Category Archives: Life

I’ll Tumble For Ya. Or Not.

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So, Tumblr‘s been around for a while now and while I am an “early adopter” and “social media geek” and a professional web designer, I still do not understand the thrill of Tumblr. Perhaps you can convince me why I should like it. I do know of friends who use it — and I have my own (unused) account as well, just to see.  There are sites I like that use it (Clients from Hell, specifically), so I don’t hate it, I just don’t “get it”. Why not just use a regular blog?

My issues with Tumblr:

You can’t like it or share it unless you’re on Tumblr.

I find this totally frustrating. I see something interesting on Tumblr and there is no “Share to Facebook” or “Tweet this” or any other built-in feature like this. If I want to share it with someone else, I seem to be only able to share it with other Tumblr users via my own Tumblr account. I can’t even “like” it.  The only default way to share it is to copy the link and share it that way, which I’ve done, but it seems silly to not have that built-in.

I have seen a few Tumblrs customized to include these features, but few… very few.

Micro-Blogging vagueness

Microblogging makes me crazy. I realize that Twitter is technically microblogging, but at least there’s usually context and the links go to the original source. When I go to someone’s primary website and all I see are vague images with unspecific or no titles, an occasional quote or some out-of-context screenshot, I go away. I click off. I find a happy place somewhere else where people use their words.

Link It, Bitches

No one seems to know how to link to anything on Tumblr. When I go to Pinterest, I see a zillion cool posts, but when I click the photo and can’t find what I’m looking for 99.9% of the time it’s because they found it on Tumblr. Now, I realize some onus is on the Pinterest pinner to link appropriately, but if it’s not obvious how to get a permalink or permalinks aren’t a regular part of the user interface, I can’t blame the pinner entirely.

Hey, That’s My Post!

I know a few quality posters on Tumblr. My friend Will posts really thoughtful full-text posts on Tumblr in A Year of Billy Joel, which is awesome if you’re not reading it.  This I can abide.

However, if it were me, I wouldn’t want someone to be able to simply click “tumble it” or whatever and have my entire, well-thought-out, well-written post suddenly appearing on someone else’s Tumblr account. People don’t always link to the original source, so it’s too easy to claim the work as your own. AND, if anyone is looking for your post or do any Google searches, it’s possible that they’ll end up at Joe Schmo’s Tumblr where once upon a time they tumbled one of your blog posts and now they’re there instead of at your post, where they should be. It just seems to dilute your content and spread it a little thin, in my opinion.

I’ve heard arguments that you can do the same thing with Facebook, with Twitter and you can, to an extent. But when I share a post on Twitter, it goes to the original link. When I share a post on Facebook, the links go to the original article. They don’t go to Joe Bob’s Tumblr where I see that he shared it from Tim Bob who shared it from Bob Bob and maybe someday, I’ll find the original article.

Spreading Yourself Too Thin

If you use Tumblr as your primary blog, your domain, your one-stop shop to find all things you, fine. Go to town. But most people don’t. They have a website which may or may not have a blog (but usually does), they’ll have Twitter and Facebook and then also a Tumblr.  I have good friends who do this, so I’m not bashing them, I just don’t get it.   Why do I want to read your Tumblr when I could just read your blog? Why not just pull your Tumblr into your blog? Or just skip the Tumblr entirely and post it on your blog. Isn’t that what it’s for?

But hey, maybe I’m just an old school blogger fart who doesn’t get it. Maybe I’m unaware of Tumblr features that allow/prevent the things I’m bitching about. I’ll be happy to claim ignorance and am totally open to being educated otherwise. But for now, I just don’t get it.

Hit me with your best shot. Convert me, Tumblrites.

Yo, Mama.

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Lulu and JoelleI read a post shared on Facebook this morning that was in reply to another post on HuffPo that now has me writing this post in a fit of “what the fuck?!”. I have already been ranting on my Facebook profile about it, but I need to expound and can’t full express my indignation in that tiny font.

