The Order of Things
So, I’m giving a talk tonight at TEDxBoulder. And I just got my hair cut this morning. When I told the director of my school that I finally felt comfortable enough to pick out my outfit and schedule my haircut, she balked. “That’s where you and I are different,” she said.
She told me that when she was a La Leche League organizer she would tell new mothers that the hardest time of the day is that pre-dinner time hour, because the baby is so used to be hustled and bustled in the belly before being born, but now the mother wants the baby to be still and quiet so she can prepare dinner. So her advice was to set the table first, because that way you know that no matter what happens dinner will end up on that set table. And no matter what happens in preparing for a speech you will get up on stage in that outfit.
This is something I’m not very good at. Taking care of the easy part first. The final touches.
But either way, the talk is prepared. I’m dressed. My hair is cut. And I’m going to be getting up in front of a ridiculously large audience to speak in a just a couple hours.
Here we go.
Toothaches Cause Death. Awesome.
I have really bad teeth. I like to blame this on the fact that I am British. (Well, my dad is, so that makes me, by proxy, right?) And I clench my teeth in my sleep.
Regardless of the reason, let’s just say I know my dentist really well.
So, a few months ago, I finally got all my dental work done, and on the last day they said, “Oh guess what, that tooth that you thought was okay? It actually needs a root canal.” And I, like the fool that I am, decided not to spend the money because it wasn’t really hurting.
Except it is now. Really really badly. Like, bad enough that all I want to do is curl into a little ball and cry. It feels a bit like someone is taking a serrated knife and shoving it right through my gums and into my brain. Then twisting it.
So, I scheduled the root canal. But the dentist can’t see me for two weeks. But that’s cool, right? I can stick it out for two weeks.
Then I found this article. Yup. Somebody died from a toothache. Oh good god. I’m screwed.
So. Awesome. That’s all I have to say.
Happy New Year!!!
I’ve been thinking for a while about starting to do a post-a-day blog (which totally makes sense because I’ve been such a fail at even getting post-a-month going) and I was going to wait until new years because that’s when you do stuff like that, right? But then I thought, that’s silly, the new year is such an arbitrary date, and it adds too much pressure. Why not just start on September 3?
I think this will be really fun because my dad and my ex-husband both say that I am bi-polar so it will be like a roller-coaster log of emotions! (Both my therapist and one of my girlfriends say I am not bi-polar, so two against two and the verdict is out.)
Plus, I desperately need to finish creating my presentation for TEDx Boulder and when else should you start a time and creativity consuming project of frivolity than when you are trying to work on a time and creativity consuming project of necessity?
I think that this project will be really difficult for me because I am absolutely no good at things which require systems, schedules, regularity and dedication. And so I am laying out a few ground rules to keep my (and my three readers’) expectations low:
- Am I allowed to pre-write posts and then auto-schedule them? Yes!
- Am I allowed to write about stuff that happened days, weeks or months earlier and then blog about them with no regard to chronology? Yes!
- Am I allowed to put words on a Mute Mondays photography blog? Yes!
- Am I allowed to do a Mute Mondays blog post on any day of the week? Yes!
- What happens if I miss a day? Five hail marys and I lose two internets!
- Am I allowed to make up or change rules as I go along? Yes!
Alright? Alright!
Here we go!
“Just Remember: Death is Not the End”
I feel like I have been surrounded by death this year.
Most of my life, I have escaped without being touched too harshly. All of my grandparents have passed, but I was relatively young when that happened. And I have lost cats – which have been soulfully painful experiences. Other than that, I have been somewhat blessed in this department.
This year, it’s been everywhere.
My brother’s mother-in-law died in November. She was a beautiful woman. Young and full of love and happiness. A gentle spirit. And her relationship with her two daughters was an inspiration to say the least. I have never met three women who loved each other more.
