Wise men talk because they have something to say; fools, because they have to say something. – Plato

So when you find out you’ll be a panel speaker at this year’s conference, do you:

a) contemplate which of your incognito wine vessels you’ll sneak into the session, enabling you to sound minimally coherent while droning on about your cats,
b) ponder the location of your unfilled emergency Xanax prescription (yes, I have one that isn’t filled, and no, you may not have it),
c) consider feigning a nonspecific GI ailment so as not to be forced to speak in public, much like you did during the unfortunate name-reading-into-a-microphone caper of Girls’ State 1990?

Maybe BlogHer flasks will be part of this year’s SWAG.

Time, time, time. See what's become of me.

In the early days of each season of American Idol, watching the show is akin to incurring closed head trauma, freeing up much time to post. The thoughts behind this one aren't really fully formed yet, but I'm going to go for it anyway given the ample 10 minutes before bed and a lack of quality television. Bear with me.

Just exactly how long are you going to keep this up?

Maybe I should explain myself.

Other than for work, I write only here. And this isn't going to last forever. Remember the man from the days of old-timey radio, who would clunk shoes on the floor to make it seem as if another had come in the room, the man of a million voices and a xylophone and whatever the heck that was that sounded like thunder? What do you think he did when television debuted? I wonder if he hung up his hat, or was relegated with his red stapler to a desk in the damp network basement.

The Internet will see its day, just as the 8-track and the loin cloth did before it. And the blogger will become what the cassette tape was to the 90s: old school and outdated. And although I won't say it won't happen, I am hard pressed to imagine an interactive media so widely consumed that will provide a forum for writers like us. But then again, unlike Mr. Gore, I didn't think up the Internets in the first place.

Along these lines, sometimes I wonder if "professional" bloggers have a backup plan. And not because these folks aren't talented, but because I'm not sure that blogging will ever reach the level of legitimacy that other media, particularly print, have. How many times have you been asked to describe just exactly what dat der blog was? Ever had someone giggle slightly when you detailed just what this is that we pour our heart and souls into day in and day out? That this isn't the making Shrinky Dinks of the writing world, that this is more than just a hobby to you? That, albeit a stretch, maybe this part-time pursuit of yours will persist into the next medium, as the mascara-heavy Guiding Light did 70 years ago? (I heart you, Reva!)

And furthermore, a fit in one medium doesn't necessarily transfer to another (I know someone is thinking of Cher, and I get it, she was a great variety show hostess and a "meh" early 90's singer, but there are as many Joey Lawrences to combat your claim). Do you expect that someday you will just fade away into Blogger or Wordpress obscurity, just as the David Cassidys and Kajagoogoos of the world did before you?

Maybe it's better to bow out gracefully, to leave before the medium becomes obselete, to back up your posts and photos and keep them tucked away next to your senior yearbook to show the grandcats.

*********************
In other news, did I forget anything?

Thanks for listening. No pressure to comment.

I've noticed a trend lately in blogging, most notably over at Indie Bloggers: posts without comments - including several of mine - abound. Now, to me, an entry without comments smacks of the 7th-grade party to which no one shows. Even the nerdy neighbor kid who has pursued you since elementary school doesn't come. And as the birthday girl you've put on your finest outfit and invited both the cool and not-so-cool kids and broke out your Casio keyboard. So after you change into your pajamas and curl up on the couch you're left with nothing to do but drink sherbert punch with your mom and watch Falcon Crest. It doesn't say anything about you or your coolness, bday girl, but you might feel like it does.

The thought of this makes me ache. Just as a full roster of partyers showing to your event makes you feel great, blog comments feel good. They are fun. They are validating.

I know that many already argue that we aren't writing for other people, so comments are really just gravy, but I don't buy it; bloggers, by our very nature, are putting thoughts out there for public consumption. If we weren't writing for others, we could just as easily type up our drama and rants and neverending cat stories in Wordpad and let them sit in an unlabeled folder on our desktops. Or we could turn off comments, which very few bloggers actually do, and the thought of which makes me break into a cold sweat.

So I submit that most bloggers write, at least partially, for the interaction with our readers. We like to get feedback and hear what others think about our experiences, our writing, our thoughts and my our neuroses. And since it's fair to say that most of our readers are also bloggers, why is it that so many of us - myself included - don't comment when we visit a site?

I have a variety of award-winning excuses I've crafted over time, just as I do for not holding a co-worker's baby when it's held out like a prize in front of me. Eh, I just don't have time right now what with Pat Sajak and Vanna coming on - I'll come back and write something later. If I admire the blogger's humor, it's likely that I feel I have nothing sufficiently witty to say. If the subject matter is serious, writer's block sometimes sets in, rendering me with nothing remotely meaningful to add to the conversation. Occasionally I won't really understand a post, like an entry on supply and demand (which shall never make an ounce of sense to me) or education policy in Transnistria (which frankly I didn't know existed before I Googled it). More often than that I won't relate to the content, such as those on testicular self exams or the beauty of child and/or lizard rearing.

But I often leave feeling like I owe the blogger something anyway. That because he or she made the effort to lay these thoughts bare to the world, my showing up and not writing something is somehow rude. I'd never show at a party, eat a plate of Swedish meatballs and down a cocktail or three, and leave without at least greeting the hostess, would I?

Then again, most hosts I know don't invite the entire Internet over for their Tupperware parties.

Went to the Washington Post Blogger Summit last night and have much to post. First, however, I have learned I must scour my archives to delete any references to actual, real-live humans, cats, bars, monuments, and Tai Shan to avoid imminent charges of libel, flat out unkindness, and, well, libel.

