Tweet, tweet, tweet …

Who’s on Twitter?

At first, I was scared of it. It was new and I don’t do new. Except for socks and shoes, donuts and cookies and hair products. And undies without built-in wedgies. And bras that actually fit and don’t migrate up to my neck and strangle me within ten minutes. Then I’m all about the new.

But Twitter was in a different category altogether because it had to do with social networking on the computer and as my family can attest to by the 57 missing person reports they filed in the last year, I already spent 26 hours of every day on the computer, with over half of those hours comprised of OH MY GOD, WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? WHAT DO I DO NOW? NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE???

So I created a Twitter page just for shits and giggles and then ran far far away from it and called it mean names and pretended that I didn’t care that everyone else was tweeting except me.

Except that I did care. I wanted to finally be in a loop, any loop, instead of being 729 light years away from every single loop ever invented.

So I tweeted and then held my breath to see if anyone noticed. And someone did and tweeted me back. And then I shrieked Hallelujah, packed my bags, moved right into the loop and tweeted my brains out. Yesterday, my family filed their 58th missing persons report.

Twitter is all about throwing out random tidbits of information into cyberspace and having others on Twitter read them. You can tweet about anything, from the way your eyes are crusted shut in the morning, to your hottie neighbor on the right who is cheating with your fugly neighbor on the left, to how you can’t zip up your pants because you ate 412 pounds of pizza at dinner.

Random.

Random is, like, my middle name! Except, I don’t have a middle name because no one in my family has one and my mom didn’t want me to be a trendsetter and call attention to myself. This totally explains why I don’t own anything trendy, including ultra low rise jeans. Well, that, and the fact that I don’ t want anyone to see my fanny. It’s bad enough I have to lug it around everywhere I go but inflicting it on the innocent and unsuspecting just seems cruel.

So now I’m on Twitter and my family is living in squalor and starving and wearing paper towels, which just serves as fodder for more tweeting.

Don’t you love it when things actually work out?

Right about now, my mother is 800 miles away, yelling OH MY GOD! SHE’S TWITTING! TWEETING? WHATEVER. AND MY GRANDCHILDREN ARE WEARING BOUNTY. FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! PETER, ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?

And my father is responding DO WE HAVE ANY MILK?

Just thought you might like to know.

And to prove that you don’t have to be intelligent or even coherent to tweet, here’s a sample of my own Twitter epiphanies:

• Just realized I have 43 different hair products and Nate has one. Guess whose hair looks better? Even my hair follicles hate me.

• Why is it that when your kid is invited to a sleepover, she has no clean jammies and only one clean sock?

• Just returned from my birthday dinner. Stomach is distended. I look like I’m pregnant with an SUV.

• I’ve eaten all the cashews out of one nut can and all the pistachios out of another. Now I’m bored. And retaining water.

• Got my hair cut and colored today. I wish my stylist would come live with me.

• This happens to me every single day! Right around 2-3 pm. All of a sudden, I become a narcoleptic.

• I’m raising a moody, hormonal female teenager. Doesn’t that automatically qualify me for a suicide watch?

• OMG I would do anything for orange milano cookies! Where’s my basket? Who do I have to not sleep with to get one?

• My mother just called me for a recipe. I couldn’t answer because my jaw dropped to the floor and rolled under the couch.

• Life with a moody, entitled, female teenager makes for some pretty cranky mornings. Nothing like starting the day feeling like Satan.

• Is it bad that the only reason I suffered through Flo Rider was to see if his pants fell down?

• I wish I could afford to be a cookware hobag. But I have to settle for just being a little slutty once every decade or so.

• Finished cleaning the bathroom. Decided it’s worth $1,678,756.32 to never have to do it again.

I suppose you could make your tweets read as if you are sophisticated and brilliant and worldly. I suppose you could fold your underwear too. But why?

I carry on entire conversations via Twitter. Sometimes with myself, but more often with fellow Tweeters who tweet me back because they’re actually interested in what I have to say, unlike the three humans with whom I live and for whom I do laundry and cook and clean and chauffeur and pay late fees for Blockbuster movies and overdue library books and for whom I am constantly on call 24/7 without expecting anything in return except to just listen to me once in awhile and stop comparing me to the mom on the AT&T commercials who fights against the collective unnecessary and frivolous waste in this world by insisting THESE MINUTES ARE STILL GOOD every 30 seconds.

Not that I’m bitter.

Twitter might be a good alternative for my mother and me. Since tweets are limited to 140 characters, she’d only be able to yell WHY ISN’T YOUR BROTHER MARRIED four times in a tweet instead of eighteen times in a telephone call.

Or maybe Nate will go on Twitter? 140 characters is more than sufficient for his favorite topic of conversation. After all, “were you talking to me?” is only 23 characters long.

So if you wonder what I’m up to when I’m not blogging, or if you want to read how a cold sore progresses from “ouch” to WHAT THE HELL in real time (put aside three hours or so)  or if you’re just bored and there’s nothing on TV, check out my sidebar for a link to my Twitter page or just follow me here: TWITTER

I’m looking into unlimited texting on my cell phone. That way, I can be mobile and tweet so that when I flip someone the bird in Wegmans’ parking lot, you can celebrate with me in real time. And then I’m going to lobby The Big Guy for thirty hours in a day. Because we can’t be expected to blog and Tweet and get everything else we need to get done in a 24 hour period.

Right?

I wonder what God’s username is on Twitter?

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