I have a confession to make: I have no idea why I’m on Twitter.
First, it seems kind of pointless. Second, it’s hard coming up with a catchy line. Increasingly I find myself embarrassed by the asinine ideas I have for twats, I mean tweets. Why I think anyone would care about my striped socks or Thomas the Train phobia or the fact that I just drank a glass of water is beyond me.
And the Twitten’ crowd is intimidating. Everyone seems to be abnormally attractive. I don’t know if it’s because everyone went and got their photos taken at Glamour Shots or if Twitter has some kind of hotness policy I missed in the fine print, but I find it unnerving. (If there is a cuteness pre-req, I’m not sure how my angry cartoon woman got in. Maybe the bar is lower for drawn people.)
Anyway, all of this got me thinking about:
a) how I want to break up with Twitter and
b) how even though I know what so many blog people look like, no one knows what I look like. And that’s not fair now, is it?
But what to do? Out myself? Hell no. There was only one option: meld together all the "hey you look just like..." comments I've gotten over the years and put together a composite just for you.
So, um, voila. According to other people, this is what I look like:
Mary Poppins meets Orphan Annie meets Tina Fey meets romance novel cover woman. Aren't I fine?
I'll break it down for you. The Mary Poppins comment happened this night. I hear Tina Fey all the time because I wear glasses and sometimes snarl at people.
I got Orphan Annied after my boss hired me. She told me she’d always wanted to work with someone who looked like Little Orphan Annie. (It was humid the day of my interview and my hair curled up, but that’s all I have in common with a 10-year-old with freckles—thanks.)
I got the wench comment pre-Junior, when a man at a bar told me I looked like a woman who belonged on the cover of a romance novel. I’m still not sure what that means, as I’d left my billowing frocks at home and I’d yet to cling to a rippling man with my I’m-saying-no-but-my-eyes-and-bountiful-cleavage-are-saying-yes expression (if you’re looking for that in a lipstick try Nars’ Fire Down Below).
So there you have it. I really hope if you see me on the street you'll say hi and not call the authorities (you didn't know Mary liked Cardinals on her shoulder best, did you?).
P.S. Is it just me or is it absolute kismet that I found a romance novel with the word mullet in it? Special thanks to the other Mary for writing this incredible Tour de Loins.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.