Facebook pulls information like a black hole pulls in light.
Last month, I was considering trading vehicles and got a quote on my car from Carvana. When I lifted the lid on the settings I’m going to give you, Carvana was already reaping my Facebook information. I never mentioned Carvana on Facebook — or vice versa, for that matter.
It was like opening a trunk and getting pelted with black bats.
Facebook tracks our activity on other websites and apps — even when we’re not on Facebook (like my Carvana story illustrates). If that bothers you, you can stop it in your account settings by clearing previous off-Meta activity and disconnecting future tracking.
Here’s how to do it in six steps:
Open your Facebook account (be sure you’re logged in) and click on your photo in the upper right-hand corner. (I’m using a browser window. You may have to adjust if you’re trying this in a phone app.)
Choose Settings & Privacy from the dropdown menu. Then Settings.
Go to Accounts Center.
Select Your Information and Permissions > Your Activity Off Meta Technologies.
Choose Clear Previous Activity. (If you want shivers up your back, view the previous activity first — you’ll see what companies are hanging onto your account like leeches.)
If I ever start a story with the line “My sister and I…”, buckle up. We have some strange adventures. For example, last weekend my sister and I went shopping for an anvil and came home with two armloads of old books. That story is coming in a future newsletter.
But let’s jump into this story.
My sister and I were on a road trip, driving close to the edge of the Earth. We hadn’t seen a house for 5 miles. We hadn’t even seen a cow for 5 miles. The only living things in sight were two antelopes racing across a far hill.
Not to worry. We weren’t bored; we were talking. Then I looked down at the speedometer. I was driving 80 mph.
“Oh, man,” I said and immediately lifted. Lifted is a racing term I learned from my husband. I don’t race. Except maybe when driving at the edge of the Earth.
As I lifted, we flew past a crossroad with a state patrolman sitting at the stop sign.
He pulled me over. He walked up to my window. “Do you know why I stopped you?”
“I was going too fast,” I said, and he nodded. “How fast did you catch me at?” I wondered if I had managed to slow down at all before he clocked me.
“Eighty.”
“Yeah,” I said.
He took the usual stack of paperwork back to his car. When he handed it back to me, he leaned down and looked into the car. I don’t think my sister waved at him, but, knowing her, she might have. Then he said, “Use your cruise control after this.”
He walked back to his car and pulled away. No ticket. No warning ticket.
My sister and I both took a deep breath as he drove over the next hill.
I owe that nameless patrolman big time.
And that’s why I have given my sister permission to nag me about the cruise control.
What if the sun were dying, and you were sent to stop it? And what if your only ally was someone you couldn’t shake hands with?
The movie Project Hail Mary deals with those questions, dishing out drama and hope while tackling unexpected friendships along the way.
Ryan Gosling plays Ryland Grace, a middle school science teacher with a doctorate in molecular biology and a chip on his shoulder after the academic world rejected his theory that life could exist without water or a habitable zone. That same paper grabbed the attention of those scrambling to solve an extinction-level crisis.
Watching Grace piece himself back together is half the joy of the film. The other half is Rocky. But that's a spoiler. You'll just have to trust me.
Project Hail Mary trusts its audience. We're treated as people who can follow complex storylines, feel the weight of impossible stakes, and still laugh out loud.
The music is top-notch. The character arc is even better. Grace begins the story running from something and ends it running toward something. He’s found meaning in his life in unexpected but funny, tender, hopeful ways.
A note for parents: the high stakes and intense drama make this a better fit for teens and adults than younger children. Language is mild.
Go see it. The hardcore sci-fi crowd might want to bring a calculator. The rest can bring tissues. Either way, go.
As you get to know me better, you’ll know things that my kids may someday pay you to keep to yourself. This is a great reason to keep track of me. Think of it as retirement planning. Just fill out that email signup over there and the money may well come flowing one day. No promises, though.
Don’t you, by the way, get annoyed with promises coming at you in the mail and on your phone and email? You know what I mean. I have gotten a garden catalog in the mail for years. Most of the catalogs have a big red sticker on the front: “Warning: this may be the last catalog you receive unless you order.” Yeah, yeah, big promises. I’ve never ordered. I’d be OK if this were the last catalog but no such luck.
I’ve been promised that the IRS is about to pick me up if I don’t pay my past-due IRS bill with a Target gift card. And that this is my last chance to get that great loan (no fine print mentioned). What? They’ll leave me alone if I miss my last chance?
