Explaining relationships formed through blogging, to people that don’t blog, can be touchy. Many don’t get it – they don’t understand how a complete stranger can become a dear friend.
Even with the boom in online dating and social networking sites, there’s still a stigma attached to internet-born relationships – especially, for some reason, in relation to blogs. It’s oddly more acceptable to jet off to meet a friend of a friend of a friend on Facebook, than it is to spend time with a person whose life you’ve been reading and commenting on for years. Blogging, for me, is far more personal than a daily status update and a handful of pouty faced photos.
I’ve trusted a few close friends, that I knew would understand or at least be accepting, with the truth about my online dealings. Some read my blog and some only know about it, but what they all have in common is that they realize the relationships I’ve made here are no less valid than ours. Different, but no less valid. The ones that read it see it first hand – in how comfortable I am being honest and in the way people respond in the comments: relating to my current situation, being compassionate whether they understand or not, laughing with me or simply letting me know they stopped by. The ones that don’t read it simply know that it makes me happy, and that’s good enough for them.
I’ve been writing here for over six years and I’ve made a lot of friends, but up until two weeks ago I’d never physically met any of them. I’d made plans on several occasions, but for one reason or another they always fell apart. This year I was determined to make it happen and with some long overdue luck, a no nonsense attitude and the help of my completely oblivious father’s yearly gift of a plane ticket...I met three amazing people.
The first was Jerrod, who writes the blog Breaking Awkward (some of you may be more familiar with his old blog title, The Yellow Factor).
We’ve been friends for a little over two and a half years now – talking so frequently that he became one of those people I contact immediately when something notably good or bad happens. I don’t remember who found who first, but we began good-naturedly insulting each other and the rest, as they say, is history.
Jerrod just so happens to live in Oklahoma a half hour away from my stepfamily, who I visit every summer. After weeks of planning it was decided that we’d not only hang out while I was in town, but we’d also take a weekend trip to Kansas City to visit another blogger, Paige.
However, just because the plans seemed to make themselves and everything was already arranged, from the hotel to the road trip play list, doesn’t mean the execution was entirely easy.
See, the only person that knew I hadn’t actually met Jerrod was my sister...and she was sworn to secrecy in order to avoid rioting. I knew that none of them, especially dad, would understand or approve. All they were told, before I got there, was that I’d be spending a weekend in Kansas City with friends and bumming around Oklahoma City with them too. And, before I got there, dad was completely fine with it. He didn’t press me for details.
We went straight to sleep when we arrived at their house around 1am Thursday morning. I was supposed to meet Jerrod Thursday night and had arranged for my stepsister to drop me off in the city. But that afternoon my dad suddenly decided that I was 12, not 26, and I wouldn’t be going off for the weekend with someone he didn’t know...especially a man.
We were sitting on the patio glaring and occasionally shouting at each other, neither of us willing to concede defeat, until he pointed out the obvious.
“I’ll be taking you into the city to meet this motherfucker and if you don’t like it, you can stay your ass here...where he’ll have to come get you and then I still meet him. Period.”
Poor Jerrod was going to meet the infamous Jimmy, whether either of us liked it or not.
I was terrified and, knowing Jerrod, I was positive he would be too. I’d long since gathered that he isn’t used to people like Jimmy.
I’ve only ever introduced three men to my dad, with embarrassing results, and though Jerrod wasn’t a boyfriend the scenario actually seemed worse to me because we’d never met before. I didn’t picture my first blogger meeting including my drunk, obnoxious father telling stories about his dick.
But that’s exactly how it went down.
He rushed me out the door that evening, interrupting my makeup routine every few minutes and making me furious in the process, because he had to drop off some air conditioners (don’t ask, I don’t know) at his “brother’s” house. I made my sister come along because she’s usually a calming influence, but he’d been hitting The Crown all afternoon and there was no controlling him.
He spent the ride to his “brother’s” deliberately scaring the shit out of me by telling me the horrible things he was going to ask Jerrod and by insisting that he wouldn’t meet him anywhere but at a biker bar called VictimZ. Yeah, Victims with a fucking Z.
“Tell him to get his ass in there and have me a beer waitin’.”
Of course I didn’t. It was bad enough I actually had to type out the name to that ridiculous biker bar and have Jerrod reply with, “I put VictimZ in and Google maps laughed at me.” I was mortified.
When we pulled up to drop off the stupid air conditioners, he made us get out of the truck to meet the guy. He was about seven feet tall, wearing overalls with no shirt and had a bandana wrapped around his long hair. After unloading the cargo, they immediately started laughing and punching each other in the sides like children.
“C’mon man”, dad said while jabbing at him repeatedly. “Ride with us! My daughter comes down here to visit me, then thinks she’s going to take the off to Kansas City with some motherfucker I haven’t met! Oh hell no. I told her to have him meet us at VictimZ.”
His brother stared at him for a moment and then, to my absolute horror, they both burst out laughing. “Oh shit”, the guy said, looking at me with a mix of pity and amusement.
“Aw, I’m not going to help embarrass your daughter, Jimbo”, he said.
But dad talked him into getting in the truck anyway. I sat in the backseat with my sister, silently panicking.
When we pulled into the parking lot fifteen minutes later, I saw Jerrod’s car across the street. Dad didn’t even look around – when I hopped out he locked my things in the car so I couldn’t leave until he allowed it, and they immediately disappeared around back into the “beer garden”.
I waved at Jerrod, who was still hiding in his car across the street (not that I blame him), and he drove over. I walked around to the driver’s side, he got out and that’s how we first set eyes on each other. In the parking lot of a rundown biker bar with my father waiting for him in a beer garden, which was actually nothing more than a dirt-packed backyard with big wooden spool tables and rusted chairs made of scrap metal.
He looked worried, but accepted my apology for the oddness of our first meeting and followed me around the corner. Dad’s brother had parked himself at a table a respectable distance away with my sister, who wasn’t allowed in the bar.
“Where’s dad”, I asked.
“He went in for beer.”
A moment later he came wandering out the door with an evil grin on his face, clutching a bucket of beer. I introduced them, watching as my 5’7 father looked up at Jerrod and shook his hand...and it was apparent by the flash of tendons that he was squeezing the shit out of him.
“Drink a beer with me”, he said, shoving one into his hands.
I reached for one myself, twisted off the top and turned it straight up.
Then other than a few “motherfuckers” (in reference to other people this time, not Jerrod), a few embarrassing remarks and a demand to know if Jerrod could “fight”, they proceeded to have a relatively normal conversation. They talked about what they did for a living and where they lived and how long they’d been there. But even so, I knew my dad and I was going to be keyed up until we got out of there.