A couple months later, The Girl’s Great-Grandmother died handing out Valentines. She was in her nineties, and she handed out notes to her friends to let them know how much she loved them. Then she sat down, and bless her little heart, she just didn’t stand back up. (I hope my last act may be one of such love.)
My friend Scott passed away a month or so ago after living with MS most of his life. He was young and cheerful and kind.
Then my neighbor, who I’ve mentioned before. He was just a baby, practically.
This weekend, one of my educational mentors died. He was a beautiful man. With a passion for helping teachers see, value, and honor their students. He made it possible for countless teachers to find alternative, constructive methods of education. He helped shape our school.
The lives he touched are endless – the hundreds of teachers who passed through his programs to the thousands of children who were taught by them.
When he spoke his voice was so soft and quiet that you really had to strain to pick up on his dry sense of humor. He was exactly the kind of man you’d want for a grandfather. And he was so willing to go the extra mile for those he mentored.
It feels almost natural that his passing came in the last week of school. For me, so poignant as I say good-bye to the class who I have journeyed with for three years. It is almost the death of an era.
And as I am sitting here, desperately trying to quell the anxiety attack that is welling within, I am trying to hold the thought of the tarot meaning of “death”. Not that it is an end, or a plunge into blackness, but a significant change.
As Bob Dylan said (and Nick Cave so eloquently covered):
“When you’re standin’ on the crossroads
That you cannot comprehend,
Just remember:
Death is not the End.”
Hooray for attachment issues! The blog about why I stopped blogging for a while
I get really really uncomfortable when people pay attention to me. My therapist relates this back to my attachment disorder (she’s really good at relating everything back to that) and it has something to do with my fear of screwing up, and a fear of intimacy, and other psycho-social goodness.
So, when my blog stats hit 300 I kind of panicked and ran away from it because I realized it was actually getting read.
But, and I’m sure this also relates back to my attachment issues, I really like to make my life more challenging by taking on tasks that scare the shit out of me and that I’m probably not qualified to do – so, here I am, actively deciding to jump back on the proverbial horse and keep airing my craziness to the vast world of the internets.
Hooray. And here we go.
Puppies and Kittens who are really into Metal – or how rock and roll made me a better teacher
I used to have a really hard time going to concerts. I get really into music. And I love it. But I’m not really one of those people who jump around and dance in front of people. Instead, I tend to watch other people jump around and dance. With what I think is my neutral expression on my face. Which clearly, as I am learning, is a rather pained look. (The Girl has started to ask why I look so funny – I just can’t help it. I’m funny looking.)
So, when I used to go to concerts and I’d be having a really good time watching other people jump around, I would look like I was having a miserable time. And ultimately the people I was with would mistake my neutral expression for one of misery and ask me what was wrong and was I sure there was nothing they could do to help me feel better, and because I’m a people pleaser, I would stop having a good time and worry about the fact that I was making the people I was with feel uncomfortable and then I would truly start to have a miserable time but I would also try to fake looking happy so I could stop making other people uncomfortable. So, yeah. Concerts were awkward.
Recently though, with all my gained wisdom and experience, or perhaps my loss of caring whether other people are happy or not, I have rediscovered my love of concerts. I love watching the musicians’ almost psychic conversations with each other through the language of their instruments. I love watching the scenesters who attend concerts – the way people dress in the uniform of the genre, the way some people get so into the music they’re just gone, the way some people are there just for the drinking and socializing. It all amazes me.