Be back in 10.

Putting Your Code Where Your Mouth Is ** NOW WITH ACTUAL WORKING LINKS (woot!)

A few of us have been griping (I know that’s a surprise) for some time about feeling underrepresented in the Blogosphere. There are organizations for female bloggers, parent bloggers, foodies, and politicos, but those of us who write about, well . . . us, are just sort of floating around without anchor. Think about it: if you were to categorize my blog, where would you shelve it? Humor? (we all know I’m only funny on third Tuesdays.) Relationships? (My closest are with my cats, BUT I DON’T KNIT THEM BOOTIES YET SO I’M STILL OKAY, DAMMIT!) These feelings came to a head when we attended BlogHer this year, and found ourselves answering the question, “what do you blog about?” with a hung head, a tail between our collective legs and a stutter . . . although not made to feel this way, somehow writing about the intricacies of one’s life and foibles and neuroses suddenly seemed self involved and unworthy of the title of Blogger when there were so many important things to write about (read: Gaza! Racism! THE CHILDREN!)

We started to feel as if, despite our numbers, we were underrepresented and underexposed and needed a network to find others like us, a forum that blogroll clicking alone wasn’t – and still isn’t – affording us.

So Stacy, clearly the only person in my life who majored in Follow Through in college (with a minor in General Motivation), took this discussion and ran with it. And the results of her spearheading this gorgeous effort are beautiful.

Meet Indie Bloggers, a site for those of us who write personal/life/general blogs that don’t fit into any particular niche. This site is gender neutral, whatever that means, but I’m pretty sure that translates into both Barbie and Ken being welcome and invited to post. We don’t care if you are already published or if this is your first time on the Interwebs. We only care that you have something to say, something interesting or inventive or clever to share with a larger network than you may regularly reach with your own site (well, those of us that don’t get 5000 or even 500 hits a day.)

Take a look around. Leave some feedback here. We’d love to hear your thoughts on the idea, your interest in participating, and your thoughts on my most recent choice of chunky highlights rather than those little wimpy stripy ones (I just thought it might brighten my face for the winter . . .)

Won't you join us? My first post is here, and more information can be found here.

Kris, Stacy and Heather

It’s Blog Crush Day, a bona fide holiday unlike those asshat Hallmark holidays like “Children’s Day” (like when isn’t it?!?) and “Arbor Day” (thanks, trees!), as established by two very fine blogger gals I know and love (via the information superhighway; like, we've never dated).

This blog crush makes me feel a little like I’m in high school, admiring one of the popular + smart kids from afar. You know, the kid in your Honors English class who had so totally read the Great Gatsby off the summer reading list even though he denied it when asked. The guy who your mom begged you to date because he was so smart and so nice and so funny and when you grow up you’ll wish you had paid attention to him. The kid who didn’t make fun of you (to your face) when your overpracticed rendition of “You Light Up My Life” failed to dazzle the 6th-grade talent show as planned.

I almost feel like I grew up with this blogger. In a sense we did, starting things up in the blogosphere at the very same time, corresponding early on over email. His blog career has skyrocketed, not in small part due to a fantastic use of words and his effortless sense of humor and an unfailing kindness unto fellow bloggers. I wish I could spend more time over at his site learning more about impacting people in the way that he does through writing.

Neil, thanks for giving many of us something to aspire to.

E-Discord

I have to admit that it has been one of the best online relationships I’ve ever had. We have spent an awful lot of time together – it's embarrassing, really – late nights until I almost couldn't keep my eyes open, early mornings, moments I’d steal away while at work just to see what he had to say, just to check up on the most current comings and goings of our favorite friends.

But our partnership has grown tiresome. I don’t like who I become when he is around. It pains me to say it, but I turn into that woman, needy and obsessive and fixated and fanatical. Not the woman I want to and am trying to be. So as with all things that just might not be meant to be, it has to end. That’s why it's over with me and StatCounter.

I remember when I first discovered this amazing, newfangled functionality (likely two to four years after most of you did). I was simultaneously a) overjoyed at the thought of being able to see where all three of my readers lived and/or surfed for p*rn, and b) mortified that those sites I had already stalked knew that I did so, refreshing their pages every few seconds and scouring their archives while I ate Froot Loops and brushed my teeth. Ugh.

In our early days together, StatCounter opened up a whole new world for me. Someone in South Africa is reading my post about Celine Dion! Someone in South Jersey – who interestingly enough was looking for Google’s answer to: Is your wife a wino or a winner? – made his way to my corner of the Information Superhighway! (I won’t even touch the searches placed by those interested in purchasing diva maxi pads, the person I wanted to crack who claimed he was going to kill this God damn cricket slowly, or all the winos, the dozens and dozens of beautiful winos, who found my site while looking for a good, sturdy girdle.) For a long time, it was a beautiful thing; I got to see what corner of the world readers were coming from. And what you were reading. We were on the same page.

But then began our disagreements. As with all of my relationship failures, then entered neediness. No longer could Stat watch Monday Night Football in peace. There I was on the couch next to him, wanting to talk at length about WHY DID MY STATS FALL THROUGH THE FLOOR ON SATURDAYS? or WHY IS IT THAT I GET SO FEW HITS COMPARED TO [insert your name here], DAMMIT? Don’t get me started on grabbing the remote out of his hand when he refused to discuss at length whether my e-friendship with [insert your name here unless male, and then you’d insert the name of your favorite female blogger, other than me, of course . . .] was over given that she really doesn’t visit much anymore?