Jerrod, who was apparently no longer worried, laughed at me for being so visibly nervous, sucking down the beer and lighting a cigarette when I’d planned on not smoking at all. “Relax”, he said.
And I’d just about managed it because we’d finished our beers and I felt as though escape was just around the corner.
But no – dad insisted that we weren’t going anywhere until we went inside and met his other “brothers”. Apparently they’re all in the same biker gang or something – they wear one spur on one boot or some such nonsense so they recognize that they’re “related”.
As we both trailed reluctantly behind dad Jerrod said, “I thought you said we didn’t have to go in...”
“Sorry”, I mumbled, “I didn’t think we would.”
The ceiling was completely covered in bras, except for a small square of removable tile where a stripper pole was shoved inexpertly through a jagged hole.
“I put the pole in”, dad told Jerrod proudly. I shook my head and sighed.
He tried to call over a long haired old man that was absorbed in some sort of game, but the guy was taking his time. There were a few tables of degenerates (mostly really ugly women) that were giving us the stink eye. I wasn’t sure if they were simply unfriendly or plotting to kill me and take off with my Coach bag.
While we waited for the old guy to grace us with his presence, dad decided to tell Jerrod a lovely little story.
“This is my hangout, man. One time I got so drunk that this woman drew a smiley face on the head of my dick and I didn’t even know it. She called my wife and told her she did it, so when I got home she said, ‘You’re not getting in this bed like that with a smiley face on your dick!’ I woke up the next morning and was like, shit, man!”
“Dad! That’s enough! Don’t ever talk about your dick in front of me again. Ever.”
They both laughed and I glared at Jerrod. “Don’t encourage him.”
The old guy chose that moment to make his way over and we were introduced, though I can’t remember his name, and he hugged me uninvited...as all dad’s weirdo friends seem to do.
“This is my daughter’s boyfriend”, dad said, launching into his complaint about me taking off for the weekend again.
“He’s not my boyfriend”, I interjected, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment.
They all ignored me and dad launched into his dick story again for the benefit of our new companion. “Hey remember the time...”
“Yep”, old guy said, “it was my old lady that did it.”
I was close to hyperventilating at that point and, thankfully, none of dad’s other friends seemed to be there so he was ready to go. We were finally off the hook.
We said our goodbyes at the truck, with Leigha sitting unhappily in the driver’s seat ready to cart dad and his friend off to “church”, which is what his biker group calls sitting around drinking and talking about their penises.
As I climbed in the passenger side of Jerrod’s car, dad may have said something to him like “take care of my girl”, but I was so relieved to be getting away that I wasn’t really paying attention.
He got in a moment later, looked at me and smiled. “It’s ok”, I think he said. My nerves were still jangling a bit as we drove away, sure that any moment he would turn around and take me back, wondering what in the hell he was doing taking off with a relative stranger whose father was a drunken biker not above breaking his kneecaps just for lifting an eyebrow the wrong way.
Instead he seemed amused by how unsettled the whole thing had made me. “I think that helped make it less awkward, don’t you?”
I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Yeah, I guess it did.”
I wasn’t entirely sure if I felt that way or not, but later, when I could laugh about it, I realized he was right. It had.
What I was sure about at that moment, though, was that there had never been a first blogger meeting even remotely similar to ours.
But maybe that was a good thing because, after all, our friendship began unconventionally. And there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blogging. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Friday, June 18, 2010
Blog-ish news and a new meme
It’s been more serious than usual around here lately, hasn’t it?
I’m one of those bloggers that, 97% of the time, doesn’t plan their posts. I’ll occasionally get an idea or write down some dialogue that I find entertaining, but generally my posts start by staring at a blank white screen. Honestly, I just start typing. Sometimes I’ll write an entire page before I figure out just what I’m working toward. Maybe that’s why I have trouble with conclusions. (There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.)
Serious posts are necessary for even the most dedicated humorist, I think. And some write in such a way that their personality and wit shine through even the most unforgiving of topics. I won’t give you examples of those bloggers – there’s no need and I've done it more than once already. Take a look at my blogroll and you’ll stumble upon one or two.
Nearly all of the posts I’ve written that I’m proud of aren’t funny at all. I find this highly amusing because I’ve never wanted to be that sort of writer. It’s easy enough to relate embarrassing stories about yourself or make fun of your surroundings. It’s a great deal harder, for me anyway, to write about more meaningful things. A lot of the serious happenings or feelings I’ve shared on this blog, I’ve never shared elsewhere. I’m a very private person in terms of emotional displays – tears, sadness, and even love. They make me uncomfortable and embarrassed.
I could delve into why I have issues with those things, but I’ll leave that for another white screen and beckoning cursor. This was merely an impromptu service announcement, a just in case you were wondering what the hell’s been going on around here sort of deal. Now it’s time for the real post.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done a meme or acknowledged an award of any kind. Please accept my apologies and gratitude if you’ve recognized me at all over the past several months. I know I’ve been a bit slack.
I’ve been wracking my brain for something lighthearted and/or disgustingly vulgar to share with ya’ll this week, but until this morning I was at a loss. It’s not that there’s been an absence of humor in my daily life; it’s just that they’ve been small things barely worth sharing. (Not to worry though. Only one more week and there should be plenty of stories to share. Beach + Birthday + 7 women = definite blog post.)
Anyway, BugginWord recently gave me this award:
Apparently I’m supposed to “list (and then explain your reasoning) 5 characters you’d like to do the horizontal whiplash with”.
I thought, “Well that shouldn’t be difficult...” Then I started looking over previous lists and realized that all these bitches sole my fictional characters. I can’t use either of my True Blood crushes, my favorite TV King of England, OR the best Scottish hero to grace a steamy romance novel. Sigh. So, I had to think a bit harder.
Then I got tired of thinking harder and trying to be all creative and just got down to business:
He’s lewd, he’s crude, and he’s filthy. Ladies (and gentlemen, if you’re into that sort of thing): He’s Captain Jack Sparrow.
Now, vast arrays of women love Johnny Depp. He’s one of the most heralded hotties to grace the big screen. But in all honesty, even though I’ve always thought he was good looking, I never really gave two shits until he played the role of the devilish Jack Sparrow.
I’m usually not attracted to hairy, dirt under their nails, manual labor type guys. But for some reason, Jack fits the “I’d tap that” bill. Even in that scraggly get up, with those horrible teeth...I’d get sand in all the wrong places for this pirate.
Savvy?