And the other night I went to the most adorable metal show ever. Last summer my friend and I got tattoos and then she befriended the tattoo artist and then we went to his Christmas party and then she befriended the guitar player from this Denver band The Black Sleep of Kali and so we ended up at a show with so many hard core unicorns in the room I almost couldn’t stand it (literally – unicorns). And it was loud and it was obnoxious the way metal is supposed to be, but it was also really heartwarming. And they were really good. And all I could think was “This show would be like puppies and kittens if puppies and kittens were really into metal.” But then I thought that was a slightly blasphemous thought in the metal world. But then my friend confirmed that they were indeed adorable. And she told the guitar player that they were refreshing (which they were! I felt so ready to face the world again) and he said he’d never been described that way before. (and ps, I totally just looked at their Myspace page and there’s a review right on it that describes them as “refreshing” so… )
And I was thinking as I was watching it how natural it felt to be a people watcher at that show and how much fun I was having despite the fact that I had no desire to enter the mosh pit. And then I was thinking about all the children I’ve observed who enter a situation and stand back and watch. And I’ve seen them with delighted looks on their faces. And yet I still have this desire to encourage them to “join the fun” – as though they can’t possibly be having fun and learning if they’re not actively engaged. As if I will have failed as a teacher or parent if I haven’t supported them in being an active member of play.
Photo credit goes to bryan Johnson - who assures me he's a professional
And yet, here I was at this concert, having a great time because no one was pushing me to “join the fun”. Instead I was able to watch and observe and learn in my own space and style.
And so, cheers to Black Sleep of Kali – rock and roll so refreshing it can improve your teaching. Truly a show of puppies and kittens.
I’m presenting at Ignite Boulder – Dear God, What Have I Done?
Sometimes I do ridiculous things without thinking them through.
At work I have been very involved in helping to develop the philosophy portion of an exhibit about the incredibly inspirational educational philosopher David Hawkins and his wife Frances.
Together they developed a school and a style of teaching that is so intuitive and fun and brilliant and provocative it never ceases to amaze me that we don’t teach all students this way.
And sometimes I just want to shout about the amazingness.
So, when we were discussing Ignite Boulder – a series of five minute presentations (“sparks”) given on a wide variety of topics – and came up with the idea that we could totally do a spark on the Hawkins, I was like, “Yeah we could.”
And then I was reading the rules the day before the sparks were due and I was like, “All I need to do is come up with two sentences to get voted on now – I can totally string two sentences together.”
And then I was talking to a friend about it and she looked really worried and said, “You do know it is supposed to be funny, right?” (and I ducked so I wouldn’t get punched in the face).
And then people were voting on it – and I sort of half-heartedly promoted it. But then my friend who is way better at promoting things than I am (and who is also presenting – yay!) decided to help promote my spark. But deep down inside I was like “No way it will get accepted. It’ll be another feeling of rejection. That’s okay. I’m used to that.”
And then today I got the email saying it was accepted and now I’m going to be talking in front of a lot of people for five straight minutes. And now instead of the fear of my two sentences getting rejected (which I could write off because it is only two sentences) I have this massive fear of five minutes of my thoughts getting rejected. By lots and lots of people. And not just my thoughts but also the ideas of two people whose work is really important and inspirational and I have only five minutes to convey their ideas and do them justice AND be funny!
Excuse me, I’m going to go have a nice big panic attack.
Zombie Easter – an invitation I’m proud of
A few years ago, The Girl was reading a book about Frankenstein’s monster and asked me whether he was the original zombie. I really didn’t know the answer to that – but I knew someone who would: Her dad.
She called him up:
The Girl: Hi Daddy. Who was the original zombie?
The Dad: (without hesitation) Jesus.
Now, technically, I think Lazarus would be the O.Z… but who am I to split hairs? With that bug planted, I knew we needed to celebrate the ultimate zombie holiday.
And so, I just wrote and sent out the following invitation to WAY more people than could possibly fit in my house… Yay! Something to look forward to!
Gratuitous pic of me and friends as zombies
Oh noes! The fancy Easter party got invaded by zombies! Everyone is eternally in their Sunday best!
Come join us to celebrate Zombie Jesus Day.
There will be a prize for the best Zombie Easter food (so bring your favorite traditional dish)
(We’ll be making deviled eggs, jello mold, and cheesecake – let people know in the comments what you’ll bring)
There’ll be an egg dye-ing station (so you can decorate your own fabulous eggs) and they can rise again – as Zombie Eggs!
