The other day my administrative assistant, Momma, was updating our Twitter accounts. She wanted to make her profile more crisp and cool sounding like some of her right-wing friends who she has been following. She also wanted to change her photo to one from this decade and maybe add some “with it” hashtag phrases. And she thought, while she was at it, she’d tweak mine a bit, too.
First, she changed my banner picture to showcase my agility expertise, and then moved on to my account settings. Everything appeared to be in order (an exceptionally cute picture of me, a fun bio highlighting my accomplishments, etc.), except that she had previously neglected to fill out my birth date. Well, that’s a simple fix, thought my assistant, and she typed in August 27, 2014 (birthday coming right up!). Next she clicked on save, proud of her technical abilities. Except that when she clicked on save, she got a message crisply informing her that I was now locked out of my account!
A bit of panic ensued in Momma’s mind. Had she/I been cancelled? Didn’t Twitter realize (and Momma is convinced Twitter fact checkers read my blog) that I am a dyed-in-the-fur Democrat? And it’s your account after all, Lina, Momma exclaimed, arguments to get us unlocked already fluttering around in her head.
Turns out, it was a bit of a false alarm. The next message told her that one must be thirteen years old to even have a Twitter account. (And apparently, Twitter doesn’t know how to count in dog years. Just woofin’.) Well, it took a bit of fancy paw work, but Momma was able to resolve the problem using her own birthdate (no lockout there) and Twitter reinstated my account. Whew! I’ve lived to Tweet another day.