First, the original article: Pet Parents are NOT Moms by (apparent soulless twat) Susan Maushart. The title alone is enough to give you an indication of why I’m incensed.

In late April, Ms. Maushart posted this article on HuffPo filled with blanket statements on pet stupidity and how “real parents” don’t live in a fantasy world. She claims pets “eat their own vomit” and “run into traffic” and in no way equate to human children and the work involved in raising them.

I’m not suggesting that raising pets is the same as raising children. I’m sure raising children is very hard work and I admire the women, like my best friend Kathy, who do it every day and do it well, even when it’s hard.

But has Maushart ever been to Wal-mart?  There are plenty of human children that run into the street, eat gum off the sidewalk and shove things in their nose/ass/ears. Kids grab their own junk, pee on the floor and tell strangers about how daddy likes to read magazines in the bathroom (let’s see a dog do that!)  They’ll eat their own vomit and crap, too, if we — as parents — don’t tell them not to. Lulu would eat the carpet/run out into the street/dig at the wall if I didn’t I tell her not to. It’s called parenting.

Maushart (I want to make immature “shart” jokes, but I fear it would weaken my argument) also turned her nose up at things like veterinary insurance. So, if her pet was hit by a car… what? She’d just let it die because oh well, it’s just a stupid animal? Veterinary insurance, while I don’t have it, seems like a reasonable investment, considering the high cost of medical bills, both human and animal. My rabbit Lulu is a valued member of my family. If she got sick or injured, I’d want to do whatever I  could to save her. But I don’t have the scratch for cancer treatments or surgery bills, so that’s where insurance comes in. Maushart’s implication is that you just let the animal go, because hey, it’s just a pet.

Dorian Wagner on Catster.com wrote an eloquent response to this in her rebuttal, “Hey, Susan Maushart: Pet Moms ARE Real Moms!” so I won’t rehash it — I’ll just encourage you to read her post.

But, what in Maushart’s original article really lights a fire in me is the high and mighty-ness, the condescension, the outright judgement… as I said on Facebook, the internet has us up to our collective ass in mom superiority and I am SO OVER IT.

Look, I had a mom, I have good, dear friends who are moms, many of you reading this are moms. I probably like you and have no issue with your life. I also don’t tell you how to raise your kids. I don’t tell you how you aren’t a REAL mom because your kid stuck crayons up his nose or carried dog shit around the yard. Why? Becuse you’re the mom and that’s your deal. I might stop your rogue child from running into the street — because as roadkill goes, I’m more accustomed to things like squirrels and armadillos, not people, but ultimately, the parenting is on you. You’re the mama.

So where the hell does this Maushart broad get off dictating and judging how I build my family? There are many women in this world who cannot have children — should they be denied the right to love and nurture another living creature, raising it as a part of her family, simply because she can’t have her own? Or can’t adopt? Or otherwise chooses not to have children?

I’m not carrying Lulu around in a baby bjorn or dressing her up like Little House on the Prairie and putting her in a crib. There are definitely folks who take the “baby” aspect of pet ownership a little far, in my opinion, but that’s between the pet owner and their therapist. It’s none of my business and as long as they are providing a stable and healthy home for their pet, it’s not my place to judge them.

But, I’ve had enough. ENOUGH of this “moms are better than other women” bullshit. I love women, I respect women. And I respect the right of all women to be mothers however they choose. Being a “real mom” doesn’t give you a perfect, magic fruit-producing vagina that lets you judge everyone else.  Chances are your kid just ate dog shit anyway. Go check.

Of Nonsense and Mexican Bikers

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Sometime in the late 90′s, Allison, our friend Stef and I went to Phoenix to spend Thanksgiving with her family.  We love having holidays there, not only because her folks are awesome, warm, wonderful people, but Ali’s mom makes a point to remember our favorite liquor and keeps a stocked bar. She’s a class act.