Next we have Jeremy Grey from Wedding Crashers:
I love Vince Vaughn in pretty much everything, but his character in this...yum. He’s a womanizing, fast talking bastard and it’s hot. Everything he does is ridiculously over the top, but somehow it works. There’s one scene in the beginning of the movie, where he’s talking to his secretary who suggested setting him up on a blind date, which sums it up perfectly:
“Janice, I apologize to you if I don't seem real eager to jump into a forced awkward intimate situation that people like to call dating. I don't like the feeling. You're sitting there, you're wondering do I have food on my face, am I eating, am I talking too much, are they talking enough, am I interested I'm not really interested, should I play like I'm interested but I'm not that interested but I think she might be interested but do I want to be interested but now she's not interested? So all of the sudden I'm getting, I'm starting to get interested... And when am I supposed to kiss her? Do I have to wait for the door cause then it's awkward, it's like well goodnight. Do you do like that ass-out hug? Where you like, you hug each other like this and your ass sticks out cause you're trying not to get too close or do you just go right in and kiss them on the lips or don't kiss them at all? It's very difficult trying to read the situation. And all the while you're just really wondering are we gonna get hopped up enough to make some bad decisions? Perhaps play a little game called "just the tip". Just for a second, just to see how it feels. Or, ouch, ouch you're on my hair.”
I don’t know about you guys, but that’s my kind of man. Sigh. As a matter of fact, that is me...with a penis. (Or used to me, before I got all sentimental.) And I’d totally sleep with me. You know what I mean?
Character number three is an oldie but goodie:
Dear Rhett Butler,
I give a damn. In fact, I’d give a damn all night. All.Over.Your.Face.
I’d take your money and your lovin’ and shove scrawny, broody Ashley Wilkes off a cliff. Word?
I’m sorry, but if Clark Gable doesn’t make your nips stand to attention in GWTW when he gets all shouty and angry, with a lock of that sexy hair falling over his forehead...you’re either one of two things: dead or not into men. He’s the perfect balance between naughty and nice, between sophisticated and rugged/manly. Southern charm indeed.
This next one, if you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time, will come as no surprise. (Though it may disgust a few...cough...Veg Ass...cough.)
James Spader, as the creepy E. Edward Grey in Secretary, turns – me – on. I get goosebumps every time I watch. I can’t deny that the setting, the plot, and Maggie Gyllenhaal’s sexual awakening help fan the flame of my interest, but he’s definitely the spark.
Moody, secretive, darkly funny...Weird. I’d gladly assume the position.
(On a semi-related note, his character on the TV series Boston Legal, the chauvinistic man whore Alan Shore, also does the trick.)
And last, but not least, we have a bit of a surprise twist:
I’d like to be the filling in a Diane Lane/Oliver Martinez sandwich please.
There are only a handful of women I find attractive enough to consider getting busy with, and Diane Lane’s character in Unfaithful, Connie Sumner, is one of them. Paul Martel, played by Oliver, is no slouch either. The two of them together...RAWR! I’ve already talked about this one a bit before too, so I’ll leave it at that. And, if you haven’t ever seen this movie...Go out, get it, turn off the lights, and pull the shades. You know, until it gets to the bloody part.
So that’s the list. I’m supposed to now nominate five people to do this thing and that’s a bit of a tough call because A) I hate making people feel obligated and B) I hate just saying "whoever wants to do it, do it", because if they’re like me...unless they’re specifically chosen, they won’t.
Since option A bothers me just a tad less, I suppose I’ll go that route:
Veg Ass
Sara
Erin
Jules
And the reclusive, laid up with a bum leg and surely has the time to do a meme, person that I'm about to prove doesn't read this anymore (HA!):
Jerrod
Pass if you like, bloggers, but I’d love to see your choices.
Hasta mañana.
I’m one of those bloggers that, 97% of the time, doesn’t plan their posts. I’ll occasionally get an idea or write down some dialogue that I find entertaining, but generally my posts start by staring at a blank white screen. Honestly, I just start typing. Sometimes I’ll write an entire page before I figure out just what I’m working toward. Maybe that’s why I have trouble with conclusions. (There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.)
Serious posts are necessary for even the most dedicated humorist, I think. And some write in such a way that their personality and wit shine through even the most unforgiving of topics. I won’t give you examples of those bloggers – there’s no need and I've done it more than once already. Take a look at my blogroll and you’ll stumble upon one or two.
Nearly all of the posts I’ve written that I’m proud of aren’t funny at all. I find this highly amusing because I’ve never wanted to be that sort of writer. It’s easy enough to relate embarrassing stories about yourself or make fun of your surroundings. It’s a great deal harder, for me anyway, to write about more meaningful things. A lot of the serious happenings or feelings I’ve shared on this blog, I’ve never shared elsewhere. I’m a very private person in terms of emotional displays – tears, sadness, and even love. They make me uncomfortable and embarrassed.
I could delve into why I have issues with those things, but I’ll leave that for another white screen and beckoning cursor. This was merely an impromptu service announcement, a just in case you were wondering what the hell’s been going on around here sort of deal. Now it’s time for the real post.
******
It’s been a long time since I’ve done a meme or acknowledged an award of any kind. Please accept my apologies and gratitude if you’ve recognized me at all over the past several months. I know I’ve been a bit slack.
I’ve been wracking my brain for something lighthearted and/or disgustingly vulgar to share with ya’ll this week, but until this morning I was at a loss. It’s not that there’s been an absence of humor in my daily life; it’s just that they’ve been small things barely worth sharing. (Not to worry though. Only one more week and there should be plenty of stories to share. Beach + Birthday + 7 women = definite blog post.)
Anyway, BugginWord recently gave me this award:
Apparently I’m supposed to “list (and then explain your reasoning) 5 characters you’d like to do the horizontal whiplash with”.
I thought, “Well that shouldn’t be difficult...” Then I started looking over previous lists and realized that all these bitches sole my fictional characters. I can’t use either of my True Blood crushes, my favorite TV King of England, OR the best Scottish hero to grace a steamy romance novel. Sigh. So, I had to think a bit harder.
Then I got tired of thinking harder and trying to be all creative and just got down to business:
He’s lewd, he’s crude, and he’s filthy. Ladies (and gentlemen, if you’re into that sort of thing): He’s Captain Jack Sparrow.
I’m usually not attracted to hairy, dirt under their nails, manual labor type guys. But for some reason, Jack fits the “I’d tap that” bill. Even in that scraggly get up, with those horrible teeth...I’d get sand in all the wrong places for this pirate.
Savvy?