I don’t make promises like that. I promise.
OK, I digress. I call this squirreling, but I’m not going to explain that today or I’ll never get to my story. What was I talking about again?
Oh, yeah, I’ve had several jobs in my life, none related to the one before as far as I can tell. I’ve been a property manager for four years. Managing rental units provides endless story possibilities. That’s almost a good enough reason to keep managing.
As you can imagine, we occasionally have tenants who don’t pay their rent. This particular tenant not only got behind on his rent, but he had creative excuses. One month, his check must have gotten stolen since we hadn’t gotten it.
In fact, the police had contacted him about the stolen check, and he was getting another one issued. We asked, could he send us a copy of the police report? Of course not, since the police were in another state.
What, they hadn’t heard of faxing or email?
He did get that rent payment paid. It was sort of the sweet-and-sour-sauce with that tenant. One month, he was great and the next, lots of complaints and no rent.
I reported the final events to my business partner, who is also my sister, Ann, via texts:
Me; “Guess what? No rent today again.”
Ann: “Still nothing? Didn’t he promise?”
Me: “Yep.” Captain Obvious is my texting handle.
Ann: “Can’t you just email him and tell him to send us his kidney.”
I was typing, “I’m OK with a kidney,” when Ann answered, “No! Ack! Money. Not kidney. Money”
When you think of the sounds of Christmas, you may think of the gentle guitar tones of “Silent Night” or the wistful notes of “Silver Bells.”
I have young kids rushing through my house regularly so I get to hear other sounds. Like Big Mouth Billy Bass, for example.
I had hoped yet again this Christmas to find out how rich Christmas could be without this rubber fish flopping on a wooden plaque while emitting holiday songs.
It was not meant to be.
The Ghost of Christmas Gifts Past
A seven-year-old boy uncovered Big Mouth Billy Bass in a box of hidden Christmas ornaments. You haven’t lived 'til you have seen a fake fish sing “Jingle Bells” with his tail flipping in time. Punctuated by “YeeHaw.” I blame my sister for Billy being in my garage.
The seven-year-old wanted to know how Billy worked and why I didn’t have this fish mounted front and center already.
The Fatal Mistake
One of my character flaws is not being able to think of a misdirection quickly enough.
I told him Billy was a nuisance. That didn't deter him. I said it was goofy. He didn’t care. So I added, “It doesn’t work because it needs batteries.”
I know, I know. That was not a smart answer. But this thing was so old that I assumed I didn’t have the right batteries in the house.
The Encore
I was wrong. He found four fresh C batteries in the back of the junk drawer.
Billy Bass rejoined the world of the living.
When it comes to Christmas animals, one time is never enough. Kids push the red button so Billy sings over and over and over until the adults smash the gadget to smithereens. Theoretically.
Christmas is always a memorable time of the year. Especially with children around.
Even before the blue cloud surrounded the house, I was very sorry I had knocked on the door.
My sister, Ann, and I used to manage several rental houses for landlords. One day, we had to deliver a notice to a late-paying tenant to either pay up or move out.
These have to be hand-delivered to the unit, and we thought that meant knocking on the door and handing the form to the tenant.
What innocents we were.
By then, the air was turning blue. The only clean words were, “Hey, get back here, Foofie.”
I knocked, intending to hand over the form. When the tenant didn’t respond immediately, I started taping the paperwork to the front door.
Then the door flew open. The tenant stormed out, grabbed the paper, crumpled it into a tight ball, and threw it on the ground. “I don’t accept notices on my door.”
She said a lot more, but I filtered out the swear words.
Then she bolted into the street, chasing a little dog that scooted past our ankles. A dog she wasn’t supposed to have.
I stood at the front door, coughing from the blue air, and watching the tenant darting around the street like a defensive back trying to tackle a quick-footed running back. Foofie kept skittering just out of reach.
I enjoyed the entertaining romp for a moment, but then I remembered my vulnerable position on the front step. I smoothed out the page, taped it to the door, and sprinted to the car. I was ready for a fast getaway, but Ann said, “I’m not moving until that dog is gone. Just what we need is to run over the dog, too.”
We finally escaped through the blue cloud. After that, we flipped a coin to see who went to the door. No knocking. We did a tape-and-run.
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