Anyway, that particular Thanksgiving, we did the turkey thing and Leslie, Ali’s sister, made her usual dramatic commentary about the cranberries and then after some hanging out and pie, Stef, Allison and I decided to try to find a place that had karaoke.

Since it was Thanksgiving, not every bar was open, but we found one called The Purple Turtle that featured karaoke that night. Ali grew up in Phoenix, but wasn’t familiar with the place. We decided to give it a go anyway and ventured off into the crisp Arizona night.

The Purple Turtle turned out to be a Latino biker bar, or so we discovered after being frisked upon entrance, by a guy in leather pants, a mammoth belt buckle and a very, very long mustache. We must’ve looked like the three gringoest gringos from gringotown.

One very tall, very bikery, very intimidating guy stood up and gave Stef, who has hair we fondly call The Cluckle (think Corey Feldman with a short spiky gelled ‘do), the classic cross-armed stance and super stink-eye. We all looked at each other like, “Act natural.”

Then, moments later, Giant Bikery Dude broke into a huge smile and warmly invited us to sit down. The place was totally hopping, packed, with a couple of little chubby middle-aged women shaking their booties and singing Selena on the karaoke stage like it was their last night on earth.

We ordered beers, everyone was having a great time and then Stef got up to sing. In classic Stef fashion, he did Wham!’s “Careless Whisper”.  It got really awkward in there during that. Everyone looked uncomfortable, not because Stef is a bad singer — he’s quite good, but it wasn’t the right venue for that particular song, I guess.  I think Ali sang… I don’t know, something offensive, probably… and that was a big hit, as usual.  I think I did Donna Summer and c’mon, who doesn’t like a party song? But something about Wham! set the bar on edge.

When Stef finished, you could hear a pin drop. Ok, it wasn’t that quiet, but there was definitely… tension. So we paid for our drinks and hustled our happy asses out of there before he could put up Matchbox 20.

Upon arriving home, Leslie was up, so we all sat around, drinking beer and writing what we dubbed ‘nonsense poetry’.  We all just spouted words, whatever came into our head at that moment, rhyming or not, and Leslie would jot them down in a notebook in a freestyle poem.

This morning, I got an email from Allison that contained all our poems from that night — she’d found them somewhere. So, for posterity, I close with the fruits of our warped, turkey and Wham-laden minds from a night in the nineties.

It’s poetry. Dig it, man. *snaps* Continue reading →

But Not a Grape

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I don’t usually post much about my relationship with mikey. Some things are just nobody’s business and I’d hate it if he blogged about how I had a hormonal meltdown over a bad pedicure yesterday and stomped around the house like a spoiled asshole godzilla. Some things are just… privileged.

But a conversation about German food with Kathy just now had me thinking about one of mike’s little peccadilloes… he’s a picky eater.

This sometimes poses an issue for me, The Girl Who Will Eat Just About Anything But Marzipan. It can be frustrating when your other half won’t stray from their four food groups: Pizza, Burgers, Mexican Food, and Pasta.

No fish (which isn’t uncommon), but also no fruit, none. No fresh fruit, no cooked fruit, no fruit in dessert. Nyet fruit. Except blueberries, but only if they’re in muffins or pancakes. Like, once a year I can get him to chug down a blackberry yogurt, but the rest of the time, it’s a fruit-free zone. Also, no vegetables — well, a few: corn, mushrooms, broccoli and sometimes green beans… if the planets are aligned and we’re having steak.

Now, to his credit, the things he does like, I happen to like, too. (Mmmm… mexican food…)  But I also have a more varied palette, so I get sick of those things pretty quickly. And I’m also fairly adventurous and love to try new restaurants, go out for sushi, explore ethnic cuisines… that’s not really his jam.