Next we have Jeremy Grey from Wedding Crashers:
“Janice, I apologize to you if I don't seem real eager to jump into a forced awkward intimate situation that people like to call dating. I don't like the feeling. You're sitting there, you're wondering do I have food on my face, am I eating, am I talking too much, are they talking enough, am I interested I'm not really interested, should I play like I'm interested but I'm not that interested but I think she might be interested but do I want to be interested but now she's not interested? So all of the sudden I'm getting, I'm starting to get interested... And when am I supposed to kiss her? Do I have to wait for the door cause then it's awkward, it's like well goodnight. Do you do like that ass-out hug? Where you like, you hug each other like this and your ass sticks out cause you're trying not to get too close or do you just go right in and kiss them on the lips or don't kiss them at all? It's very difficult trying to read the situation. And all the while you're just really wondering are we gonna get hopped up enough to make some bad decisions? Perhaps play a little game called "just the tip". Just for a second, just to see how it feels. Or, ouch, ouch you're on my hair.”
I don’t know about you guys, but that’s my kind of man. Sigh. As a matter of fact, that is me...with a penis. (Or used to me, before I got all sentimental.) And I’d totally sleep with me. You know what I mean?
Character number three is an oldie but goodie:
I give a damn. In fact, I’d give a damn all night. All.Over.Your.Face.
I’d take your money and your lovin’ and shove scrawny, broody Ashley Wilkes off a cliff. Word?
I’m sorry, but if Clark Gable doesn’t make your nips stand to attention in GWTW when he gets all shouty and angry, with a lock of that sexy hair falling over his forehead...you’re either one of two things: dead or not into men. He’s the perfect balance between naughty and nice, between sophisticated and rugged/manly. Southern charm indeed.
This next one, if you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time, will come as no surprise. (Though it may disgust a few...cough...Veg Ass...cough.)
Moody, secretive, darkly funny...Weird. I’d gladly assume the position.
(On a semi-related note, his character on the TV series Boston Legal, the chauvinistic man whore Alan Shore, also does the trick.)
And last, but not least, we have a bit of a surprise twist:
There are only a handful of women I find attractive enough to consider getting busy with, and Diane Lane’s character in Unfaithful, Connie Sumner, is one of them. Paul Martel, played by Oliver, is no slouch either. The two of them together...RAWR! I’ve already talked about this one a bit before too, so I’ll leave it at that. And, if you haven’t ever seen this movie...Go out, get it, turn off the lights, and pull the shades. You know, until it gets to the bloody part.
So that’s the list. I’m supposed to now nominate five people to do this thing and that’s a bit of a tough call because A) I hate making people feel obligated and B) I hate just saying "whoever wants to do it, do it", because if they’re like me...unless they’re specifically chosen, they won’t.
Since option A bothers me just a tad less, I suppose I’ll go that route:
Veg Ass
Sara
Erin
Jules
And the reclusive, laid up with a bum leg and surely has the time to do a meme, person that I'm about to prove doesn't read this anymore (HA!):
Jerrod
Pass if you like, bloggers, but I’d love to see your choices.
Hasta mañana.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Keepin' it classy
I’ve been working on a blog post about my best friend since last week. I wanted it to be funny and heartwarming, with a side of “oh no she din’nt!”. At present the almost finished product is a tad sappier than I intended. And I’m currently not in the mood for sappy.
So I’ve been sitting here for a few minutes, trying to decide what I should write about. Nothing special immediately comes to mind. Unless you want to count the million little things that went on over the long weekend that couldn’t possibly produce an entire post.
Like how, on Thursday, I spent four hours banging out unnecessary reports as fast as I could because certain people around here are fucktards with a capitol Fuck. It frustrates me to no end when I know the answer to a question and no one will listen.
No one: Am I a fucktard?
Me: Why, yes. Yes you are.
No One: *silence* Anybody else? I don’t understand the Office Assistant Language. She just does what I say – doesn’t really know what’s going on, poor girl. Can anyone else tell me if I’m a fucktard? *silence* Sigh. *turns to me* Fine! Have a full report on my desk by 3pm! I want charts with lots of color and pictures of gophers fornicating!
Me: *slam, slam, slam* (head hitting desk) I’ll get right on that! *slam*
I guess I could write a long post about frustration in general, but I think I’ve gone that route before: Sexual...check. Work...check. Home...check. Friends...check. Anything with a penis...check. Yeah, frustration is so done around here.
How about an outing with my friend Megan on Friday? I could talk about that?
We went to dinner at a trendy Japanese restaurant, but for some reason it was hotter than Satan’s ballsack in there. I was wearing a dress that, once seated, didn’t cover much of my ass and after eating a bowl of stupid egg something or other soup that she talked me into getting, my legs were super glued to the goddamned seat. She was sweating, I was sweating, everyone was sweating.
And our waiter was a complete sleaze ball.
He had dark eyes and dark hair gelled into ridiculously tall spikes. He wore big silver rings on each hand (not on his ring finger) and the standard black outfit of the other servers. He had a nice face and looked to be about 30 to 32, but clearly thought he looked no older than 25. When he approached the table my first thought was, “I know that guy from somewhere...he looks really familiar”. My second was, “*squinty suspicious eyes*... didn’t I fuck him...?”
That’s me. Keepin’ it classy since 2001...ish.
He got progressively handsy as the meal wore on. By the time we were enjoying a last drink before heading for the movie, he’d gone from shoulder massaging and back rubbing to squatting at breast level and licking his lips. By then I was almost sure he was a guy named Trey that used to run with mutual friends around my town, so I asked him.
Turns out I didn’t know him after all and his familiarity with my...person was even more unwarranted than I originally suspected. Especially when he referred to my breasts as “melons”. I mean, really? Are you a waiter or a pimp browsing the flesh market? I know how hard it can sometimes be to distinguish the two, but here’s a little trick: Nice restaurant = waiter. Seedy bar/alleyway/crack whore’s house = pimp. You’re welcome.
At the movie, Sex and the City 2 in case you were wondering, we had to sit near the front. Poor Megan’s neck started to bother her from all the craning, but other than an infrequent urge to cross my eyes I was alright. The film has gotten some bad reviews, but from what I can tell (and I’ve only seen every episode ever made twice, so what do I know?) the girls are the same as they’ve always been, plus a few years, and there are some great one liners. That’s all the review you’re going to get out of me. I’m not a critic and I almost always find something to enjoy about everything I watch.