Are you getting the gist yet?

But the most awful act, the point at which I knew I had to come back from the e-brink, occurred during my breakup, when registered hits from a known offender translated in my mind to meaning I was loved, cared about, THAT MY WRITING ABOUT MY CALF CRAMPS AT SWIMMING AND N*KED LOCKER ROOMING AND MY SINGLEHOOD WITH FELINES WAS DAMN FUNNY. Before I knew it I was burning incense and listening to Tori Amos in the dark and rocking myself to sleep in the fetal position.

Not really.

But I don’t like being chained to it. Don’t. want. to have to check it. I’m hoping that when people visit, they’ll leave a little imprint by way of a comment (check my profile occupation, I’m admittedly still in 12 step for that obsession). No more reliance.

So goodbye, StatCounter. It was a good trip and I’ll surely miss the early days. Now if you don't mind, could you give SiteMeter a ride on your way home?

The First Rule of BlogHer Is - You Do Not Talk About BlogHer

In the first session I attended, one of the gorgeous BlogHer management reminded the masses of ovaries that we were all on the record at the two-day event. That everyone was press. That anything we said, even beautiful blogger to other beautiful blogger and again under the dandy influence of the FREE WINE DISTRIBUTED ON BOTH NIGHTS AT THE COCKTAIL PARTIES (yeah, you can reread that part if you need to just to soak it all in) - could be smattered across the blogosphere at any time.

That is pretty effing awesome.

Somehow this has put the fear of God and Oprah in me and has made me hesitant to share any negative details of my San Ho (copyright Jurgen Nation, 2006) experience. So I won't snark to excess on the spider that jumped out of Stacy's hair towel when she pulled it from the bathroom shelf, the fact that it rained on my I'm a sassy, independent woman day trip to Carmel, or the man on our tour of the Winchester Mystery House who snapped photos without focus in every crevice of every one of the 110 rooms we visited just in case a dead person's "orb" were to manifest itself. Like any dead folk would choose to hang around San Jose when they could go to the Maggiano's in heaven.

I will, instead, share some of the sheer joy that I experienced while being surrounded by litters of like-minded amazing women.

I have not felt that invigorated, that proud of a group of which I was a part, since I sold the top number of Samoas and those bland old Trefoils back in '82. Politicobloggers, Celebribloggers, Vinobloggers, Mediabloggers, those who chronicle their relationships and their body image and their life transformations and their experiences with racism . . . Every last one of them a cool chick in her own way (except for that one . . . ;)

My confession for the day involves the fact that I felt somewhat isolated when I was there, that the absence of children or a true passion in life or a nationwide cause somehow left me unaccounted for in the blogosphere. Truthfully, how important can the everyday details of one neurotic, at alternating times humorous then purely miserable, comment-obsessed, Pop- and cat-loving woman be in the scheme of things?

I have since reconsidered this perception. My site may not change your world, but I have been absolutely lost without it for the past few weeks. Without an outlet for my stories about Bug lying on his back to expose as much hairy belly to the ceiling fan as possible, my sadness and confusion about my now defunct relationship with the ex-beau, and snorting overchlorinated water while failing miserably at the breast stroke, I have felt as if a portion of me was missing.

Thank you, to those of you who left such supportive comments when I lost my mind and left for a bit. Thank you, Delta, for opening up the embargo you put on anyone using 108,000 accured miles on flights to anywhere other than Lebanon with layovers in Bogota and Beaumont, and making a $10 flight available so I could attend BlogHer. This Her needed it.

Suffice it to say, it has been many months since I smiled - ok, ok, and snarked - as much as I did in those few days.

[Insert happy picture of Kris and Stacy here, the only photo taken in three days in which Kris doesn't have a wayward eye, when Blogger stops its tantrum and allows the upload. UGH.]
And although this site clearly doesn't generate school supplies for kids displaced by Katrina or provide Extreme Makeovers for kittens born with two faces, maybe in some little way my site is leaving a mark on even a tiny slice of this world. I know it has mine.

Songs in the Key of Old Woman

I haven't posted in days, mostly because I have been so Long Duck Dong tired and couldn't raise my head above the keyboard. There are weeks when I feel like I have caught again that malaise that hit me in college (only eating Froot Loops and Ramen noodles + exercise limited to walking to the vending machine adds up to wanting to stay under your pink XL twin JC Penney comforter for the week).

I went to my first DC Blogger happy hour (thanks to a wonderful planner) on Wednesday night. There are a few choice obs from the event that I made a mental note to share with you prior to/during consumption of much too much house Chardonnay:

1) DC Bloggers are hot. Not like normal, Bell-curve hot, but hot like "Lost" hot. If all of these bloggers were to be stranded on Roosevelt Island, unable ever to make it back to the mainland of Virginia, the world would not want for beautiful, talented, boozing writers.

2) Despite what people try to tell you, the green stuff in mojitos isn't really kelp. Stupid spinach.

3) I'm embarrassed as to how many of these DC talents never made it on my blogroll. There are so many excellent sites out there, more than I can keep up with. I have a good bit of a hreffing to do when I feel I'm awake again.

4) Thank God Heather B. showed up. The look of horror on her face convinced me a) that it probably wasn't cool to take off with the band's tambourine, b) that my dance moves aren't as smooth as I pictured them to be, and c) that we might want to catch a cab home before a fellow cutie blogger snapped incriminating pics to post to the Internets. Moral: Always trust a woman in pastel cashmere.