Mike doesn’t care for Asian food, either, on the whole. Since he’s Filipino, this sometimes gets him flack, but it’s just not his thing.  He likes enough of it, though. Lumpia/egg rolls, super-crispy won tons, teriyaki chicken, and chicken fried rice = yes. Everything else, from the Philippines to China and everywhere in between and likely surrounding = no.

Sometimes I feel bad for him. That sounds terribly condescending, but it’s because I care.  He’s a grown man, he can choose what he wants to eat, but some things are just so freaking good and the fact that he won’t try it or think he won’t like makes me a weep a little inside for all the deliciousness he’s missing. I want to enrich his life with dark chocolate and halibut! But not together, I’m not that adventurous.

He will occasionally give something a go if I harangue him enough about it or if it’s close enough to something he does like. And sometimes, he will concede that he likes something new. It’s not often, but I consider it a tiny victory. There’s a culinary end-zone dance going on in my head when this occurs.

What I find totally perplexing is the things he will eat, while excluding yummy goodness like roasted zucchini, grapes, strawberries or butternut squash.  Things like asparagus — now, I love asparagus, but as far as veggies go, it’s polarizing.  It’s not really a “starter vegetable”.  I’d say it’s more in the “advanced vegetables” category along with brussell sprouts and eggplant, so for that to be one of his favorites? I find that surprising.

Also, liverwurst. LIVER. WURST. It’s got “worst” right in the name, yet he likes it. Go figure.

Shrimp chips. He knows how I feel about these. I’ve grown accustomed to them over the years — in the beginning, the mere opening of the bag would send me gagging, but now I’ve learned to filter out the smell.  For those not familiar with Asian snack fare, shrimp chips are these cheese-puff like things, but instead of technicolor orange cheese flavoring on the outside, it’s a powdered shrimp flavoring. (I think Walkers makes something similar in England, but in potato chip form.)

Mmm… powdered shrimp. #heave (Yes, I just hashtagged. It’s compulsive.) Mike says it’s a throwback to his youth and despite not liking most Asian food, he loves shrimp chips.

So, as Kathy says, “But not a grape.”  He’ll eat liverwurst and asparagus and artificially flavored shrimp cheetos, but not a grape. Not a grape.

I endure these little quirks.  They’re not deal breakers. Besides, he puts up with my habit of never putting the toilet paper tube back on the holder. And finding my hair in places least expected. And my sneaky razor theft. And my inexplicable rage over too-short toenails.

So, when I consider those things and the fact that he kills the spiders and drags out the trash cans without bitching, I guess I can eat another slice of pizza.

Let’s Talk About Sex

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A couple weeks ago, I caught about 15 minutes of some Lifetime Movie Network gem called “Cyber Seduction” about a teenage boy who gets sucked into the “seedy and seductive world of internet pornography” which, naturally, ruined his life. Or got him grounded. Or something equally devastating when you’re 16.

Of course, it came out in 2005, so it was a little hokey and in true Lifetime fashion, was melodramatic and exaggerated. But it got me thinking about the internet and porn. Like y’do.

Continue reading →

Indecision 2012

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Well, it’s Spring in the desert.  This means endless bouts of sneezing, but about 2-3 weeks in which you can have your windows open and thermostat off.  It’s these 2-3 weeks that I don’t hate it here.  It’s just not my cup of tea.

The initial plan we made toward the end of 2011 was that when our lease is up in October of this year, we’re going to move back to San Diego.  This is still the plan — I really miss my hometown, Mike hates his job with the burning fire of Vegas in August and being far from our “people” makes working from home even more isolating.  It can be lonely out here in the desert (cue some cowboy’s woeful harmonica).

But, moving home is not quite as simple as moving here was. mikey had already been here for 6 months, staying with a friend. He had a job here and rent is cheaper here, so moving this direction was pretty easy. Going the other way is going to be more of a challenge.

