Follow me like the Pied Piper. Minus the piper. And the “D.” Pie. Mmmm.
It would be really hard – that’s what she said – to top that last post. So I’m not going to try. At all. This way, when my site stats nosedive and the comments vanish, I can console myself by thinking, This is exactly what you predicted would happen. They did exactly what you wanted them to do. They’re eating right out of your palm. You win. Again.
Here’s what I’ve learned so far: Readers take extreme joy in my pain and heartbreak – the sort of elation that usually stems from witnessing the blunder or bruising of a parent. Such as the time my father proudly showed me his new business cards. A dutiful teenage daughter and aspiring copy editor, I was barely able to blurt out between cackles, “Dad! There’s no ‘W’ in our last name!” And then he cried. A lot. Or basically any instance when my mom would mishear something or someone, stutter, stumble, fall or fart. “Laugh, clown. Laugh,” she’d say in a huff. And I would – heartily, without misgivings or remorse. And I still do, because the mild to moderate agony of the folks responsible for bringing me into this world is thoroughly and inexplicably amusing.
I suppose then, because I’m the mother of this blog (and cats, obviously), my readers are like family. As kin, we lovingly revel in each other’s failures and breakdowns, especially during the holidays. As kin, we passive-aggressively and vocally cast judgment when one of us balloons up to gastric bypass-worthy proportions. And as kin, I’m going to have to insist that you follow me on Twitter. Why? Because I’m the mom. That’s why.
I know, first the blogging, now the tweeting. I’m becoming a hypocrite. And a whore. In social media. Not in real life. Yet. The most sex I’ve had in months was last weekend when my friends Danna and Randy’s 8-month-old son grabbed my boob. I’m not going to lie. I liked it. Then Randy told me he had heard a lesbian on the radio that day, and that he’d recently chatted with a gay Globe reporter in regard to his up-and-coming web site on Boston nightlife called The Sitchie, and that he’d try to find out more about them and whether they’re single. I was all, “Pssshaw. Yeah, I don’t know, dude. Thanks but no thanks.” And then I totally went home and Googled both women. I’m super cool.
I have nine Twitter followers so far: my ex-girlfriend, my ex-girlfriend’s girlfriend, my ex-girlfriend’s co-worker, my 50-something manfriend, The Sitchie, the independent Emerson College radio station I donate money to, a newsroom joke site and what I believe to be two spammers. (No offense, amanda052886 and lovely960lad8. Love you guys). Basically, Twitter is imitating life. The problem being that it’s imitating my life. The life in which I a) work odd hours and hope a historic landmark burns down or political icon is mortally wounded to spice up my shift; b) listen to the radio station of the school I begged to go to until my parents dashed my dreams; and c) spend an inordinate amount of time with my ex and others romantically inaccessible to me, thus ensuring I’ll stay alone with cats forever.
So please, take pity and follow me on Twitter. If you’re not already a member, join. I can’t believe I’m saying this – and I’ll totally deny it later – but it’s actually kinda fun. Do your good deed for the day and help a spinster out. In return, you’ll be among the first to know when I update my blog, and I’ll keep sharing my pain and putting myself in harm’s way to ensure the shelves are sufficiently stocked with slapstick, sorrow, shame and stalkers. Deal?