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Twitter

A few months ago I opened a Twitter account. I only did it because of my blog. I’ve read that it’s one of a bazillion on-line social media outlets that you need to help you to be successful, blah blah. I don’t have many followers. Barely 90. I would think that would be a lot if it were my own personal Twitter account. But it’s not. I am painfully aware that 90 is nothing for the purpose of its creation.

Here’s my problem: I don’t know how to use it. My daughter tries to show me. I just don’t get the hashtag, the retweet, the favorite. And reply? It scares the crap out of me. Recently, I thought this chick was talking to me personally so I replied to her. The daughter berated me and basically said I was embarrassing. Whatever.

Oh, I forgot to mention that I really don’t understand that whole Twitter party thing. I like parties. No, let me rephrase that. I LOVE parties. I am The Party Girl. This party? Umm, no. Not for me. I can’t seem to find my way to the front door. Which is okay, because I don’t think they serve wine anyway.

Can I confess something without being stoned to death? I hate Twitter. I am a Twitter degenerate. Every single time I go in there, I am bombarded with tweets from the 104 people I am following. It could quite possibly take me a full day to catch up on my tweets. And what if I like something? What do I do? I’m afraid of doing something I can’t take back.

And what the hell would anybody who is following me find so interesting in what I have to say? “Oh, I just lost 5 pounds cuz I pooped for the first time in three days?” Oh, yeah. Compelling. Some people are so damn creative and funny. When I read some tweets, I laugh and then think, “gee, why didn’t I think of that?”

Also, if I do want to say something, it’s usually a lot. I like Facebook because I can chat to my heart’s content. Twitter? I think I get like 20 characters or something. Okay, so I’m exaggerating. Still. Not enough. Hello? Have you met me?

So, here I am. Letting days or even weeks go by before I look at my Twitter because I am afraid of it. Every time I look at my iPhone and I see that little birdie sitting there, mocking me, I break out in a sweat. In the last three minutes, I have gotten like 23 notifications. Oh sorry, I believe I’m using the incorrect terminology. “Tweets.” Good Lord. What do I do with them all?

This thought process brings me to other thought processes like whatever happened to the good old days where everything was so easy? I miss rotary phones, beepers and Kodak film.

What was the hottest thing in technology when I was 15? A Walkman. I would walk around with my Walkman and listen to music and not share it with a bazillion (90) other people. And that’s a good thing, right? Back in the day when the tweet came from Polly the Parakeet. I think I like that better.

Pee & Tweet

Tweetpee: a wet idea?

I know you are probably sick of me talking about pee.  But this product intrigued me so much that I just had to share.  So, here’s one more pee story (well, until the next opportunity arises and we all know that could be at any time).

While I was sitting in a doctor’s waiting room the other day, a commercial came on the television.  Actually the news was on and the news aired it.  You can currently find this product in Brazil.  But I’m afraid it may be coming to a Walmart near you sooner than you wish.

It’s called Huggies TweetPee.  Somehow this little birdie is part of an “app.”  You know, for your smart phone?  At first glance, it seems kind of weird.  At second glance, it seems even weirder.

Here’s the lowdown: This little bird attaches to your baby’s diaper, in the general area of where urine comes out.  Upon sensing the “wet”, the bird does what it does best — tweets.  No, it doesn’t actually tweet, like “chirp chirp.”  It tweets.  To your Twitter account.  Let me repeat that in case you don’t understand:  The plastic little birdie who is attached to your child’s groin, sends you a message to your twitter account to let you know that you better stop watching General Hospital,  get your ass up off the couch, and change your baby’s diaper.  Pronto.  Or what?  I suppose the pee police will come.

I am feeling a mix of emotions here.  A little bit of jealous with a whole lot of dismay.  The jealous comes from the fact that I had to check my baby’s diaper the old fashioned way.  You know… sniffing, feeling, looking.  What a waste of time.  I feel deprived.

The dismay comes from the fact that someone or somepeople actually spent time and money to come up with this gadget.  Okay, so sure.  We have all been guilty of sometimes letting our babies sit in a wet diaper for a a little longer than we should.  Did it kill them?  No.  But we can still be too lazy to get up and change them.  The difference is that now we will know that the diaper is wet therefore adding more guilt to our already Guilty Mother Conscience.  Well played Huggies.  Well played.

Oh and hey you.  Go change your baby’s diaper.  How do I know?  A little birdie told me.

Face-twitt-agram

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The kid wanted a Facebook account.  Now, DH and I are pretty strict.  We did not give in to her easily.  We had to think about it, mull it over, digest it, dissect it.  Finally we relented.  I had my own page so I could keep an eye on things.

She was happier than a dog eating poop.  Everything’s great.  Happy kid, happy mom.  Until about 6 months later.

The Kid:  Mom, what are you doing?

Me: I’m checking my notifications.

The Kid:  Oh, mom get with the program.  Facebook is so yesterday.

Me:  Oh.

The Kid:  Can I get an Instagram?

First of all, it took me a year to figure out the term “notifications” and she is ready to move on?  Second of all, what the hell is an Instagram and why do you need it?  Apparently, it’s a place where you post pictures.  In my opinion, no one wants to see how you dress your cat.

Now she’s working on us for a Twitter account.  Isn’t that so “yesterday?”  Chirp chirp.  Or is it Tweet?