We spent the rest of our night in a bar with a bunch of men. She canoodled with her boyfriend and sucked on hot honey wings while I debated the merits of certain cell phone brands and girls that don't like their nipples bothered with a guy whose name I simply cannot remember. He accused me of trying to distract him with my cleavage and I was forced to silently forgive the waiter from earlier because referenced once, it’s their fault. Referenced twice or more, it’s clearly mine.
Still keepin’ it classy, obviously.
Alright, even that didn’t take up an entire page. Would you like to hear about how I got my hair highlighted on Saturday morning, still nice and ripe from my 4am homecoming? Or how I went home and painted my toenails and fingernails with the neon blue polish from the OPI Shrek line? Or! How about how I was so lazy that I missed out on all the boating that day and by the time I made it into my bathing suit there was no one around and I lay on the dock for 10 minutes before a storm came up and blew me away?
No? Ok.
How about this one:
On Sunday I ran into this guy at my family BBQ / lake party. I hate it when guys that say they’re going to call you and never do still look great when you see them six months later. (Note to self: Write ode to swim trunks with no lining.) I also hate it when they don’t speak to you the entire day and every time you lock eyes across the gazebo they give you a little knowing smile before turning away. Like they’re just waiting for you to half levitate and float their way, dragging your toes behind you, with giant cartoon hearts beating out of your eyeballs and your tongue lolling out of your mouth. Puleeeassse, fucker! I’d rather masturbate to Larry King Live than let you think you’ve won.
The best part was when I was floating on a raft and he joined a group leaving on a boat ride. As they drove by he stood and faced me, half bowed and blew kisses, grinning like a maniac the entire time. I didn’t do anything except hiss at my friend Claire floating nearby, “Did you SEE that? What a DICK!”
“Yeah”, she replied, “you should have done this...uh uh!” She did the old hand chopping on either side of the vagina motion that I haven’t used since Bush #2 was in office.
“Fuck! Why didn’t I think of that?”
She continued to make chopping motions and grunting sounds, occasionally throwing in a few bird fingers and an arm hook move for good measure. I think that last one was supposed to mean “up yours”, but you can’t ever be too sure about these modern gestures. Now that I’m old I have to be careful about that sort of thing. I wouldn’t want to throw up any new aged gang signs by mistake.
I probably did the right thing by ignoring him (read: not coming up with an appropriate gesture in time). I’m above all that now. I’m, like, thisfuckingclose to being PTA mom extraordinaire. Maybe even a Girl Scout troop leader. Aren’t the little ones called Brownies? I fucking love brownies.
Sigh.
Ohmigawd, look you guys! I managed to make a post with a theme entirely by accident!
*chop chop* Uh uh! Who wants to see my melons?
So I’ve been sitting here for a few minutes, trying to decide what I should write about. Nothing special immediately comes to mind. Unless you want to count the million little things that went on over the long weekend that couldn’t possibly produce an entire post.
Like how, on Thursday, I spent four hours banging out unnecessary reports as fast as I could because certain people around here are fucktards with a capitol Fuck. It frustrates me to no end when I know the answer to a question and no one will listen.
No one: Am I a fucktard?
Me: Why, yes. Yes you are.
No One: *silence* Anybody else? I don’t understand the Office Assistant Language. She just does what I say – doesn’t really know what’s going on, poor girl. Can anyone else tell me if I’m a fucktard? *silence* Sigh. *turns to me* Fine! Have a full report on my desk by 3pm! I want charts with lots of color and pictures of gophers fornicating!
Me: *slam, slam, slam* (head hitting desk) I’ll get right on that! *slam*
I guess I could write a long post about frustration in general, but I think I’ve gone that route before: Sexual...check. Work...check. Home...check. Friends...check. Anything with a penis...check. Yeah, frustration is so done around here.
How about an outing with my friend Megan on Friday? I could talk about that?
We went to dinner at a trendy Japanese restaurant, but for some reason it was hotter than Satan’s ballsack in there. I was wearing a dress that, once seated, didn’t cover much of my ass and after eating a bowl of stupid egg something or other soup that she talked me into getting, my legs were super glued to the goddamned seat. She was sweating, I was sweating, everyone was sweating.
And our waiter was a complete sleaze ball.
He had dark eyes and dark hair gelled into ridiculously tall spikes. He wore big silver rings on each hand (not on his ring finger) and the standard black outfit of the other servers. He had a nice face and looked to be about 30 to 32, but clearly thought he looked no older than 25. When he approached the table my first thought was, “I know that guy from somewhere...he looks really familiar”. My second was, “*squinty suspicious eyes*... didn’t I fuck him...?”
That’s me. Keepin’ it classy since 2001...ish.
He got progressively handsy as the meal wore on. By the time we were enjoying a last drink before heading for the movie, he’d gone from shoulder massaging and back rubbing to squatting at breast level and licking his lips. By then I was almost sure he was a guy named Trey that used to run with mutual friends around my town, so I asked him.
Turns out I didn’t know him after all and his familiarity with my...person was even more unwarranted than I originally suspected. Especially when he referred to my breasts as “melons”. I mean, really? Are you a waiter or a pimp browsing the flesh market? I know how hard it can sometimes be to distinguish the two, but here’s a little trick: Nice restaurant = waiter. Seedy bar/alleyway/crack whore’s house = pimp. You’re welcome.
At the movie, Sex and the City 2 in case you were wondering, we had to sit near the front. Poor Megan’s neck started to bother her from all the craning, but other than an infrequent urge to cross my eyes I was alright. The film has gotten some bad reviews, but from what I can tell (and I’ve only seen every episode ever made twice, so what do I know?) the girls are the same as they’ve always been, plus a few years, and there are some great one liners. That’s all the review you’re going to get out of me. I’m not a critic and I almost always find something to enjoy about everything I watch.
We spent the rest of our night in a bar with a bunch of men. She canoodled with her boyfriend and sucked on hot honey wings while I debated the merits of certain cell phone brands and girls that don't like their nipples bothered with a guy whose name I simply cannot remember. He accused me of trying to distract him with my cleavage and I was forced to silently forgive the waiter from earlier because referenced once, it’s their fault. Referenced twice or more, it’s clearly mine.
Still keepin’ it classy, obviously.
Alright, even that didn’t take up an entire page. Would you like to hear about how I got my hair highlighted on Saturday morning, still nice and ripe from my 4am homecoming? Or how I went home and painted my toenails and fingernails with the neon blue polish from the OPI Shrek line? Or! How about how I was so lazy that I missed out on all the boating that day and by the time I made it into my bathing suit there was no one around and I lay on the dock for 10 minutes before a storm came up and blew me away?
No? Ok.
