Twitter is particularly weird because many, if not most, of the people you follow and who follow you are strangers in real life, yet relationships can form nonetheless.
I once went out with a guy I met on Twitter. He was a writer and teacher in South Dakota. He came to New York and we went out for oysters and cocktails, then we hugged good-bye and never saw each other again.
It’s a strange and wonderful world, folks.
My Twitter following is small enough that I notice my notifications when someone retweets or likes my tweet. It’s a small thing, but it makes me happy. It almost makes me happier when a stranger likes it because the approval feels more earned.
The Holy Grail of Twitter is tweeting some observation that is so apt or witty or hilarious it goes viral.
That’s like being made Prom King or Queen of Twitter.
The nadir of Twitter is going viral for saying something awful or stupid or offensive.
That’s the pig’s blood getting dumped on your head.
But the elusive promise of gaining a swell of popularity among strangers is why people get themselves into such trouble on Twitter.
All of these noncomics showing up at a dangerously open mic, desperate for laughs.
We think we’re Chris Rock, but too many of us are Carrot Top.
Point is, these strange, fragile online connections matter to us.
So @WildBluePress bewildered me with its follows and unfollows, adding me to lists and taking me off them.
I’ve dated men with fewer intimacy issues.
And much like I respond with men, it made me try harder.
I assumed it was my fault. I would try to be more interesting and retweet fewer cheesy baby-animal pictures—or more baby-animal pictures, tell me what you want, @WildBluePress!
All the Wi-Fi access in the world, but no communication.
I never unfollowed @WildBluePress, to prove my loyalty.
I’m here for you when you’re ready to let down your walls.
But when the account’s behavior seemed truly random, I had a terrible thought?
Is it a bot?
I have heard of Twitterbots, robot accounts programmed with automatic posts, or set to automatically follow and engage with users that fit certain criteria. But I thought all bots and spam accounts had sexy-girl avatars and repetitive offers to “make money working from home!”
All this time, I was feeling my heart lift at my latest notification from you, but was I being played for a fool?
I feel so betrayed, I feel a country song coming on: Your retweets meant nothing.
Your red hearts, untrue.
How could you do it, Wild Blue?
I still don’t really know. I can’t bring myself to ask directly. To know might hurt too much.
So, @WildBluePress, if you’re reading this, I’m not like the other authors you follow.
I care.
Please follow me back.
And stay.
Built Ford Tough
Lisa
Everybody talks about how men love cars.
But so do women.
Especially this woman.
I even love trucks.
I know you’re surprised. You thought I was a highly cultured member of the literati.
Oh, wait. You didn’t think that?
Good.
Because what I really am is a lady who writes books for a living and lives on a farm with a bunch of crazy animals—Cavalier King Charles spaniels, cats, chickens, and horses, plus one incontinent corgi, which is a different species altogether.
By the way, if that sounds great to you, it absolutely is. It’s my life’s dream, made possible by the support of my beloved readers, and believe me when I tell you that I thank God for you, every day.
No kidding.
And the best thing about living on a farm is that it gives me an excuse to drive a truck. And not only that, but it’s a very butch truck, which might be redundant.
It’s a cherry-red Ford F-150 with a ?-ton engine, which is powerful enough to pull a horse trailer or get me to the library.
I have to tell you, it’s fun to drive around in a truck, feeling big, powerful, and generally manly. I fill its tank with gas and testosterone.
I like knowing that I can move anything I have to, and I love lending it to people when they need a truck. Because I have a truck, and I can do anything!
People always say to me, you have a truck?
I nod happily. You can have a truck, a brain, and ovaries—all at the same time.
They’re not mutually exclusive.
Plus my truck has a snowplow on the front and a dump bed in the back, which makes it more fun to play with. It’s cool to press a button to dump things out, especially if it’s a load of horse manure.
Are you completely disillusioned yet?
And I never have more fun than when I’m plowing snow from my driveway in wintertime, with the radio blasting and a hot cup of coffee fogging up the windows. I will never forget the year when I got carried away and ended up plowing my whole street.
Nothing will make you feel as unstoppable as a snowplow.
I promise, you’ll end up praying for snow.
Sometimes I think that driving a truck is empowerment on wheels.
Again, not even kidding.
Maybe you’re secure enough and you don’t need it, but I do. From time to time, I need to be reminded that I have strength and power, especially when there are setbacks. The world throws us curveballs. A friend falls ill. Somebody breaks your heart. You don’t get the job you wanted.
Life can be hard and unfair, and you have to persevere.
Whenever I need bucking up, I truck up.
I take a drive around the block.
It’s a way to remind my body what powerful feels like, and even though it’s external, swathing me in Ford-tough military-grade steel, I can recall that feeling later, like muscle memory.
I feel the same way when I ride a horse. I’m sure there’s not a woman in the world who doesn’t stand a little taller after she gets out of a truck or off a horse.
And if you haven’t had those experiences, I bet you feel that way after you work out or go for a run. Or after yoga.
Or after whatever you do to remind yourself that you’re stronger than you think.
I’m thinking about trucks now because mine is now fifteen years old and needs to be replaced. It’s dripping gunk and doing other undesirable things, and I’m going to miss it. But it gives me the chance to go truck-shopping, which for this girl, is almost as much fun as shoe-shopping.
Trucks are high heels with four-wheel drive.
So here’s my advice, when the going gets rough.
Do whatever it takes to make you stand taller.
And go forward.
Women are built Ford tough.
Weeding
Lisa
You probably have heard by now that in this past election, California, Massachusetts, Nevada, and Maine legalized the recreational use of marijuana.
Are you moving?
From or to?
When I found out, I was jealous, mainly because everybody’s about to become a better gardener than I am.
They grow weed, and I only grow weeds.
This is where you find out how boring a person I am, because the truth is, I never even tried marijuana.
Or, as we called it back in college, dope.
I know it’s not called that anymore.
Now when something is dope, it’s good.
And when something is sick, it’s awesome.
Ask me anything. I’m an expert on outdated slang.