I went to see my boyfriend play the Verizon/MCI/FDS Woman/Cheez Its Center on Thursday night. Having a twenty-something trophy wife has apparently done wonders for my man, as he shook it well past my bedtime.

I am pleased to report that although I thought I could hear my bones creaking this week, I was not the oldest woman in the crowd as evidenced by the following:

1) The man next to me shielded his eyes painfully every time the stage lights hit on the crowd,

2) I saw two different women - within a three-minute time span - drinking their Bud Lights through a straw,

2a) Most everyone in my immediate vicinity brought a crossword, copy of Redbook or glucose monitor to keep themselves busy until Billy took the stage, and, proudly,

3) I didn't call my kids in the middle of New York State of Mind to tell them loudly about how mommy drank an entire daquiri and would be taking the train home.

I have spent the past two days pampering myself and taking care of those things that never get done. I'm pretty sure the world is out having fun while I do laundry and watch 22 Tivo-ed episodes of CSI. The freau (the term I will heretofore use to refer to the beau, given our limbo friend/more status) is in Vegas for his brother's bachelor party. The mere thought of having to share a room with five drunk men and boozing while playing nickel slots until 4 am makes my head hurt.

Maybe the Blanche in me will want to get back to such things after these Doan's pills kick in.

Technorati, why don’t you come to your senses (or neediness, Kris style; or the second time I mention a Designing Woman on this here blog)

Last week I was going through my blogger neediness routine – you know, the trifecta of checking my comments (as a professional comment whore is prone to do), looking at my Statcounter geek charts to ensure that you are still employed at the places where you read my blog the week prior (no worries; your secret is safe with me) and looking at new links via Technorati.

I said NEW LINKS. I get a new link about once a week, and it is terribly exciting. Someone else is reading my blog! And this person writes cool stuff and things and thinks me worthy of linkage! I, Kris Likey, am becoming a bigger part of my neck of the tiny woods of the blogosphere!

And what to my wondering eyes should appear?

My numbers had gone down. Someone had – gulp – de-linked me.

I’m not proud of it, but a rush of 7th-grade, Claire-Danes-like angst came over me. The same feeling you got when someone spread a rumor around junior high that you were a lesbian at the age when that wouldn’t have been boner inducing. The feeling you got when you didn’t make the band for the ’89 undisclosed-northern-New Jersey production of Damn Yankees. Effers.

I’ll admit; I’ve done it. I know it’s routinely done. But I’m a fragile being right now, sans beau or sufficient intoxication. Clearly this isn’t the right time to turn my comments off to see if I can subsist without the feedback. Ugh. Stupid social experiments.

In other news, I have more evidence that my appropriate-meter is clearly in need of tune up. Today I began watching a Lifetime movie – starring, no, not Susan Lucci, NO! not Valerie Bertinelli, but the indomitable and fabulous Delta Burke – and like a short woman/tall man romance I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. Maternal Instincts was a real 1996 watcher about a woman who undergoes an emergency hysterectomy and then kills, maims, or teases the hair of those who perpetrated the unwanted surgery. Delta seeks vengeance by replacing her doctor’s progesterone shots with EVOO, running a woman over with shopping carts in the grocery store parking lot (file that one under I effing kid you not), and switching pregnancy results from positive, you GO GIRL to negative, get a fertile mate a la Mel Gibson already via the office Atari. My friends and I left for lunch mid-movie, and I Tivo’d the remaining hour and a half. AND I WATCHED THE REST OF IT TONIGHT. I couldn’t help myself.

Forget sponsoring me for the upcoming Blogher conference. Can somebody sponsor both my therapy and Chardonnay?

File this under: You don’t need more bone vitamins or female cleansers, no matter what Lifetime Television should suggest; Gerald McRaney; Kris, this behavior is to be expected with the onset of your lady cycle; Jennifer Aniston promises it’s cool to be single; Colonel Mustard; and Prozac, Yellow Tail, and something else with a low incidence of sexual side effects and loneliness.

Don't need no hateration in this dancery

I'm not a big fan of Internet hate.

But Kris, you say, you hate all the time! As is evidenced by this entry and this post and this little number.

Semantics, I know. But here's my explanation.

To Hate On: (origin: Kris Likey) What Kris does. Making fun of, calling out, or ridiculing individuals of unspecified origin who cannot be identified via CSI-like Super Glue latent printing or basic context clues. Intended for your fun only (only, only . . .) Use: I hate on when that parking attendant gives me the wrong change.

To Hate: (origin: Dawn, reportedly of Time) With malintent, making fun of, calling out, ridiculing or otherwise causing targeted recipient(s) to experience embarrassment, dropping of computer-side booze, or gastrointestinal distress IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE BLOGOSPHERE. Use: What the hell, Paul of CMI Parking Booth #5491 in Adams Morgan??? Your mom probably wishes you were never born. Don't they teach your people to count?

insert appropriate crickets here.

I'm sick of it. In the past several weeks alone, I have come across several incidents of this. Writers, do you have no blog fodder other than personal attacks on others? Surely Blogger has a template you can use to cure this.

Quite a few attacks have been anonymous, and quite frankly, I cannot imagine anything more cowardly (with the clear exception of suicide bombing. Suicide bombing usually takes the cake, except when no one dies but the suicide bomber. Then this is still clearly worse.)

It amazes me just how many readers claim to find this entertaining. Who are these people? And who has sex with them? I don't think I know any, but I'm pretty sure these are the same kids who still find joy in knocking people over via the back of the knee tap. NO. NOT HILARIOUS IN THE 8th GRADE.