And also, BYOB(asket) because the Zombie Easter Bunny promised to lay out a rollicking good egg hunt with fabulous prizes!
Children are more than welcome, but please use your discretion as to whether they might get frightened because it is a costume party. If you feel like your child is brave enough, please bring them because The Girl is hoping to have friends there!
You could dress as:
a fancy zombie party-goer
Zombie Jesus
Zombie Easter Bunny
or a victim waiting to happen
We’ll supply a bowl o’ blood if you want to zombify at the party.
Hooray! And Hoppy Zombie Jesus Day.
Hearts,
The Girl, The Friend, Alex
Please feel free to invite other people if you think of them (or if we missed them – my computer-inviting skills = not-so-good) – Remember, more people, more brains!
My Prayer to Ceiling Cat
When I was little I would think about all the ways I would pay my parents back when I was an adult and rich and famous. I would buy them houses and take them on trips and make their lives comfortable – just as they had done for me.
And now I am an adult (technically). (And I still need a lot of help.)
But, with the birth of my daughter and my nephew I reevaluated my whole position on paying back. I don’t ever want The Girl to feel like paying me back. I want The Girl to go out and take care of other people who need her help. (Yes, that most trite of terms, “Pay it Forward”.)
Every time I feel like I have hit my lowest point, someone in my life steps forward to help me. Usually offering, without knowing, exactly what I need at that moment.
Usually it is someone from my very tight inner circle. Sometimes it is a random phone call from someone in an outer circle.
Sometimes their offerings are a dilemma from their own life to share with me (remember my “Jesus complex”? I need that). Sometimes their offerings are dinner and a glass of wine and sound advice.
And as I was driving home last night, from a lovely dinner with a glass of wine and some good laughs and some sound advice, I was thinking about my desire to give to the community who has supported me so much. And I can only pray to God, or the Goddyss, or the Divine Consciousness, or Celing Cat, that my offerings of support are proportional to my gratitude.
(Yay for cheesiest post ever.)
My So-Called Jesus Complex
I think I have a “Jesus complex”. Fitting, cause I’m a Jew Girl.
Despite the fact that I can barely keep my own shit together, I feel inexplicably drawn to men who I want to help. Despite the fact that I need to be taken care of, I am heartbreakingly attracted to men who I want to take care of.
I just re-watched My So-Called Life (which painfully reminded me of my fashion mistakes of my youth). As I watched Angela pine for Jordan Catalano I saw my last semi-relationship played out on screen. (Umm, hello, perhaps I should be more embarrassed to admit that as this show is about high school kids and I’m already at the age where I’ve been invited to reunions.) Remember that episode where Angela goes to hear Frozen Embryo and Jordan plays that song “Red” and Angela thinks he’s singing about how he feels about her but really he’s singing about how he feels about his car? Yeah.
I’ve talked before about how I am not the kind of person who gets approached at concerts, coffee shops or bars. And yet, as the night was closing on a new years concert this year, an incredibly attractive man walked up to me and started to chat me up.
We went out on a couple dates and he seemed like an amazing candidate for a relationship. He was funny, smart, a writer, had a decent job. He was a musician (despite the fact that I’ve promised myself no more musicians) but not a bass player or a front man (go me!).
He did talk a lot about his band. But it was sweet and always about his emotional reaction to the problems with the band. Someone needed emotional support? Sign me up! He didn’t ask very many questions about my life or emotional needs – but he had to like me because he shared his problems with me, right? (Insert exasperated sigh with my inability to see the same old pattern here.) And surely these deep emotions of his translated to deep emotions for me (right, Angela???).
My birthday approached and he took me out to dinner the night before. I had mentioned my party and the concert I was going to and made it clear that he was not expected to attend. But he insisted he wanted to. He went out of his way to make plans to come to the party.
