I am not technologically savvy. I was introduced to the internet in 1998 long after Gore invented it.[i] A professor forced me use a Blackboard-esque program to “chat” with my peers. (Yes, in my world, the threat of a grade deduction is equivalent to brute force). Later, there was the issue of research. It was either Dewey Decimal System and the card catalogue, or get Yahoorific real fast.

Because libraries have always plagued me with the sensation that I need to pee (it’s hereditary, right sis?), I chose the latter. I found myself quickly ensnared in the sticky strings of world wide web, unsure how to navigate out of a paper sack let alone a site riddled with hypertext. There was just too much “out there,” and my spatially challenged self had trouble coping. (I still swear up and down that if you throw a tennis ball in the air while inside a vehicle traveling 70 mph, the ball will hit you in the face. This just makes sense.)

I’ve made some pretty significant technological strides in 11 years, but like the other white 30-somethings who still think it appropriate to say “Snap!” and “Boo-Yah!,” I’m a lot behind the times.

I email. I Facebook. I Skype. Limitedly. I will not accept your virtual hug or drink, nor will I futz around with FarmVille. I don’t like hugs, I have a drink right here in my hand and I need to weed my own yard before I concern myself with the tidiness of an imaginary one. In spite of these limitations, I’ve somehow managed to create a Blog (hello, grace of God). I also purchased a nice little piece of virtual real estate called www.andreagoto.com. 

I was just getting relatively comfortable in the virtual world when my recent professor assigned me the task of following celebrities on Twitter to study how they promote themselves. Like the virtual hugs and toasts, I made a personal vow to never “tweet.” If they called it “toot” I may be tempted only because it sounds more definitive, more structurally sound, more important than tweeting. But I liken tweeting to how new moms enthusiastically share their babies every breath, hiccup and bowel movement. You may think it’s interesting, but ultimately no one wants to watch a 20-minute video of your 9-month-old sitting in her exersaucer. In spite of what you may believe, she’s not doing anything interesting. In fact, she’s not doing anything at all (I realize this now, and I’m sorry). Most of those tweeters aren’t doing anything of any consequence, or even thinking about anything of any consequence.

And what’s with all the urgency? What’s the preoccupation with knowing what someone else is doing at this moment?  Spur of the moment revelations are rarely good. People should edit more and editorialize less. And here’s a news flash: Tweeters pretend to be in the present, but they’re never actually doing what they say they are. Kim Kardashian is asking her followers what she and Reggie should be for Halloween?  No you’re not, Kim, you’re typing on your damn phone. And why would I care about their costumes? It’s not like we’re going to wind up at the same party wearing the same thing. I know Kim doesn’t really care what I think; she’s just trying to make people feel like they matter, like they’re her friends. In a very sad and pathetic way, that’s nice.

I already have 173 Facebook friends, Kim. Clearly this cup runneth over. Word.

There’s also the problem of reading tweets. The entries look as if they were composed using Wingdings. Unless you’re Dan Brown or an alien, use the King’s English will you? (Miley Cyrus is, in fact, an alien, but she gave up on Twitter so there’s really no excuse for the rest of us).

So I’ve been down on Twitter, underwhelmed by what I’ve found. I’m even beginging to miss my friends’ videos of their children doing cute and adorable stuff, like lying there, staring up at the ceiling fan and gurgling.

That is, until today.

I’m clipping coupons from a mailer and I notice with both horror and fascination that Papa John’s Pizza has been twitterfied. Thinking this discovery could beak the Twitter monotony of Spencer Pratt posting “show me the money” and trying to take credit for inventing the term douchebag (you may be the prototype, Spencer, but someone else gave you the name), I immediately log on.

I’m hoping for “Just put a scab on Spencer’s pepperoni,” or “Just delivered a meat lover’s to PETA.” Instead I get post upon post of deals of the week, day, month, blah, blah, blah. But then, buried among the myriad of specials lives this one teeny-tiny tweet–barely a chirp, but nonetheless it filled me with hope and laughter:

“Enjoy hump day with a deal from your PAPA!”

Boo-Yah.

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[i] I adore how my husband’s nostrils flare into quarter-sized black holes when I say stuff like this. I wonder if I could fit in there?