Twitter Dum Twitter Dee

Twitter, oh, Twitter. I debated even looking at it when it first became popular, spending way too much time on Facebook as it is.  But I’ve crossed over to the dark side, and I don’t think there’s a vaccine for this kind of addiction.

I am now Twitter’s bitch. Most of the people I follow are a cast of characters that would put a Nora Ephron casting call to shame. I know I’ve been on way too long, because I often have dreams about the fabulous sitcom one could create within this walk of shame, and the abundance of humorous one-liners and quips. I think there is quite an art to digesting life’s ups and downs into 140 characters. Trust me. It’s not easy.

I am pretty selective about who I follow.  If I don’t have coffee snorting out my nose, if I’m not peeing in my pants, or if I don’t find myself saying “OMG [in big capital letters], I’ve so been there,” then I probably won’t follow. I don’t follow celebrities…they’re whores already.  I like to give the rest of the common folk a chance. I follow new moms, authors, cartoonists, sparring couples, folks from different parts of the world, hot chicks, bad boys, soldiers, grumpy old men and lovely aging women.

Some people say it is an enormous time waster. If you are a multi-tasker, however, and know how to discipline yourself and know how to do things with one hand [insert giggle here], it can be done. [Training tip #1: You just must take caution, however, if you find yourself even saying words, like,  “with one hand,” you will get some people following you, uninvited, who are ready to do all kinds of things to you “with one hand.” That’s the ewwww factor you must learn to live with…then proceed to chopblock them.]

There is an unwritten rule amongst my Twitter family. We are there to hold each other up, touch each other inappropriately, question – and embrace – each other’s motives. Being devious is a delight. Menacing is encouraged, although no meanness is allowed. Having a flair for fun reaps its own rewards. It’s the one family you can actually depend on that will NOT make you feel unworthy, unloved, too short, too fat, too boring, or just that you are a downright pain in the ass. And if someone does, it’s as easy as pushing a button to get them removed from the family.  And if that doesn’t work, well, there’s always Uncle Nunzio. But I digress…

Everything and everyone is fair game on Twitter.  In-laws, boogers, sex, no sex, and other taboo subjects that will never end up on Facebook, less you be the wrath of your sons and daughters, nieces, nephews and their friends, and their friends, and their friends. Nobody on Twitter will ever roll their eyes, and say “O, mommmmmm.” [Training tip No. 2: We know you love your children, but do them a favor – just don’t.]

Many say, “Now, why would I want to hear about somebody having a cup of coffee or going to the bathroom?” It’s not the cup of coffee, it’s the capability to make yours blurt out your nose when you read their take on it.  It’s not about going to the bathroom, it’s about some of the more intimate details going on in that bathroom, both clean and dirty. Another ewww factor. Sweet.

So if you just don’t get Twitter, then you just don’t get it. And we appreciate that you resist the temptation to follow.  It’s not that you might lack a sense of humor…well, yeah, you probably do…but we’re really afraid you just might tell mom on  us.

Love the One You’re With

So the Obamas, dressed to the nines, celebrated their 17th anniversary this weekend. I was somewhat surprised.  Only 17 years? Pssssshhhh.  Rookies, I tell ya. Yes, it’s admirable, and probably an enigma these days to even be married that long, but in my eyes, they’re just babes in the woods.

Their daughters are still cute, innocent little things, all ribbons and bows. The worst thing they probably deal with at this point is whether to let them listen to Taylor Swift or Kanye, and to make sure they don’t go to school dressed like Lady Gaga.

But the Obamas are still in that honeymoon stage of their marriage if’n ya ask me. I’m no expert, but I feel there are a few telltale signs when you’ll be pretty sure you’ve kicked this antiquated institution’s ass.

For instance, I don’t think you’re really there yet:

• If you haven’t played fart-and-pull-the-sheet-over-your-head.
• If you still cringe when he blows a huge lumberjack sneeze in the shower.
• If you still get embarrassed when he walks around naked and the cleaning lady shows up.
• If you still don’t believe in the saying “opposites attract.”
• If you still don’t accept his idea of a candelit dinner only happening when the power goes off.
• If you still wonder why his hand is always scratching something, instead of holding yours.
• If you haven’t realized that your husband is living proof that you can take a joke.
• If you haven’t realized that in marriage, as in war, it is acceptable to take advantage of the enemy.

Sometimes people ask The Mister and I the secret of our long marriage. It’s really not rocket science.  We take the time to go to a restaurant on a date at least once a week, have a nice dinner, and sometimes listen to soft music and go dancing.