How about this one:
On Sunday I ran into this guy at my family BBQ / lake party. I hate it when guys that say they’re going to call you and never do still look great when you see them six months later. (Note to self: Write ode to swim trunks with no lining.) I also hate it when they don’t speak to you the entire day and every time you lock eyes across the gazebo they give you a little knowing smile before turning away. Like they’re just waiting for you to half levitate and float their way, dragging your toes behind you, with giant cartoon hearts beating out of your eyeballs and your tongue lolling out of your mouth. Puleeeassse, fucker! I’d rather masturbate to Larry King Live than let you think you’ve won.
The best part was when I was floating on a raft and he joined a group leaving on a boat ride. As they drove by he stood and faced me, half bowed and blew kisses, grinning like a maniac the entire time. I didn’t do anything except hiss at my friend Claire floating nearby, “Did you SEE that? What a DICK!”
“Yeah”, she replied, “you should have done this...uh uh!” She did the old hand chopping on either side of the vagina motion that I haven’t used since Bush #2 was in office.
“Fuck! Why didn’t I think of that?”
She continued to make chopping motions and grunting sounds, occasionally throwing in a few bird fingers and an arm hook move for good measure. I think that last one was supposed to mean “up yours”, but you can’t ever be too sure about these modern gestures. Now that I’m old I have to be careful about that sort of thing. I wouldn’t want to throw up any new aged gang signs by mistake.
I probably did the right thing by ignoring him (read: not coming up with an appropriate gesture in time). I’m above all that now. I’m, like, thisfuckingclose to being PTA mom extraordinaire. Maybe even a Girl Scout troop leader. Aren’t the little ones called Brownies? I fucking love brownies.
Sigh.
Ohmigawd, look you guys! I managed to make a post with a theme entirely by accident!
*chop chop* Uh uh! Who wants to see my melons?
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Hormones
I’ve been reading blogs all morning. When you can’t write, read instead.
“But why can’t you write, Alyson?”
Do you really want to know, pretend-other-person-that’s-actually-me-because-no-one else-really-cares?
“Yes, I do.” *shifty eyes*
There are so many reasons, but I suppose the one that stands out is that it’s not good enough; my standards have risen higher than my capabilities. Then, I feel as though I’ve written myself into a corner, limited myself to one certain kind of thing. I can’t write about the sex I’m not having. I can't write funny anecdotes because my brain has turned to mush and my ovaries have turned into ripe peaches ...Hey, pay attention!
“What? Oh...peaches, right!”
Technically my ovaries have nothing to do with this. I’m just obsessed with them in a strange way at the moment because my cousin just had a baby and I went to visit them two days in a row. I went back the second time because he was asleep the first day and I didn’t get to hold him. I wanted to hold him badly and when I did it was great. I was all, “look at your tiny face and your tiny hands”, and I totally bogarted the fucker for 20 minutes while all the menopausal bitches glared at me and sharpened their canes into spears to stab through my 24 (almost 25) year old baby making mechanics.
“Heh, Ute-Rus!”
I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. I don’t like children. They smell bad, take over the TV, and ruin your carpet. So basically they’re like men and animals all rolled into one package that won’t leave for 18+ years AND comes out of your vagina. Ugh. Why am I cooing over a baby? Am I going to turn into Octomom? There’s a conspiracy afoot. I’ve been having suburbia daydreams too. Someone or something is putting hormone meds in my food and drink...maybe even in my body lotion.
“Ok, now you’re just being paranoid. Heh...whore moans.”
Seriously. You’re ridiculous. I’m trying to tell you that I can’t write, I’m cuddling babies, and imagining a white colonial with a collie and a Volvo. Maybe my family was right about commitment – the psychotic kind not the relationship kind. Except instead of being treated for anger issues and problems with authority, I’ll be going for Suburbia Syndrome. Just like that movie that Nicole Kidman sucked in. Only I’d have better hair, facial expressions that surpass the range of a blow up doll, and my husband wouldn’t have to point his remote control at me for sex.
“Yeah, you should have more of that now.”
You’re telling me! Do you know I’ve had a handful of opportunities and I’ve passed on them?
“Maybe you are on drugs...”
That’s what I’m telling you! The lack of creative genius, the cooing, the ovary ripening that women who can’t have babies anymore can sense, the weird dreams, the turning down of prime one night stand ass: it all adds up. I’m being poisoned! Sprayed with eau de Fresh Fetus! Brain washed into looking for an ideal mate to MATE with and produce SUBURBAN SPAWN OF SATAN!
“You might want to calm down. Heavy breathing like that is only for orgasms and serial killers. I mean, unless you want to get off at work. I’m totally fine with it...”
Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate. I need to make a list of suspects. Who would stand to gain the most from slipping me...
“A length?”
...personality tranquilizers? *glare*
“ Hmm...Lunch Box Boy? He totally wants to fertilize your Vagunia.”
Idiot. He’s gay.
“Maybe for revenge, then?”
No. It’s not him. It’s got to be someone I see almost every day – like mom, Lee, or The Grandmother.
“My money is on Wrinkles. She’s been after you for years.”
You’re right. I’ve been spending more and more time over there lately. And she’s been way too nice – making me pie, rubbing my hair, not watching me in a creepy stalker fashion while I sleep. My GAWD! It is her!
“So what are you gonna do now, Sherlock Hormones?”
I’m going to confront her!
“.......now?”
As soon as I finish cross stitching this blank...I mean...Oh, just get the hell out of here!
“But why can’t you write, Alyson?”
Do you really want to know, pretend-other-person-that’s-actually-me-because-no-one else-really-cares?
“Yes, I do.” *shifty eyes*
There are so many reasons, but I suppose the one that stands out is that it’s not good enough; my standards have risen higher than my capabilities. Then, I feel as though I’ve written myself into a corner, limited myself to one certain kind of thing. I can’t write about the sex I’m not having. I can't write funny anecdotes because my brain has turned to mush and my ovaries have turned into ripe peaches ...Hey, pay attention!
“What? Oh...peaches, right!”
Technically my ovaries have nothing to do with this. I’m just obsessed with them in a strange way at the moment because my cousin just had a baby and I went to visit them two days in a row. I went back the second time because he was asleep the first day and I didn’t get to hold him. I wanted to hold him badly and when I did it was great. I was all, “look at your tiny face and your tiny hands”, and I totally bogarted the fucker for 20 minutes while all the menopausal bitches glared at me and sharpened their canes into spears to stab through my 24 (almost 25) year old baby making mechanics.
“Heh, Ute-Rus!”