AND STILL NOT GAINING HILARITY.

So do everyone a favor. Talk about people away from the dinner table just like we do in all of our civilized families. Or if you're going to choose the path of public ridicule, at least take the napkin off your face.





These views do not represent the views of Bug, Cricket, or Kris' exceptionally talented blog friends.

Your Best of 2005 (or, It's not a competition already)

So here it is, my gift to you: a list of a gazillion hand-coded links. A compilation of more than 70 posts follows, representing countless hours of writing effort and likely hundreds of hours spent living out their content. I have not screened or edited these, so follow each at your own peril. My hope is that you will link back to this post or its entries so that your readers may explore the work of fellow bloggers who shared favorite posts they penned, as well as the writing of those on blogger sidebars who decided to wait for the 2006 edition (you know who you are :)

Enjoy the rest of 2005. I look forward to blogging with you in the new year.

Hit me with your best Plot (or fiction)

FICTION: A SHORT STORY
I was thirteen and my world was a confusing mesh of childish whims and adult desires, as if some demon had possessed my body with an array of skin problems and mood swings. I could have easily dealt with the physical changes, but the feelings were the sort I hadn't experienced before and didn't know how to confront.

Tales from the Ripped (or, I was drinking when . . .)

Dear Skyy Vodka
Binge Drinker? Try and find a sponsor...And not one from AA...

I Thrive on Embarrassment
This post involves drinking, dancing and ripping out the seat of my pants inside of a Las Vegas night club. Then, consuming an excessive amount of alcohol to dull my senses.

Wallace on Wine
Coming up with a weekly wine column is hard work. So I tried to imagine how David Foster Wallace would pen a wine review. Plus I had been drinking.

Zip and Tuck
How good of a friend is Dave? Read on and find out!

Anal Penetration
Rest assured, it's not what you're thinking...

We're just here to do the Superbowl shuffle (or Sports)

Wie, Wie, Wie, All the Way Home
A discussion of Michelle Wie getting disqualified from her first professional LGPA tournament because of some nosy, nabob of a reporter who narced on her after the fact.

Holden Caufield (or, frankly, my disillusionment)

The shit hat and the stool sample
Can dignity and health care co-exist? The sad tale of the stool sample suggests the answer is obvious - no.

Semper Fidelis
Or, more guilt. Just what a new mother needs at Christmas.

Gumming of age (or Growing older)

No pasa nada
It's my problem free philosophy and the realization that this is how I am so just deal.

Siding with Cider
Whether it's because of the spiked cider at Tryst or the absence of this blogger's financial chi, Rebecca Knox quickly gets over a misinterpreted one-night stand and focuses on the relationships that aren't so ephemeral.

Passing time
My little sister Chicky turns 22 today . . .

I can't believe it's not butter, spray! (or Romance/Relationships)

N*ked Man Dance
A little story about my husband that took place shortly after he moved in (before we were married)...

I Could Feel You
(A post from the originator of the Best of List . . .)

Kickball Pays Off
It turned out to be the beginning of an ill-fated romance.

Complacency has its Limits
When are we in danger of dating complacency kicking in TOO much?

Recognizing the Need to Heal a Broken Heart
In this post I describe what it is like to have a huge shield over my heart in order to not become broken hearted once again. I write about wanting to change and take that shield down and take a risk again.

Dear Huge
I had been sparring with this wine blogger, so I wrote him a letter imploring him to try a particular wine. It must've knocked his socks off as his blog closed up shop shortly after our long distance tiff.

By request
Girl meets boy. Hurricane renders boy homeless. Girl and Boy shack up. Romance ensures.

Hurry Up and Date
My experience at a speed dating event . . .

How (not) to have sex
One in a series of "dating guidelines." My approach to the dilemma of how not to rush into sleeping with someone.

You'll rave about this rant (or Opinion)

Driving Me to Drink
A personal opinion? I think not. This is reality, people.

All About Eve
My reaction to All About Eve. I've done a few movie reviews, but this one just stands on its own, whether or not you could pick Bette Davis out of a line up.

Today in Bitchery
An Open Letter to the Folks Who Put the Clear Adhesive Along the Top of
all Packaged CDs.

I love this stuff
Not Your typical Jersey Girl on Skinny Cows.

Is Summer Over Yet?
From the graveyard of Mel's once "Wedded Bliss", we are reminded of why the Summer of 2005 was one of the worst. To be followed by "Winter of '05-'06 can kiss my ass."

Of the way we murr . . . (Memories)

A complex phrase, in which the various parts are enchained
When I was nine years old, my brother and my cousin sat me down taught me absolutely nothing about the female reproductive system.

Shit happens
What do you wipe with in the wilderness? One woman's story of shame in the streets of Santa Cruz, CA.

Vignette
Me, my college boyfriend and his bedroom.

She don't lie, She don't lie, She don't lie
This is a Memories entry about a Girl, a Grandma, Cocaine and a big, blue Cougar. And, in a roundabout way, how they all relate to music.

Her Royal Highness of Pastry Land
Some perks of growing up in the 1970's.

Dear Mom
This is the letter I wrote to my mom the night of the anniversary of her death. I never intended to post it to my blog at all, but somehow it ended up that way. It’s full of honesty and raw emotion and many people commented that it made them cry.

Pieces, pieces, pieces of me (Autobiographical)

Ghosts, Forgiveness and All Hallows Eve
A bit of a rant, a bit autobiographical, a bit philosophical.

Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda
Thoughts about regrets and do-overs. All the things I could have, would have, should have done.

