twenty minutes early. If I leave any later, I’ll wind up stuck in congested traffic hell, and wind up twenty minutes late for my job. You see? So I was out the door early.

As I approached the knotty intersection, I could see traffic already backing up. I could also see one lone car, timidly poking its nose out of a side street. There was no way she was turning left into her intended lane for the next forty minutes, unless someone let her in.

I was feeling magnanimous. I tapped my brakes, flickered my lights at her, and gave her a wave. “Come on in!” that wave said. “I’m a decent and honorable person.” She came in. I had another brief thought: Wait. Where’s my thank-you wave?

Her unbelievable rudeness at not offering the mandatory thank-you wave aside (maybe she was from Massachusetts), I inched forward once she was securely in the lane. We made it through the light, where she then proceeded to travel at 40 MPH on a 45 MPH road. I had done her a favor. This was how she was repaying me? I felt my temper rise, but decided that perhaps she was elderly and from Massachusetts, though I think even their senior-aged drivers move faster than old pokeybutt now meandering in front of me. We toddled along down the road.

Soon, we found ourselves inching up behind a school bus. Oh, for the love of—a SCHOOL BUS? Are you KIDDING me, God? My twenty-minute cushion of time to get to work was dwindling. Then I noticed a Jeep Cherokee, patiently waiting to turn left into our line of traffic.

The old lady from Massachusetts in front of me will certainly let him in, I thought. After all, we’re stopped for this school bus, and I let her in, so of course she’ll pay it forw--

The Boston grandma took one look at the Jeep and floored it, putting exactly 3/16ths of an inch between her hood and the bumper of school bus.

I was furious. This woman clearly had no humanity, not one ounce of common decency in her that would inspire her to do the right thing. Flames shot out of my eyeballs. I had no other choice. I flipped her the double bird.

The driver of the Jeep looked at me, then at Boston Grandma. He seemed puzzled. But as he turned back to me again . . . he seemed hopeful, too.

I’d learned my lesson. I turned my double bird on the Jeep and floored it, putting exactly 3/16ths of an inch between the nose of my car and Boston’s bumper. Clearly, being nice is an utter waste of time.

I made it to work with ten minutes to spare.

I do a lot of events. Conventions, fairs, craft shows . . . you never know when my smiling face is going to pop up from behind a table. Over the years, I’ve found that some fans are wonderful, and some of them are maybe not so much. Want to know the “dos and don’ts “ for meeting an author? Here they are:

• DO feel free to talk about your favorite books. Writers love to read. Some of my favorite conversations have started with “So, what are you reading right now?”
• DON’T feel free to trash famous authors on the sole premise that they’re successful.  If you don’t like James Patterson’s writing, that’s fine, and a valid opinion (though I’d encourage you to read Kiss the Girls). If you don’t like James Patterson because he’s one of the world's best-selling authors yet hires writing partners because he really doesn’t need to work hard anymore, okay, you don’t like James Patterson, the man. But please don’t go off on a diatribe about how Patterson’s writing sucks because he hires writing partners. Learn to hate correctly, I always say.
• DO tell an author that you liked their book. That’s always wonderful to hear. I also encourage you to leave a review on Amazon or Goodreads.
•  DON’T tell an author that you like their boobs. That’s inappropriate.
  

• DO feel free to ask for a signature, a hug, or a photo with your favorite author. That’s quite flattering, and many of us are happy to do it.
• DON’T go in for a hug:
  

1.   without asking;
   
2.  when you’re sweating like a runner wearing a parka who just did the Boston Marathon in August and smell like a rotting whale carcass;
   
3.    and do the reach-around to cop a feel.
   

• DO ask the author what their book is about and the intended audience. If you’re looking for a book for your pre-teen, I don’t want to sell you a copy of Ordinary Boy. You’ll be angry that the content is too old for them and inappropriate, and I’ll lose a potential returning reader. But beware: there are some unscrupulous writers out there who will lie to you just to get the sale. If they’re coming across as a snake-oil salesman, don’t trust them.
• DON’T tell an author what they should’ve written or done with the plot/characters instead. A lot of blood, sweat, tears, editing, and revisions happened before you read the final book. Telling us how you would’ve done it instead is insulting and demoralizing.
• DO stop and chat for a few minutes . . . if there isn’t a line. My favorite things to talk about are writing, editing, and reading. I have a few (okay, two) close friends that I originally met when they stopped to talk at an event.
• DON’T ask for a phone number, home address, or a date when you meet us. That is creepy and stalkerish, and the answer will always be no.
  

There you have it. I think I’ve covered everything—wait, another “don’t” is don’t look down my top (or if you are, don’t be so stinking obvious about it). There. That’s everything. Feel free to print out this list and carry it around with you so you’ll be fully prepared for your next author encounter.

Just this week, I had the opportunity to take a train to New York City. If you've ever been on one of these trains, you may have noticed how rude, disgusting, and utterly @@!# self-absorbed train riders can be. Here are my rules of etiquette for riding the train:

1. If you're hungry, please grab food to go that doesn't smell. I'm lookin' at you, tuna sandwich on the Metro North to Stamford last night at 9:37 PM. Though he wasn't as bad as the guy who stopped at Taco Bell before getting on the train. Jason kept asking me if I'd passed gas. No, no, that's just how that guy's food smells. Like bad farts.

2. If you sneeze and don't cover your mouth, you don't deserve a "God bless you." It's appalling how many people were not raised to cover their mouth when they sneeze. And the pollen count was high yesterday, so there were "achoos" flying all over the place. One woman almost 'bless you'-d a sneezer who didn't cover up, until I shot her a look of death and waved my finger at her. Poor manners does not get you a blessing. Plus, then I had to wear a bandanna across my face so as not to breathe in any of the snotty germs that were flying, and the conductor almost kicked me off  because I looked like a train robber. I should NOT have to explain myself to the transit authority because of YOUR disgusting habits!

3. Yes, I can hear you now. And now. And now.
Please don't talk on your cell phone on the train. Everyone on the train can hear your conversation. I'm very sorry that Pauline was diagnosed with scabies, but I don't want to hear about it (and I really don't want you sitting near me, either, since you're so worried about the scabies.) With these people, I like to take their picture with my phone (courteously set to vibrate, of course) and post their picture on Facebook with a description of what they're talking about. Unless I can't quite hear you clearly, in which case, I'll make it up. (It's possible that Pauline was taking care of the babies, but I can't be sure.)

4.  Don't let your children travel alone. Ever.  Maybe you think they're mature enough to travel by themselves. They're not. As soon as that train door closes, they're going to be running up and down the aisles, seat-hopping, laughing about how they clogged the toilet with burrito wrappers (thanks again, stupid Taco Bell-eating guy who wouldn't share his churros) and talking about how stupid you, their parents, are. That's right. Your kids are talking badly about you, loudly, to a train full of strangers. Mrs. Antonetti, who let your 11-year-old son travel alone to Westport last night? I now know you dye your eyebrows. Little Manny thinks they look purple and dumb, by the way.

All in all, it was an unpleasant ride. I blame everyone else on the train. I myself was perfectly behaved. But then again, I am a people person.