And then, a couple hours before the party, I get a text: “Sorry Darlin’. Can’t make it. Call me when you get to Denver and we’ll meet up after the show.” Okay. That’s fine. A party with my friends, daughter, boss, ex-husband – that’s a lot for a beginning of the relationship.
Except, he didn’t answer my call when I got to Denver. Or for the next three days.
When he did, he was so apologetic. His dog was sick (way to tug at those heartstrings). Could we please get together and talk in person. So we did, and I told him what I expect from a relationship and he agreed and we made plans to go to a show together. A Valentine’s DeVotchKa show.
And I thought, he just needs patience and kindness and support.
So, the Valentine’s show comes, and he’s late and moody. And he doesn’t even give me a hello hug. But his band is really going through some tough times and he’s really emotionally distraught, and I get that. I can be supportive. And again, if he is this emotionally invested in his relationship with his band that’s a sign that he can be this emotionally invested in a relationship with me.
Until he pulls me aside and says he has to go. Before DeVotchKa has even taken the stage. Do I want to give him a call after? And that part of me that wants to save people and take care of them said, “Yes! Yes of course I will. Whatever you need to feel good.” And that part of me that (through thousands of dollars that I don’t have worth of therapy) recognizes that it’s okay for me to have needs even if those needs result in my being alone, said, “No.”
And so he left. And I had a lovely emotional breakdown (fueled by rapid consumption of too much alcohol).
And then DeVotchKa played their song that goes“You already know how this will end.” And I realized that I did already know. I knew from date number two. I could not “save him” from his sadness.
And hopefully one day I will meet someone with whom I will know the ending is mutually beneficial. And someone whose song will be about me, not a car.
A punch in the face (or my long-winded apology for not being consistently funny)
I’ve never really considered myself “funny.” I mean, I can make myself laugh. I can make pre-schoolers laugh. Occasionally I can make adults laugh. But I wouldn’t describe myself as “funny.”
So the first time someone called me funny it was a huge compliment. Unfortunately, it was followed by a punch in the face.
I’m a pacifist. Seriously, I can’t even hurt a gnat. And people always say, “No sir, if you got hit you’d hit back.” But I can honestly say, I wouldn’t. And it’s been tested.
So, this was a few years ago, and my girlfriend and I were at the bar. And she got drunk. Really drunk. I was driving her home, and we had a disagreement. And in her blacked-out state she started yelling at me. About my faults. All of them. Specifically why I am an undesirable person to be around.
Now, I was already feeling pretty low and I didn’t react too well to having my faults screamed at me. The tirade went a little something like this, “You’re so stupid and ugly! And it’s no wonder everyone hates you! And you’re mean! And stupid! And ugly! And the only thing you have going for you is that you’re funny!” And, because I’m a little bit of an egomaniac, I paused my yelling back (mainly, “Get out of my face!”) to think, “ooh, really? I’m funny?!?”
And I also paused to turn left. Now, let’s consider this. I hate driving. I’m not good at it. This person knew this fact. Driving straight. That’s pretty easy. Turning right? Sure. But, like Zoolander, turning left? That’s difficult. You have to cross traffic.
And as I’m in the middle of turning left, bam. Sucker punched in the face. And I collected myself enough to pull over before I got punched again. Like seven more times.
And I did what any brave person does. I ducked and covered my face. (My glasses, by this point, shattered.)
My totally hot black eye
And then she starts yelling at me to give her a cigarette. Really? I don’t want to give you anything! But then, I did. To get her out of the car.
And I made it back to a friend’s house before she called. Screaming. About how she was getting arrested and I needed to come pick her up. Which I considered doing. Luckily, my way-too-nice-to-me friends picked her up instead. And drove her home. Where she punched one of them in the stomach.
(And then a couple days later, when we saw each other to give back the stuff that we had of each other’s, she said “Ooh! New glasses? When did you get those?”)