The Haunted Basement
What's more fun that a barrel full of monkeys? Visiting your Mormon relatives and meeting the ghost who lives in their basement.

Possibly My Most Embarrassing Post Thus Far
Enough said.

Meditations on Sunlit Window
I chose this piece because I like my "truth" posts (meditations) the best; by telling these little stories about myself, I connect with my readers on the grounds that all of us are just a little bit wacko, and that's perfectly OK.

To Know Me is to Love Me
Often my writing comes from anger or frustration or angst or tears. When I am happy I write about what color I painted my apartment. This time I’m frustrated.

I'm an Emotional Eater
After the separation from her husband of less than a year, Mel takes a look at the vices that she must overcome to make it through the end of her marriage. Warning: do not read if you are hungry.

Look kids, it's story time
A story about a girl struggling with her inner demons. You'll be intrigued by this tale of crisis, embarassment and loss....

Revenge is a dish best served cold. And with a Louisville Slugger
Question: What do you get when you live with 2 coke whores? Answer: Kicked out in the middle of the night and swollen knuckles from teaching them to fuck with you.

Perennial
About forgetting an important anniversary and the steps that I took to make up for it after the fact.

I feel witty, oh so witty (or Humor)

Rudi in the Sky with Santa
More enlightened discourse (such as it is) about the unanswered questions posed by the famous Christmas special, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

Blognesia
This is a little ditty about making up excuses when you don't tend to your blog and eating processed food intended for other species. Oh, and a mother's love.

The Pitch
The classic Hollywood battle except this time the writer wins.

Where there are lips
This post is about vaginal teeth.

The Handsome Canadian
True stories that are also truly funny.

How to Lose a Guy in 10 Seconds
So what if he thinks you're crazy and doesn't call you again; isn't that the point?

Crazy People Say the Darndest Things
An entry about the town crazy. Especially relatable if you have crazy in your genes.

Another Real Man of Genius
A true classic. This is my own rendition of Bud Light's "Real Men of Genius" ad campaign. This one is in honor of some guy who took a naked picture of himself and kept leaving frat-boy, horn-dog comments on my blog.

Vatican Idol
This fine gem was inspired by the excitement that gripped the world as we waited breathlessly for the word of who the new Pope would be... Anyway, it occurred to me that it would be more fun if they had a show to decide... Vatican Idol.

Lord of the Rinks (or "Midget Hockey")
Today started off with a bang. I was up at the butt crack of dawn to watch the fruit of my womb play hockey . . .

So you wanna be a hipster band
You don't need to be talented or attractive to be in a hipster band, but you will need a coke habit.

Conversations with Myself
I spent a weekend talking to myself and crying over Coach bags. Enough said.

Why, Dex, Why?
The horrors of owning too many phonebooks. Since writing this entry in March, I have received 4 more.

Maybe I'll fantasize about that...
An excerpt from an IM session I had with a boy named Adam Outlaw. We've never met each other.

Medieval Torture American Style
I joined a bodybuilder gym. Hilarity and humiliation ensues.

An Open Letter To Tom Cruise
This is the post where I let Tom know that I'm hip to what he's up to and throw down the gauntlet. That was eight months ago and I still haven't heard from him. What a p*ssy!

Morning Person? Not So Much
If you know what’s good for you, do not bother me in the morning.

I can't decide between a story I posted about seeing my mother-in-law naked and the story about her feeding me glass in soup.

Blog, sweat, and fears
I am a sweat-phobic. I am totally and completely paranoid about perspiration. And I don't even sweat a lot.

And Now.....The Man You've All Been Waiting For...
FUDD: One Night Only

Moving to Entertainment News:
In a surprising turn of events, the role of Angelina Jolie will now be played by up and coming newcomer, Brookelina.

Weber You Believe Me or Not
The blog post was a true story from this year's Thanksgiving festivities. I had to do something to rescue the family from a lack of turkey so they got me. Maybe too much of me.

Iambic pentameter, hear me roar (Poetry)

Lament
About not having what you think you want.

Ode to Tea
For the lovelorn, the under-sexed and all those who are uncompanioned ... there is tea.

Unnatural State of Philosophy
With a backdrop of Georgetown swank, Rebecca Knox takes hold of her emotions right on M Street -- distracted by a cab's spinning rims. Fresh out of college, she shows an inner-struggle for truth and understanding.

Gardenburger Poem of Devotion by Erin
I wrote this after attending a barbeque where i stood around looking stupid and drinking a beer. After 5 people gave me the protein inquisition, i decided to drink 3 more beers, go home, and write this poem of devotion....

Untitled
I posted this on another blog and it was definitely drug-induced while in the ER one day, but here it is for your enjoyment.

A Bumble A Bumble
Big Bouncy Bumbles with Bounteous Bosoms

My cat beat up your honor roll student (or Stuff about my babies and/or felines)

Perfection Itself is Imperfection
This is just a strange post regarding the amazing ways to compartmentalize my music collection and the revealing patterns that I found thanks to the good folks at iTunes. It was also a huge experiment in linking. I went ape-link with it. My iPod is like a baby...or a pet.

Got it BAD

Inspired by Megarita who brought the possibility of such a disorder to my attention.

Diagnostic criteria for Blog Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder

A. Either (1) or (2):
(1) Six (or likely more, if you're honest with yourself) of the following symptoms of inattention have persisted for the duration of your time in the blogosphere, to a degree that is maladaptive and inconsistent with the developmental level of other 32 year olds not living at home or working at the post office.