He goes on Tuesdays…I go on Fridays.

Happy First Birthday!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BLOG!

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

You make me happy, when skies are gray,

You’ll never know dear,

How much I love you.

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

Yeah, I stoled that….

P(r)etty Thieves

I’m glad to see the whole Harvard-professor-break-in incident is finally off the media radar blip since the peacemaking at the brotherly brewfest between Obama and The Players.

I had a similar incident happen in my neighborhood, but it was I who was the star player, and I couldn’t exactly cry racial discrimination in my very white-bread neighborhood. And I didn’t get a beer out of it, either.

Recently, I drove my very suburban SUV into my very suburban garage, only to have the garage door revolt on me, plummeting down its tracks as it attempted closure, popping and screeching loudly as springs sprung, wood splintered, tracks warped and the entire door collapsed in a crooked cave-in halfway down its descent, dangling a mere six inches above my car. The Mister and I sprinted to manually shove the door up just enough to back my car back out of the garage – just in case demon devil-door wasn’t finished with its destructive forces – and watched as it proceeded to buckle and slam down to the ground only seconds after we extracted the car.

Luckily, the company that installed the door accommodated us with an appointment the next morning. As The Mister headed off to work the next day, I hung around waiting for the door man. Knowing they would need the serial number and dimensions off the door, I proceeded to tiptoe with my morning coffee in my bare feet out into the garage to scribble down numbers, whereupon I slammed the mud room door behind me. Freeze frame. I winced as it occurred to me that hubs had decided to lock that inner door – which we never do – to thwart off anyone getting in through the now semi-exposed garage (how? by morphing through the slits of the quarter inch door panel gaps???). He’s a bit anal when it comes to safety. It’s an occupational hazard…post cop syndrome.

There I stood, locked and confined in an empty garage on one of the sultriest, muggiest days on record…with no exit access in sight. I immediately went into Suburban Survival Mode, gazing at the tools, garden equipment and 260 cans of alphabetized canuba car wax, wondering if they would find me in a few days in a prone position with the headlines reading “Woman Attempts Suicide from Carbon Monoxide Fumes, but Forgets Car.”

I immediately flashed back to moving day into the house, when my husband insisted on putting yet one more telephone in the house, choosing his man-room garage. I snidely mumbled something about overkill, as he judiciously ignored my attempt at emasculating him and proceeded with his TimAllenesk task of installing yet another toy, grunting with pride.

Ah-ha! The phone…yes! I have a neighbor with a key to my house. I’ll just call her and she’ll pass the contraband…er, key…through the crippled garage door and I’ll be free! Wait… I don’t know any phone numbers without my speed dial or directory on the upstairs phones. Sigh. On to Plan B.

It was then that my brain went into uber-logic mode, and I remembered she had called me only a day or two earlier. I picked up the phone to view “previous callers,” and was able to auto-dial her.

My little Tatooed Angel of Neighborly Necessities brought the key over, peered through the slat, snapped her finger and shouted through the pane, “Oh no you diiiiiin’t!!!” Snorting the entire time, she finally slid the key under the door. Jiggling the key in the lock, I soon realized she had an older key, as we had recently installed a new lockset. Dohhhhhh. On to Plan C.

In unison, she and I hummed, “We shall overcome.” Hell, we’ve raised children…this should be a cakewalk. She then proceeded to get on all fours, scraping her knees on the cement driveway, with her rear end jutting toward the neighbors, whereupon she lifted one panel of the garage door off the ground as I shimmied on my back out of the small access like an elephant squeezing through a turtle’s birth canal.

Trying not to pee in our pants, we laughed loudly enough to raise the dead, and we envisioned nosy neighbors peering out of their windows at the two women who looked to be breaking into the townhouse. “I cain’t be sure, officer….they looked white to me, but with the shadows from that Mandevilla Vine and all, I really couldn’t identify them in a court of law…”

I was finally able to phone my husband from her house. (Darn, what’s his number again?) He eventually appeared with THE key, like a white knight ready to save the damsel…his masculinity now intact. But he hesitated for a split second before letting me in, saying, “And what was that ‘overkill’ comment about the garage phone????” Oh mea culpa already…

And it was only later that my neighbor smacked her forehead with a duhhhhh! and said, “Oh, wooops, I just realized I had brought you the key to the OTHER neighbor’s house!”

Well, at least if we get caught next time – breaking into the other neighbor’s house – I’ll willingly offer up my AARP identification card to the arresting officer…..without resisting.