Month Twenty Four

Dear I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino,

You turned two this month. Trite as it most definitely is, it seems like only yesterday that you were born. I vividly remember sitting in my 400-sq-ft. apartment - yes, the one with the bars on the window - enduring hours of pain as I labored to get you up and running on Blogger.

For weeks I couldn't decide on a name, and first called you I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman as a self-deprecating reference to my love for really bad pop music. I intended to make you different than all the other fledgling blogs by changing on a monthly basis the "W" word in your title, but once I hit on "Wino" it just stuck. I don't foresee changing your name again anytime soon.

Like any adoring parent, I have, however, changed your look quite a bit over these 24 months. Given that you were my first site, I started with the simple black template that Blogger still offers at setup.

It became clear to me early on that this did not capture your personality, not to mention would contribute to you getting your ass kicked on the playground much like if I had named you Sheldon, and therefore I felt compelled to change your clothes regularly.

Do you remember your second template? The one with the woman in the martini glass holding that hairy, impaled olive? I do. I almost couldn't sleep the weekend I worked with the designer on that one.

You wore that day in and day out for a year, if you can believe it. Just like that week in college that no one talks about when your mom wore the same black cotton vest out drinking for a week. Then I moved you to one of my favorite templates, the One That Not a Soul Seemed to be Able to Read, which was short lived for that reason alone. Because oh how I loved that stock photo image, even if 16-month-old blogs probably shouldn't wear wine paraphernalia, which I don't think has been scientifically proven as detrimental to later health:

And from there I bounced you to flowers.

Looking back, that may have been more monkey bars ass-kicking inviting than either the generic template or the family name thing. And now here we are.

I think your style fits your personality quite well now. I'm sorry it took me almost two years to get you there.

I think it goes without saying that you and I have been through a lot together. In just 24 months, we've been through a move that involved the Irish brothers carrying a couch up four flights of stairs, a broken heart that your mama thought might break all of her, the addition of Cricket to our growing family of hairy things that walk on us while we sleep, a break, almost a month on the wagon, travel to lands both near and far, a round of layoffs. and lots of pure, unadulterated meanness. We have lost so many online friends to burnout or exposure that your blogroll has been halved in your short life. But the new friends you've brought to my world - most of whom your mama actually likes and is happy to report had no evidence of human heads in their freezers - because oh yes, she checked - outnumber those we might not see again.

Finally, sweet girl, I'm most proud of how much you've grown. I'm proud to say that on most days, your recent content is a little richer and hopefully much better written than in the earlier days. Because I recall many a crappy meme and posting cringe-inducing crap like this and this. Yes, even your mama has bad days and bad nights turning into bad mornings that necessitate the ordering of a Wendy's Single with Cheese - no mayo - and the posting of fluff.

Little Wino, happy second birthday. Know that I couldn't be more proud to be your mother and brag about you at conferences and bars and parties. I just hope you don't grow up to be a Mormon or a carnie or one of them damn gays.

Love,

Mama