Inattention
(a) often fails to give close attention to TPS reports and other minutiae required by supervisors at paying day job
(b) often has difficulty sustaining attention in tasks or play activities because of thoughts of those on blogroll (including but not limited to: I bet Jurgen would just love this lip gloss; If I won the lottery, I really would buy Poppy a fountain soda dispenser, I wonder if Neil proposed to Brooke today)
(c) finds self completely unable to read even own 100 things about me post in one sitting
(d) neglects to shower on time at least once a week due to failed promise to stop after reading "just one more blog"
(e) regularly replaces common professional editing marks with LOLs, ROTFLs, and various inappropriate emoticons
(f) often has difficulty organizing tasks and activities (e.g., "Honey, we can heavy pet right after I finish this entry," and/or "The twins know how to use the deep fryer just fine on their own. Just one more minute!")

(2) Six (or more, c'mon, we're among friends) of the following symptoms have persisted for the duration of your time on Blogger, to a degree that is maladaptive and inconsistent with the level present in your other hobby activities, including, but not limited to scrapbooking, fantasy football, online poker, gardening, and masturbation.

Hyperactivity
(a) often fidgets with hands or feet in meetings, Safeway grocery line, stirrups due to being struck with perfect blog idea
(b) often talks excessively about blogging to friends/family who have no idea what a blog is
(c) often talks excessively about blogging to friends/family who know what a blog is, but who could absolutely not care less
(d) leaves meetings, religious services, movies, ER under guise of restroom use to check on blogs of self and others
(e) at least once a week publishes 1) blog entry with two or more grammatical or spelling errors, or 2) lame, phoned-in entry due to pressure to publish

Impulsivity
(f) often comments on blogs prior to finishing entire entry and/or accompanying comments
(g) bypasses reading blog entry for the day due to it grossly exceeding your 350-word-limit processing capacity
(h) interjects inappropriate blogger content into real-world situations (e.g., Spinning Girl would so call that "FABU!" "Oh my gosh, Mogul has been saying the SAME THING about her pregnancy!" "That same thing happened to Sizzle on her last date" and the ever-popular "Hey guys, Jordan so totally got laid!")
(i) lies needlessly about blogging activity so as not to appear consumed by said blogging activity (e.g., "I'm just checking on that Air Jamaica airline strike," "Phew. Looks like that storm in the Himalayas isn't going to hit us!")

B. The symptoms do not occur exclusively during the course of an evening spent with 750 ml of Chardonnay, a TiVo'd episode of Lost, and a life-sized poster of John Stamos.

On being a blog snob, or blob for short

I’m a critic about quite a few things, but lately nothing has piqued my snobbery quite like blogging has. Casing the joint that is the blogosphere, I find myself screaming these questions at Bug and Cricket, who have chosen wisely to spend most of their time far from the PC.

When did the blog world turn into six degrees of craparation? I find that with almost unfailing accuracy, I can make it through only so many blogs, linking via blogroll from one to the next, until the quality of said sites plunges. I ultimately end up at a blog pimping stretch mark cream (oh yes, someone really does link to those) or another that hasn’t been updated since Mickey Rourke was attractive. Has recipro-linking gone too far?

Why do some really crappy blogs get so many readers? My sister experiences a similar phenomenon while attending our hometown church at Christmas. The girl from high school with three eyes and the one huge boob always shows up with a man on her arm, while my sister passes her single peace. One probably shouldn’t think whore so much in church, she reports back.

Why do some write about every, little, single, humdrum, minute aspect of the everyday? I don’t care about you waking up and eating Meuslix (or were they Bran Flakes?) or about you slipping off your pink slippers and then getting into the shower. Unless your Cheerios rose to the surface of your milk and spelled out “do me,” your slipper had a half-pound wolf spider in it, or you walked smack into the clear shower door, it’s just what we all live. I don’t want to see a movie about the routine parts of someone’s life. This is why I avoid Woody Allen flicks. And Seinfeld.

This is in praise of the flava you all (yes, you) bring to the experience that is blogging. I am moved in some way every time I read about you staring at the frisky grandparents in the apartment across the way, the sick joy you feel when your arch nemesis trips in the board room, and the raw emotion that envelops you when a loved one passes away.

Know that your sites make my day.

And what if you one of you ends up being like Ross?

Increasingly, I have noted that bloggers are breaking down the walls of Internet anonymity and meeting up face to face. For example, DC bloggers are known to gather for regular blogger happy hours in downtown haunts. This in and of itself doesn't really faze me. I have one good outfit for such occasions, can carry on a semi-entertaining conversation even during my bout of sobriety, and generally do not fear that those with whom I cyber-interact are true stalker material. But I do worry about one simple thing: Would I really like you guys in person?

This concern is not without basis. My beau has a set rule about people saying "You must meet so-and-so's friend. You two are going to get along so well!" Said well-intentioned folk then detail all the ways in which the two men are similar. Same senses of humor, a love for sports, travel, and all-you-can-eat MD crabs. Enter the curse, the surefire way to ensure that the two will not be braiding each other's hair at future sleepovers. Eventually the meeting takes place. And the beau invariably hates him. The same sense of humor ends up being content similar but with a caustic delivery, the love of sports a comparable passion but for opposing teams. Lesson one that sometimes all you are on paper does not translate well in person.

I once met a fellow teen with whom I instantly connected on a high-school retreat. He was warm, intelligent and quirky in the good way. We vowed to keep in touch after our week of bonding. And unlike so many other teens, we followed through. I was overjoyed when his first letter arrived in the mail, written on notebook paper with the fringes still intact. But he sounded different in his letters. Somebody had taken a class in creepy (read: let's talk about guns and the evils of authority and assorted other strangeness) after I waved goodbye from the bus on our last day. And this somebody had gotten an A+. Lesson one that sometimes all you are in person does not translate well on paper.

