Whenever I go home, I see that my family barely knows how to operate our DVD player, can't yet figure out how to install wireless and thinks tamagachis are still tech-savvy. I try to teach my family all I can about iPods, laptops and youthfulness in general. But sometimes, it's not enough to walk them through an instructional booklet or show them how to log on to a website. Sometimes you need to teach them a lesson by being completely and utterly inappropriate.
""Do you TWAT?"" my grandmother recently asked me on the phone during our ritual weekly phone call.
I was feeling particularly vengeful toward my grandma, despite my usual love and fondness for her grumpiness and her unusual partiality toward spotless cleanliness. I recently went home and saw her for lunch, and during that one hour, she sent back her chopped salad three times, asked the waiter for 3?4 cup of plain vinegar, and declared the pepper ""too peppery."" This was all too embarrassing for me, and it likely resulted in her mixed greens having an extra sprinkling of urine, a dash of phlegm and quite possibly a touch of feces.
""What?"" I asked just to clarify. ""Do I twat?""
""Yes. I'm thinking of twatting myself.""
This was a horrifying image, an image that still burns my brain when I lie awake at night.
I suppressed my laughter despite the fact that my grandmother just unknowingly used a vulgar term for the word ""vagina."" This is a woman who goes to church almost daily, opens her own bathroom door with a paper towel and yells at people in public bathrooms if they don't wash their hands. I imagine her sitting on the computer, as she Urban Dictionaries ""twat,"" her recently anti-bacterial lemon-scented hands covering her mouth in horror. I don't think I've ever heard her even say vagina. I think she calls that kind of thing ""the princess privates.""
""Twat? Do you even know what that is?""
""Yeah,"" she said. ""I saw it on ‘The O'Reilly Factor.' I tell you that Bill O'Reilly is a genius, so sharp. Are you on Twatter? Because all the kids these days are.""
""No, I don't have a Twat."" This game was too fun not to play. ""But I know a lot of people who are fond of Twats.""
""I thought all the kids were Twatting.""
""No,"" I said. ""I'd guess about 50 percent of the population have a Twatter account. You know, the better half.""
""Oh.""
""Can you just say Twat again?""
""Twat.""
""One more time. I just wanna make sure you're saying it right.""
""Twat.""
""Put a little more emphasis in the W.""
""Tw-att.""
""That's right. You're so hip, Grams, you should definitely ask Jim if he Twats next time he comes over. To show him, you know, what's up,"" I said, referring to the young handyman in my grandma's condo complex that comes around to help hang pictures and unclog toilets.
We finished our conversation, and she promised to call me next week. I assure her that I will sign up for Twatter and do, if only so I can use the verb ""twat.""
A week later, my aunt from Atlanta called to check on me. Do you have a job? Do you have a boyfriend yet?
""No, I don't have a boyfriend. Guys suck,"" I say in gruff voice, thinking of one particular boy with beautiful blue eyes who has about as much personality as a pizza cutter and is less useful.
""Do you like girls?"" my aunt asked me, after a particularly bitter answer on my end concerning my relationship status.
Though I'm offended by her comment, I think of the cool lesbian who works at Trader Joe's and decide I won't give my prying aunt peace of mind by saying that I don't prefer the ladies.
""Yes,"" I say, pausing for the sake of dramatics. ""I've actually recently signed up for Twatter. Check it out and I'm sure you'll see where I'm coming from.""
If you'd like to see my Twats, e-mail me at aaspencer@wisc.edu or follow me at GETitAspencer.
