Sweet tweets.

I’m lost on Twitter. I have an account I don’t use. I don’t know where I am in the Twittersphere, but apparently I follow 18 people (none of whom I know). Three people follow me, though I’m not aware that I go anywhere.

There’s been little motivation for me to get active on Twitter. My cell phone is not smart: it’s the brick given free upon signing the service contract. It doesn’t run apps and it certainly doesn’t tweet. I also have no interest in the location or thoughts of the 18 strangers I follow.

Twitter was the first sign that I’m slowing down as technology speeds up, and I may never catch up. That I might be left out and behind didn’t disturb me too much. I lead a full life even without a Wii or Angry Birds.

Everything changed when Pecoraro’s began to sell out of its muffins and cookies early in the mornings. Pecoraro’s Bakery has been selling bread in my area since 1923, but the sweet baked goods are a recent addition that have had me hooked. Limited quantities are available only in the mornings on certain days, but I had an in: Teddy, the guy who’s been behind the counter at Pecoraro’s probably since 1923.

Teddy’s old enough to consider me still young and cute, and calls me “honey”. So every Sunday morning, I stop at Pecoraro’s and chit-chat with Teddy. He undercharges me for the bread loaves I buy, and gives me the low-down on what days the muffins and cookies will be available for the upcoming week.

“See you Tuesday, honey,” he calls out as the bell rings on the door closing behind me.

I would show up any day those sweet baked goods are available. Teddy knows it and we both benefit from our unspoken deal: I stroke Teddy’s ego with my young-ish female company, and he holds cookies (chocolate chip, not oatmeal raisin) and muffins (blueberry, not chocolate chip), fresh and warm, behind the counter for me. Until the morning I arrived and there were no sweets.

“We sold out, honey,” Teddy shrugged.

Even for me? I thought.

I let it slide without a fuss that one time. Three times is different.

I was sugar- and sleep-deprived one early morning as I arrived at Pecoraro’s. A group of the edgy hipster types new to the neighborhood walked out past me, each with a bag.

“Oh honey, you just missed out,” Teddy said when I entered.

“You didn’t save me any?” I asked, trying to control the quiver in my voice and the urge to lunge over the counter at Teddy.

“Well, there’s one muffin…” he began.

“But it’s chocolate chip!” I cried.

“Okay, okay, look, some cookies…”

“I don’t like oatmeal! And they’re broken!!”

“Honey, that’s all we got.”

I thought I would cry. Didn’t Teddy understand we had an understanding? The disappointment and desperation on my face moved him. What he said next stunned me.

“Honey, you should follow us on Twitter.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, Twitter? We tweet as soon as the cookies and muffins come outta the oven.”

I saw the future at that moment, and it was filled with skinny-jeans wearing-twits eating my goodies.


“I’ll never get cookies or muffins again because my phone is too dumb to get tweets!” I wailed to my husband B when I returned home.

“Uh, and you tawt you taw a puddy tat?” he replied from behind the sports section.

“Aargh, I’m SEER. REE. US!” I said with the intensity of an addict.

I explained how Teddy had broken our deal and my heart, and tweeting 20-somethings were enjoying my treats.

“But no one cares about an uncool 40-year-old grad student,” I continued in the spotlight of my melodrama. “I might as well eat apple sauce while I sit by my silent rotary phone.”

“Wear a bib in case you dribble,” B replied.

I was possibly having a mid-life crisis or sugar withdrawal, and B was focused on the Mets. I was drenched in sweat and wondered if I needed hormones or cookies.

“Here’s an idea,” B said, and finally lowered the paper.


“How about you use your dumb phone to call your boyfriend Teddy in the mornings and ask him to reserve you some cookies and muffins when they’re done? You’ll know what you’ll get and what time to get there.”

A voice-to-voice exchange via telephone. Could the solution be that simple? It was brilliant.

“Well, maybe that could work,” I hesitated.

B rolled his eyes and raised the newspaper again.

As I’ve mentioned: I’m a writer. B is an attorney. We’re both stubborn. I want to have my cake and the last word, too.

I went online to get Pecoraro’s phone number. I wanted to call as soon as they opened at 7 am to reserve muffins (two blueberry) and cookies (a half-dozen mix of chocolate chip and B’s preferred oatmeal raisin).

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