Oh, don't think I assume that you'll like me. I nap too much, am cranky as all get up when I don't have Diet Coke, and frequently tune out during conversations. I give the evil eye to kids when they make noise in public places (like the park playground). I write a good game but I am not nearly as affable or fun in person. My close friends, family, colleagues, my cats, post office clerks, the ice cream man, the 7-11 cashier, and the kid who wouldn't type in my check card numbers even though I KNOW THE MACHINE WILL TAKE IT can vouch for that.

That said, should we all meet for drinks sometime in October, say, in Kansas?

Spammers, you have forced me to turn on the word verification software. Now I feel like Ticketmaster. Thanks a bunch.

So spammers, here's a big t7Kq you, word-verification style.

The Management

Spam libs

Hello (derogatory adjective) writer!

I saw your (insulting adjective) comment on my blog today. Thanks for stopping by, you (belittling noun)!

I'm not sure why you devoted your blog to (heinous affliction), the uses for a (kitchen utensil) in the bedroom, or the wonders of (histrionic Canadian pop sensation married to her 80-year-old manager) , but more importantly, why do you think we need to be there with you?

We presently have no need for your (type of snake oil), (specific pyramid scheme), (radical religious or political preference), or giant miniature golf windmill, but please feel free to stop back at my site when (afterworld) freezes over.

No, no. Really. If we EVER need a (nationality)-Internet bride, crates of (collectable ceramic characters), or (food item) bearing the image of (religious icon), we'll write you.

No really.

(British salutation),
(Your name here)

Sweet Blogger High

Despite the massive, uncharted size of the information superhighway, blogging is starting to feel more and more to me like attending high school in a small town.

Technorati tells us who our most popular bloggers are, but that is mere confirmation of what we already know. We run across the names of and links to these cooler cats on nearly every Blogger nav bar. Go Fug Yourself. Defective Yeti. We even have a prom queen, and she resides at Dooce.com.

Blogger relationships are also similar. When a new kid makes his way onto the scene, you either embrace him by linking and tell your girlfriends about him, or he is at once relegated to the lunchroom table status of fewer than 25 hits a day. When a regular visitor doesn't comment on your site, but leaves a comment on a blog you regularly visit, it is at times a pang akin to running into your best friends at the mall when they both said they'd rather stay home.

Blog relationships don't always survive, either. A solid friendship established in your freshman year of blogging can change almost overnight:

She's funny and all, but she makes fun of fat people when she's out with her other friends.
Please don't push your religion on me. Not even remotely cool.
I got the sense that he wanted to push things too far, so I'm going to back off of that one. Quickly.

By sophomore year, the friendship landscape often looks pretty different than it once did.

The Jake Ryans of the Net generally write about sports and women/cases of beer consumed the night before. There's a good bit of iambic pentameter and haiku in the writings of the AP kids. And the artsy students have beautiful, intricate and incredibly frustrating anime pages.

True to my memory, my stat counter reveals that most foreign exchange students come to class regularly, but rarely speak up.

The loner kids on the verge of a blossoming conduct disorder are also represented in our blogging community: they're called trolls. When they aren't in the basement talking about the latest in pipe bomb technology, they're online sending nasty-grams to a blogger near you.

And finally, there's the One who is unattainable. The blogger you'll crush on because he or she always has a better pop culture reference, more comments or a much sweeter site template. The one who always had the well-placed locker, a date for homecoming and Oxy-clean skin FOR ALL FOUR YEARS. Damn her.

Oh well. I'm late for 2nd period. Maybe later you can sign my yearbook.

What every woman should know

Poppy's husband made her watch another Tom Cruise interview last night. As any woman would, she feared for her safety and mental health.

We must stop the insanity before he takes over. Women, prepare youself. Tom Cruise is bound to be on TV again soon. My advice to Poppy, and the millions of innocent others just like her:

Should you find yourself in a similar situation again, fearing that a manic Tom Cruise will a) bite you, forever rendering you susceptible to Scientology, or b) jump through your television screen with Ms. Holmes attached to his back, follow these simple tips:

1) Repeat after me: "I'm on Prozac. I'm on Prozac." Your admission of using psychotropic drugs will render you useless and unappealing to Mr. Cruise, who thinks everyone should be able to overcome clinical depression with Dexatrim.

2) Ask politely, "Can you show me your Oscar?" Confusion and denial should set in. Melting process (a la the Wicked Witch of the West) should commence within 2.4 seconds.

3) Apply Katie Holmes mask, complete with unusally small cherub teeth, to your husband's face. Hide behind him. Tom Cruise should promptly begin making out with your masked husband allowing you to flee to higher ground. Note: Remove husband from environment within two days to avoid imminent Tom Cruise marriage proposal.

4) Quickly remove the couch from your immediate vicinity. All evidence shows that he does not appear a threat in areas where he has no couch from which to preach.

5) Insert bike pump into Mr. Cruise's right ear. Inflate to 26 ppsi. Already swollen head should explode. Caution: if mouth is wide open in witch cackle stance at point of combustion, move at great speed for cover. Flying Chiclet teeth have been known to cause injury in laboratory rats and Kidman household.

Good luck.

Someone just got to my site after Googling "drunk girl wet."

I'm pretty sure this is the exact life my parents dreamed of for me.