I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. I don’t like children. They smell bad, take over the TV, and ruin your carpet. So basically they’re like men and animals all rolled into one package that won’t leave for 18+ years AND comes out of your vagina. Ugh. Why am I cooing over a baby? Am I going to turn into Octomom? There’s a conspiracy afoot. I’ve been having suburbia daydreams too. Someone or something is putting hormone meds in my food and drink...maybe even in my body lotion.
“Ok, now you’re just being paranoid. Heh...whore moans.”
Seriously. You’re ridiculous. I’m trying to tell you that I can’t write, I’m cuddling babies, and imagining a white colonial with a collie and a Volvo. Maybe my family was right about commitment – the psychotic kind not the relationship kind. Except instead of being treated for anger issues and problems with authority, I’ll be going for Suburbia Syndrome. Just like that movie that Nicole Kidman sucked in. Only I’d have better hair, facial expressions that surpass the range of a blow up doll, and my husband wouldn’t have to point his remote control at me for sex.
“Yeah, you should have more of that now.”
You’re telling me! Do you know I’ve had a handful of opportunities and I’ve passed on them?
“Maybe you are on drugs...”
That’s what I’m telling you! The lack of creative genius, the cooing, the ovary ripening that women who can’t have babies anymore can sense, the weird dreams, the turning down of prime one night stand ass: it all adds up. I’m being poisoned! Sprayed with eau de Fresh Fetus! Brain washed into looking for an ideal mate to MATE with and produce SUBURBAN SPAWN OF SATAN!
“You might want to calm down. Heavy breathing like that is only for orgasms and serial killers. I mean, unless you want to get off at work. I’m totally fine with it...”
Shut up! I’m trying to concentrate. I need to make a list of suspects. Who would stand to gain the most from slipping me...
“A length?”
...personality tranquilizers? *glare*
“ Hmm...Lunch Box Boy? He totally wants to fertilize your Vagunia.”
Idiot. He’s gay.
“Maybe for revenge, then?”
No. It’s not him. It’s got to be someone I see almost every day – like mom, Lee, or The Grandmother.
“My money is on Wrinkles. She’s been after you for years.”
You’re right. I’ve been spending more and more time over there lately. And she’s been way too nice – making me pie, rubbing my hair, not watching me in a creepy stalker fashion while I sleep. My GAWD! It is her!
“So what are you gonna do now, Sherlock Hormones?”
I’m going to confront her!
“.......now?”
As soon as I finish cross stitching this blank...I mean...Oh, just get the hell out of here!
Monday, February 01, 2010
The Write Stuff
Things have been relatively boring around here lately. Busy, but not in an interesting way. I can’t be interesting all the time, yet I have to post something. It’s been since last Thursday. If I don’t post often you might not come back. Right? Cue needy music.
Sometimes it’s hard to post because my blog is a closely guarded secret. Until recently the only person that knew about it was my best friend Rachel. I knew I could trust her not to go looking for it if I didn’t want her to, so I told her about it and let her read a few things I’d written. She wasn’t very impressed with my writing, but I didn’t take it personally. She’s very hard to impress and one of the reasons I like her is that she doesn’t do or say things just to make me feel better. I might not agree with her, but I value her honesty.
Things are changing around here though. My sister, mom, and aunt are now all aware that I’m blogging. The only person that I’m really bothered by is my mom. She has this habit of making fun of me and I wish I could say I was immune to it by now, but I’m not. It’s easy to be confident about little things like the way I look wearing blue or how well I do my job, but when you’re talking about my dream it’s a toss up. Some days are better than others.
I prefer to type because it keeps up with my thought process, but occasionally I’ll write down post ideas or random things in a spiral notebook. It drives my mother insane. Every time she sees it she says, “Oh! It’s the secret notebook again! Let me see it. Are you writing about me? Oooh it’s a secret!” I’d probably let her read it if she could be an impartial judge, but she can’t. She would read it as an extension of me, and she can’t often stand me, so I don’t see the point.
I’m not misguided enough to think that everyone will like the way I write or appreciate my brand of humor. I know for a fact that my mom just wouldn’t “get it”. She would think it vulgar, tasteless, and self indulgent. Constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated, but she just isn’t capable.
When she found out about my blog she said, “Why are you wasting your time writing crap on the internet? Write a book.”
I could’ve given her a list of reasons why, but I didn’t. She makes me feel defensive and I don’t want to be defensive about this.
Her next statement was, “You better not be writing shit about me on there.”
Snort. Ok.
If I ever do write a book she’d better get used to the idea of being in the limelight. I’ve pretty much decided that I’d like to write a humorous collection of short stories about my life and those in it.
Then there’s my sister.
She was nosing around and found a hand written post. According to her she doesn’t care about finding my site, she’d rather read my diaries. She’s welcome to them. They’re too magniloquent to hold her interest for long, I imagine. Besides, I tell her most of my “exciting” news when we’re having one of our sisterly bonding sessions. I’m beginning to love those more and more, even if I occasionally have to hear something that makes me cringe and/or want to sock her boyfriend in the nutsack. She’s surprisingly supportive of my blogging, writing, etc. She thinks it’s good for me.
However, she seems to be under the impression that blogland is an undercover dating thing. She made the comment “maybe you could find someone on there”. I got a good laugh out of that. I didn’t tell her that the only offers I’ve had for anything have been from women. Not that I’m complaining, of course. I’m not using this as a means to hook up with anyone, male or female. If I wanted to use the internet for dating, I’d join a website specifically for that (but they kind of freak me out, so I'd likely never do that).
I also didn’t tell her just how involved I’ve gotten with this. When I started I never thought of it as a way to make friends or gain support. I started because I was bored and just wanted to write. Once I began getting real feedback and interacting with some of you, I got a taste of what it would feel like to be what I’ve always wanted. I don’t presume to know what if feels like to be an accomplished author, but I would find it difficult to believe that they don’t need validation too.
I know for a fact that I’ve gotten better since I started. I’ve gotten more and more critical of my writing and consequently, I’ve improved. Though I know that and can admit it unashamedly, I’ve come to crave the comments and compliments from my readers. It’s a crutch I’m ok walking with for now.
Then, last but certainly not least, there’s my Aunt.
She began looking for my blog, at first without my knowledge. She’s a nosy sort, but she gets it honest (as do I). When she couldn’t find it she asked for the URL. At first I refused. I thought she would surely go back and tell the rest of my family about all the crazy shit I write. Then she switched tactics and just asked that I email her a post or two.
Naturally I realized the possibilities there. With an actual post it would be much easier for her to search keywords and find the whole blog. But confessed addict of validation that I am, I emailed her two posts anyway.
