Because I was too lazy to put on my reading glasses, and it was night time,  I had difficulties  trying to post a “selfie”  on Facebook of moi in Central Park (a “selfie” being one of those narcissistic self portraits documenting our every move, and now officially recognized as a new word of the year by Oxford Dictionaries). By accident I pressed some function on my twitter account(hey the icons are both blue and white) and managed to invite all of my contacts that have ever existed to follow my tweets,  even if I’ve deleted them years ago.

Over the last week I’ve been getting back these apologetic responses from old uncles and long lost friends, politely declining the tweeting invite.

The sad thing is, I really don’t tweet or even know what to tweet. And  even if I did no one would notice cause I’m not that famous.  Certainly not famous like Richard Branson or Sarah Silverman, who are the only tweets I follow. But a weekend ago, I felt pretty famous, and I didn’t even need to tweet.

Visiting my daughter in New York last weekend, a city that I adore, but where I normally feel anonymous- I experienced hoards of attention. No, it wasn’t because of my good looks or tall stature, or magnetic personality. I thought maybe it was because of my cool new cowboy boots I was wearing at the time, but this was a feeling of fame on a whole other level.

Whenever I’m in the States I’m often asked “where are y’all from?”- probably because of my British sounding Canadian accent  and the way I say “about” . Most times,  when I answer “Toronto”, a blank look usually comes over their face. And then, I usually need to elaborate with  “Canada”, and then, they finally get it.

But this time,  when I handed over my credit card to pay for my  yummy kimchi and tofu in  Korea Town,  or after sharing a bottle of wine with my 23 year-old and her fourteen girlfriends at Leonard Joseph, a very chill bar in the East Village,   I got an immediate reaction to my “ Toronto” answer, sans the “Canada”.  An all knowing smirk appeared on the servers’ faces, with a simple utterance,   “Oh Toronto”, followed by one liners about Rob Ford: “ What’s with your mayor?”  “How embarrassing is it for you!” “Heard he eats well at home”.

Even the Immigration officer at the airport, scanning my passport before security check, had a great chuckle- “Some mayor you’ve got there” followed by a wink.

And if I wasn’t embarrassed enough, he let out an exaggerated “eh?” which sent the long line of travelers behind me buckling over their suitcases with a contagion of giggles.

But I kind of liked the attention. And the fame.  Maybe Rob Ford likes it too, in some weird twisted way. Either way, this whole Ford Fiasco, has got me thinking about  fame.

I admit to getting crazy about celebrity sightings. Meg Ryan passed me by once in the streets of New York, and even though I didn’t fully recognize her because of all the work she’s had done, and some passerby had to point her out to me,  I still shrieked at the top of my lungs.

I’m also ecstatic when when 30 or more people “Like” my photo or make  a comment. Don’t we all? I purposely insert provocative thumbnail photos when I post my blog to entice more followers. I get even more delirious when people send me an email about something I’ve written.

But what I realized on American soil, as my daughter proudly paraded me around Brooklyn, booked me for meet ups with her friends in Chelsea for lunch, or in midtown for amazing Japanese at Robataya, and while having tea in her teenie apartment bedroom with her roomies, is that I’m just plain happy being known as Deena’s “mom”.

That’s the kind of fame I’m really after.