Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Why twitter makes me feel ... like an elderly hot-dog dog.


Okay, granted, I have to have one of my kids load a DVD for me. And, yes, I call all of the gaming systems "those gaming thingies." And I can't text because I'm used to typing so fast that it's like trying to speak with my mouth taped shut (as it once was in 3rd grade).

But I can kind of claim dys-technologia or a neurological tech-impairment on those counts.

But these excuses don't work when I'm in Twitterland. I understand the functions -- home versus profile. etc... I get the HOW of it. Still, I find myself completely stiff & formal there, like a granny wearing a cardigan with tissues shoved up her sleeves, complaining about the chilly drafts.

I say things like, "Very much appreciated" and "My, my. How nice!"

I sometimes go to a conversation string and tweet back similar things to different people, which is, I believe, a sign of dementia at Twitter. I imagine the other Tweeters saying, "Oh, look, she's wandered into a corner and she can't get out."

I once babysat a hot-dog dog that was so old it could no longer back up and so every once in a while you had to check the corners of the house to see if it had gotten stuck in one. I am the Twitter version of that hot-dog dog.

People follow me and I don't know what to say. Does my silence mean, "Get off my lawn?" I follow people and I feel uncomfortable. I want to say, "Yes, I'm following you, but not into the bathroom or anything. I mean, I'll give you space. I'm a good stalker like that. I really give my stalkees a lot of breathing room."

And I do because I'm not really following them at all. I lose them in the crowd.

Someone tried to explain that Twitter is like a giant cocktail party. (This TERRIFIED me.) She told me that you say things and sometimes they stick, sometimes they don't. If something I've said has stuck, I don't know about it. So I think they haven't, which means I've been wandering around a cocktail party talking loudly to myself, occasionally dabbing my nose with a tissue pulled from the sleeves of my cardigan sweater and getting stuck in a corner.

With all the following and being followed, I wonder if I've inadvertently entered into a kind of conga line (where I talk loudly to myself).

I once found a string of #-marks about people on Twitter that pissed off the other people on Twitter. Honestly, some of the complaints were in a language that was so Tweet-i-fied, I didn't know what they were saying. "Speak up, sonny! I can't hear you! You're chopping up all your words!"

But the ones I could read -- well, aside from the ones about those Bs just after your man -- I was pretty sure a lot of them applied to me.

Let me leave you this: If a Baggott tweets at a cocktail party and no one hears her, has she tweeted at all?

I think of these things and then say loudly to myself, "I'm a very deep hot-dog dog!"