She liked them and asked for “access” to my site again. I confess I found it a tad amusing, a little terrifying, but more flattering than anything. After thinking about it for a bit, I decided that I would go over all of my archives and if there was something I didn’t want her to know, I’d remove it, then give her the URL. So if you notice some of my archives missing, that would be why. I didn’t even really mind deleting them. I’ve been doing this for a long time, after all. It’s not like starting completely fresh (which I would hate to do), it’s more like revamping. I think I needed to do it and after I started, I realized I didn’t much care if she knew more secrets than I had originally intended to share.
Now I have a reader that’s capable of bitch slapping me for writing something untoward, but it won’t have much of an effect. Don’t think that her reading will stop my open book policy. I warned her before she showed up that there might be things on here that could possibly make her uncomfortable. If she now knows more about my sexual activities than she’d like, it’s her own damn fault.
She’s had “access” for about a week now and so far there’s been no backlash. She might be alright after all. She thinks I’m funny, which isn’t really news to me. Of course I’m funny, Auntie.
Everyone say hello and welcome to my Aunt, will you? *Waves*
Anyway, as for the rest of you...
I’d like to say thank you for reading, commenting, lurking, stalking, and following. It means more than you know. Unless you’re being, you know, creepy about it.
Regularly scheduled nonsense will resume shortly.
Sometimes it’s hard to post because my blog is a closely guarded secret. Until recently the only person that knew about it was my best friend Rachel. I knew I could trust her not to go looking for it if I didn’t want her to, so I told her about it and let her read a few things I’d written. She wasn’t very impressed with my writing, but I didn’t take it personally. She’s very hard to impress and one of the reasons I like her is that she doesn’t do or say things just to make me feel better. I might not agree with her, but I value her honesty.
Things are changing around here though. My sister, mom, and aunt are now all aware that I’m blogging. The only person that I’m really bothered by is my mom. She has this habit of making fun of me and I wish I could say I was immune to it by now, but I’m not. It’s easy to be confident about little things like the way I look wearing blue or how well I do my job, but when you’re talking about my dream it’s a toss up. Some days are better than others.
I prefer to type because it keeps up with my thought process, but occasionally I’ll write down post ideas or random things in a spiral notebook. It drives my mother insane. Every time she sees it she says, “Oh! It’s the secret notebook again! Let me see it. Are you writing about me? Oooh it’s a secret!” I’d probably let her read it if she could be an impartial judge, but she can’t. She would read it as an extension of me, and she can’t often stand me, so I don’t see the point.
I’m not misguided enough to think that everyone will like the way I write or appreciate my brand of humor. I know for a fact that my mom just wouldn’t “get it”. She would think it vulgar, tasteless, and self indulgent. Constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated, but she just isn’t capable.
When she found out about my blog she said, “Why are you wasting your time writing crap on the internet? Write a book.”
I could’ve given her a list of reasons why, but I didn’t. She makes me feel defensive and I don’t want to be defensive about this.
Her next statement was, “You better not be writing shit about me on there.”
Snort. Ok.
If I ever do write a book she’d better get used to the idea of being in the limelight. I’ve pretty much decided that I’d like to write a humorous collection of short stories about my life and those in it.
Then there’s my sister.
She was nosing around and found a hand written post. According to her she doesn’t care about finding my site, she’d rather read my diaries. She’s welcome to them. They’re too magniloquent to hold her interest for long, I imagine. Besides, I tell her most of my “exciting” news when we’re having one of our sisterly bonding sessions. I’m beginning to love those more and more, even if I occasionally have to hear something that makes me cringe and/or want to sock her boyfriend in the nutsack. She’s surprisingly supportive of my blogging, writing, etc. She thinks it’s good for me.
However, she seems to be under the impression that blogland is an undercover dating thing. She made the comment “maybe you could find someone on there”. I got a good laugh out of that. I didn’t tell her that the only offers I’ve had for anything have been from women. Not that I’m complaining, of course. I’m not using this as a means to hook up with anyone, male or female. If I wanted to use the internet for dating, I’d join a website specifically for that (but they kind of freak me out, so I'd likely never do that).
I also didn’t tell her just how involved I’ve gotten with this. When I started I never thought of it as a way to make friends or gain support. I started because I was bored and just wanted to write. Once I began getting real feedback and interacting with some of you, I got a taste of what it would feel like to be what I’ve always wanted. I don’t presume to know what if feels like to be an accomplished author, but I would find it difficult to believe that they don’t need validation too.
I know for a fact that I’ve gotten better since I started. I’ve gotten more and more critical of my writing and consequently, I’ve improved. Though I know that and can admit it unashamedly, I’ve come to crave the comments and compliments from my readers. It’s a crutch I’m ok walking with for now.
Then, last but certainly not least, there’s my Aunt.
She began looking for my blog, at first without my knowledge. She’s a nosy sort, but she gets it honest (as do I). When she couldn’t find it she asked for the URL. At first I refused. I thought she would surely go back and tell the rest of my family about all the crazy shit I write. Then she switched tactics and just asked that I email her a post or two.
Naturally I realized the possibilities there. With an actual post it would be much easier for her to search keywords and find the whole blog. But confessed addict of validation that I am, I emailed her two posts anyway.
She liked them and asked for “access” to my site again. I confess I found it a tad amusing, a little terrifying, but more flattering than anything. After thinking about it for a bit, I decided that I would go over all of my archives and if there was something I didn’t want her to know, I’d remove it, then give her the URL. So if you notice some of my archives missing, that would be why. I didn’t even really mind deleting them. I’ve been doing this for a long time, after all. It’s not like starting completely fresh (which I would hate to do), it’s more like revamping. I think I needed to do it and after I started, I realized I didn’t much care if she knew more secrets than I had originally intended to share.
Now I have a reader that’s capable of bitch slapping me for writing something untoward, but it won’t have much of an effect. Don’t think that her reading will stop my open book policy. I warned her before she showed up that there might be things on here that could possibly make her uncomfortable. If she now knows more about my sexual activities than she’d like, it’s her own damn fault.
She’s had “access” for about a week now and so far there’s been no backlash. She might be alright after all. She thinks I’m funny, which isn’t really news to me. Of course I’m funny, Auntie.
Everyone say hello and welcome to my Aunt, will you? *Waves*
Anyway, as for the rest of you...
I’d like to say thank you for reading, commenting, lurking, stalking, and following. It means more than you know. Unless you’re being, you know, creepy about it.
Regularly scheduled nonsense will resume shortly.
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