Adventures in Twitterland

Prologue
I vaguely recall this spring day, my then 9 year old son comes into the kitchen and asks if he can start a Twitter account. At that moment I am in the process of making dinner, answering an important email and making sure my neighbor sees me watching him through the window as he obviously debates picking up the steaming present his dog just left in our yard. "Sure, honey," I reply and he runs off happily. I'm fairly certain if he asked me if he could set my hair on fire, he would have received a similar response.

Day 1
A few weeks ago my son casually mentions tweeting about his day. "What?! Since when do you tweet?" I ask, completely confused. My son gives me a partial eyeroll (he's still too young and too sweet to do a full one), and explains to me that a Twitter account is for tweeting and since he has one he tweets. Horrified that faceless predators are cyberstalking my baby, I rush online to set up my own Twitter account so I can follow his tweets and keep away evil with my mere presence.

I quickly create a cutesy name for myself and enter Twitterland. I spend the first five minutes laughing about the fact that my son's Twitter name includes the word "kill" while in his bio he describes himself as someone who loves all cats and kittens and all things fuzzy.

Being a big fan of the show The Office, I decide to follow Mindy Kaling, Rainn Wilson and Ricky Gervais.

I finish up by sending a quick "I'm here world" tweet into the ether.

Day 2
I receive an email that I have 2 new Twitter followers - Pamela and Victoria. Excited that 2 strangers are interested enough to want to follow me, I log on to check them out. Their photographs show 2 attractive women. On closer inspection, it becomes clear that Pam and Vicky are a little too perfect and airbrushed and seductive and are both fronts for hard working, enterprising porn sites.

Rainn Wilson tweets about an anal fissure.

Day 3
Vicky sends me a message telling me she loves Pinocchio and would love to lock him in a room with her and order him to lie to her.

Raine Wilson and Mindy Kaling don't seem to tweet more than once a day or so, Ricky Gervais, on the other hand, appears to need to share each time he ties his shoes, talks to anyone, puts anything in his mouth or relieves himself.

Day 4
I acquire a new follower name Robert. He seems normal at first, but in his bio he writes that he's a "lover of surgical blades" and knows which type of blade works best on which body part. I start researching how to get rid of your followers.

Day 5
Vicky tweets she's not sure if death has any meaning and wonders if life is passing her by.

Ricky Gervais tweets that he can beat his wife in a game of "Knob or Bullocks." I try to figure out if there's an American version of that game and how one wins in it and if one should ever actually strive to win in this game. I'm still pondering what it means that Mr. Gervais is able to beat his wife.

Day 6
Robert decides I'm too boring and and stops following me on his own. I sigh with relief.

Day 7
I call my friend. "I don't get this Twitter thing," I whine. "I'm followed by porn stars and serial killers. I now know way too much about people I've never met and I can't get a complete thought into 140 characters. What's the point of it?"

"Tell your friends you're on there. They'll follow you and know what you're up to," she says.

"I tell them what I'm up to when I see them or they know through facebook, email, or over the phone," I reply.

"You sound like my mother," she laughs, "she's 76."

"Well, I went on there to keep an eye on my son, maybe I should stick to that."
"Yes," she agrees, "stick to that."

The One About the X Factor and Being Thankful.

A few weeks ago, on a quiet evening, my son and I decided to check out Simon Cowell’s new British import called the X Factor, a show Mr. Cowell claims is NOTHING like American Idol. And it’s not! Well, except it also has desperate singers competing for a recording contract and snarky judges who ooh and ahh over some performers and bury the dreams of everyone else. And everyone cries. And the contestants are slowly eliminated. And there’s Paula Abdul sipping whiskey out of her opaque Pepsi glass. Ok, it’s exactly like American Idol. 

Anyway, on the show one of the contestants was a cute and wildly talented 13 year old girl. When asked what she would do if she won the $5 million, she replied that there were 4 people in her family, all living in the same house and she didn’t have her own bathroom. If she won, she would quickly remedy this calamity. Another contestant was an equally cute and talented 19 year old boy. When asked the same question, he tearfully told all of America that his life has not been an easy one. Due to financial hardships, his family of 7 was forced to live in a 3 bedroom house. If he won, his plan was also to move on to a bigger home.

Hmmm… where to even begin? I could talk about 3^rd world countries where extended families are often crammed into one room shacks with no heat or running water. I could mention the places where corrugated tin makes up the walls of rickety lean-tos where people sleep along with their animals every night. Places where shade is the only air conditioning and clean water is a luxury. I’ve seen these places – usually on television, or in magazines or out of windows of a bus speeding to take me to a resort somewhere where guards patrol outside the tall iron gates with machine guns in order to keep the residents in a happy, undisturbed vacation fantasy land. I could mention all that, but instead, let me tell you what I know first hand.  

I was born in the former Soviet Union when Communism still raged and the Iron Curtain hung undisturbed. At the time I was an only child. My parents and I lived in a one bedroom apartment in a high-rise building by a river. Yes, all 3 of us in a one bedroom apartment – living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. We were not poor. No one felt sorry for us. Both of my parents worked. We were comfortably middle class. AND… we had boarders! Not all the time, but fairly regularly. Sometimes one, sometimes two, usually university students needing a place to live for a while. They slept on cots in the living room and kept their stuff in the corner by the window. Sometimes they took study breaks and played with me in the evenings. It was great. We all had to share the same living space. No one ever considered having their own bathroom.

Apartments and sometimes single family homes, although not many lived in those, were described by the number of rooms they had, excluding the kitchen and bathroom, not the number of bedrooms. Our one bedroom apartment was called a two room apartment and considered roomy enough for a 3 person family plus an occasional boarder. A three bedroom house, like the one described by the boy on the X Factor, most likely had a living room and a family room and possibly a formal dining room, thus by Soviet standards it was a 5 or 6 room home and downright palatial.

Don’t get me wrong though, I’m not putting down the contestants from the X Factor. After living in the United States for over three decades I completely understand their point of view. Seven people in a three bedroom house? That’s terrible! What if someone has to share a room with a snorer? How will they find any peace at night?  Sharing a bathroom? What?! The mere idea fills me with dread. I understand them and for that I’m grateful. Yes, we have our own problems. There is homelessness and poverty in the US too, but overall we live in a country where the majority of the population has a roof over their heads and clean water and electricity and few have to wedge themselves between their pig and their goat to keep warm at night.  With another Thanksgiving quickly approaching, I’m reminded to be thankful for all I have - for my family, for my friends, for my home, for having my own bathroom and for never having to sleep with goat to keep warm.