I think that what this left me with is a reinforcement of my inability to be funny for prolonged periods of time. And a great excuse for why my blog is not regularly funny. Because I’m afraid that if I write too many funny things I will get punched in the face.
Just kidding – it’s really because I’m not that great a writer. But it seems like a really good excuse, eh?
(FYI: this friend and I have since become friends again. It took a while. But like I said, I’m a pacifist.)
The Sandpaper and the Stylist (or how my emotions are ruled by my hair)
Some people, when they go to the hairdressers, chat. A lot. They have deep philosophical conversations with their stylist and they giggle and share intimate details.
I am not one of those people.
When I go to the salon I make small chit chat, but it is usually a relatively silent process. I would love to be the kind of person who talked with my stylist beyond my thoughts about my hair and checking on each other’s children. (Especially with the stylist who does my hair. She’s amazing. An artist. You can just tell from the way she touches your hair that she has a vision and a plan and she knows how to carry it out. And she’s a friend of a friend who, from stories I’ve heard, is an amazing person.) It’s just not the kind of person I am. (Sort of like how I don’t make friends with strangers at a park or coffee shop and very rarely (only if I’m very drunk) do I meet new people at a concert or a bar.)
This does not mean that I don’t enjoy getting my haircut. Quite the opposite.
Two years ago I let my hair get past an acceptable point of growing out (and I have short hair, so that is a pretty intense point). I also coincidentally (maybe) was going through a pretty low time in my personal world. I think pretty low is perhaps the worst description of those few months. It was worse than pretty low. I felt a little bit like someone had taken my brain and emotions and wrapped them in sandpaper and thrown them against a wall every few days. No real trigger. Just ongoing yuck.
Then I went and got my haircut and it was like that sandpaper was taken off. I just felt so much better. I stopped feeling like I was the scum of the earth and like I was destined for failure.
I know, I know. It’s just a haircut. And what a shallow thing to have such power over my emotions. (Except that it represents so much more than just a haircut. It took me so long in my life to make the connection between my emotions and the way I take care of myself both physically and emotionally – but that’s a story for another time.)
And so I promised myself I wouldn’t let my hair get to that point again.
Except, I broke that promise this year. I went six months without a haircut (you know: no time to go in, then this expense pops up, then that one). And the sandpaper came back. And then, that sandpaper keeps me from getting my hair done even more (because, you know, I don’t deserve to spend that money on something so worthless as my hair).
And then, this week, I remembered that experience from two years ago.
And so I made the call and made an appointment.
And then, because I have the tendency to self-sabotage I missed the appointment. No reason, I just forgot. Blanked it out (I mean, I had spent the prior two days talking about how excited I was to go get my hair done – it was present in my brain).
I managed to reschedule, and I went and got my hair done. And it’s amazing. And the sandpaper feels like a much finer grit.
But because of my already natural inability to talk to stylists, now combined with my shame about standing her up for our appointment, I couldn’t possibly let her know how important her artistry is to me. How it is so much more than just an amazing haircut – it is really a reshaping of my emotional reference point.
And so, I put it here instead.
The First Lady
I saw my first ladybug of the season today.
I’m pretty affected by changing seasons (that SAD thing where you get sad as the seasons affect you… I can never remember whether the “d” stands for disorder or disease or dinosaur) and spring and fall are hardest for me – the transitional times throw my body into a tailspin.
But the emergence of the critters – like ladybugs – are a real plus about Spring. So I was glad to say hello to this one, hitching a ride on my friend’s skirt. And I was glad to see the children’s faces when she showed them the bug.
So, in honor of the first ladybug here’s some pictures of the girl spreading ladybugs (several years ago, obvi) on her grandparents’ farm.
Please, think of the kittens!
Do you know those people who are capable of holding an entire conversation without actually understanding a single word the other person has said?
For instance, my daughter goes out of town to visit her grandparents every few weeks and someone asked me, “How’s the girl?” and I replied, “She’s down on the farm.” And they replied, “Mmm. That’s nice. Give her a hug for me.” And it was clear that they didn’t mean when she gets back because, despite the fact that I had just said she was out of town, clearly the words that registered in their head were, “She’s doing great and she’s right here with me now.”
And I wanted to scream, “Did you hear me??? I said she’s out of town!!” But I didn’t.
Because when I have conversations like this (and I don’t mean conversations where for a few minutes my conversational partner gets distracted and zones out – because I’m pretty sure I have ADD and I know that I do that too – I mean conversations where the other person has already had the conversation in their head and you are really just superfluous) instead of telling the person that I don’t think they are understanding my meaning, I shut down. My sentences become shorter, and my breath gets shallow, and my throat gets tight. And I start to nod (and I’d say smile but apparently my facial expressions are pretty transparent so I’m sure I just look like I have to go to the bathroom) until the other person thinks I’m completely stupid and gives up and walks away from me, probably feeling pity that I’m incapable of forming real thoughts (if they’ve even noticed that there was something strange about the exchange at all). And then I start to cry – because, really that’s what solves every situation.
As adults we have it pretty good – the majority of people in the world (in my world anyway) are, for the most part, pretty empathetic and two-sided conversationalists. There is a fair amount of give-and-take in most adult relationships.
Children, though. Ugh.
For some reason, we adults do this to children all the time. As though a child is not capable of creating her own thought path, so we must do it for her.
Child: “Check out this totally awesome rocket I just built!”
Adult: “Mm hmm. Rockets are adorable. Aren’t you cute for building something. Did
you eat your lunch?”
Child: “WTF? How are those in any way related? Did you hear a word I just said???”
I know for the girl this is the one thing that positively drives her over the edge. You can believe me or not, but this girl is one of the easiest people to get along with. (She is, as the Waldorf-ians define it: sanguine with a secondary melancholic temperament – meaning she’s usually jolly and a bit of a people pleaser). You want to disagree with her? No problem, she’ll try to understand your point of view. You want to ask her to put away her laundry? Sure, sure. You need to go to a two hour long staff meeting? This six-year-old child happily sits down and colors for two hours. But man, if she is talking to you and you repeatedly ignore the meaning of what she is saying to you? Look out!
And I get it! I have had nearly thirty years of practice talking to people who don’t hear me and I still have a physical reaction. She’s only had six.
I don’t really know where I’m going with this except to voice empathy and frustration over this whole non-listening thing. It’s a topic that’s been coming up for me a lot over the past few weeks.
Just remember – Every time you engage in a conversation and don’t listen to your conversational partner, God kills a kitten.
Please, think of the kittens.
The blog about why I’m blogging – that’s what the first one is supposed to be about, right?
All my life, I have engaged in some sort of creative endeavor – drawing, painting, writing, acting, photography (my truest love). I feel that recently I have been lacking in this area. I have been feeling this incredibly strong drive to create. And I can’t figure out what to create.
So, I was thinking – it seems that all bloggers have some sort of disorder that would fit them neatly into the pages of the DSM IV (or maybe that’s only all the bloggers I particularly like?) and I could practically be the poster child for all the pages of the DSM IV (okay, maybe only half) so naturally I should start a blog.
And just what will this blog be about? Well, I am a mommy – and I like reading mommy blogs. And I’m crazy – and I like reading “healing myself through public exposure of my crazy” blogs. So, my blog will be a combination. Much like oh-so-many others out there. Nothing new here. But feel free to stay and experience my personal flavor of crazy.
And so… here we go.
*Update (Disclaimer?)*
I’m pretty terrible at promoting myself. And at social media (I’ve been on twitter for over a year and am proud to say I have less than 60 followers (and I just had to open a new window so I could go check that statistic). And I don’t think this blog will actually have much to offer in the way usefulness. So… there we go.
Werewolf, Mine 