Complicating things further, business in 2011 was really good (yay!), which conversely means taxes were a bear (boo!), which means less money in the honey pot.  (I can’t believe I just said ‘honey pot’, but I’m going to go with it.) So, the “moving reserves” and subsequent safety net while Mike looks for a job in San Diego are thinner than originally hoped.

And of course, I just bought a new car, because I can’t be trusted to get an oil change by myself. (Went in for an oil change on my 2011 Prius II, came out with a 2012 Prius C Two, which is being exchanged for a Prius C Three once it arrives from Japan.  Because I’m now the asshole who says things like “once my new, new, new Prius arrives from Japan.” Next I’ll be shopping a Chico’s and only buying fair trade organic water dug by native children from a spring in Peru.)

But I digress. What was I talking about? Oh, moving.

Anyway, now we’re faced with this pickle: do we stay one more year or do we go?  I’ve considered some pros and cons of both staying and going:

Continue reading →

Me, A to Z

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I saw this over on Sizzle’s and it’s been a while since I told you pointless stuff about me, so here we go!

A. Age: 38 — I’m not really sure when that happened. When I think “ten years ago”,  I still picture the 90′s…

B. Bed size: A king. From Bed in a Box. I cannot say enough good things about them. SO MUCH AWESOME. (No, they’re not paying me, but I’ll happily take their money.)

C. Chore that you hate: Dishes. Yet, I’m the one who does them. mikey gets things like trash, vacuuming and spiders.

D. Dogs: Love dogs. I’m totally for dogs. Especially dachshunds, labs and pit bulls. Currently, Lulu is the head of the household, diva rabbit that she is.

E. Essential start to your day: Coffee, followed by extensive bunny love. And then after that some more coffee. And whatever I recorded last night on the DVR.

F. Favorite color: It changes all the time. I’m a big fan of pink, but it’s not practical always. I love oranges and aquas, rich reds, happy grass green… and I like to mix it up.

G. Gold or Silver: Silver. Or white gold. Anything not yellow, basically. I have gold undertones in my skin and it makes me look jaundiced.

H. Height:  5’10″ So, taller than you, probably. I don’t wear heels.

I. Instruments you play: I play the larynx. I’ve also dabbled in guitar and recorder (remember those?)  My mom was a concert-level pianist,so I also took piano lessons from 3 to 18 and taught them from 18-22. I haven’t played in ages and it makes me sad. Let’s talk about something else.

J. Job title: This is the part where I am supposed to put like “web design ninja/rock star/goddess/diva/bad ass”, right?  I honestly have no idea what my job title is. Web designer. Business owner. Creative director? Principle? Lead? Whatever. I make pretty websites that go.

K. Kids: The forecast is 99% no kids with a 1% chance of holy shit.

L. Live: I currently live in our nation’s tramp stamp, Las Vegas. North Las Vegas, to be specific, for all you creepers out there. I’m from San Diego, of which I’m proud and for which I’m spoiled absolutely rotten and have been ruined for every other city. Thank god we’re going back in the Fall.

M. Mother’s name: Jamia Jewel.  We have the same first name.

N. Nicknames: Dude. Babe. Whore. Jo. (Only a few get to call me Jo and only one gets to call me Whore.)

O. Overnight hospital stays: One. I assume you mean one instance and not one night. I spent 3 nights, I think, back in the early 00′s for an acute asthma attack.  It was totally not awesome. The pudding wasn’t bad.

P. Pet peeves: Lack of a courtesy wave. Not acknowledging when someone’s held a door for you. Amazeballs. Obvious poor grammar, like “supposably” and “fustrated”.  When you’re signaling to get around the guy in front of you and just when you get a window, the asshole behind you dashes out and takes it. Eff that guy.

Q. Quote from a movie: “Was it a dream where you see yourself standing in sort of sun-god robes on a pyramid with a thousand naked women screaming and throwing little pickles at you?”

R. Right- or left-handed: Lefty

S. Siblings: It’s complicated.  The short answer is: 1 half sister, 2 half brothers and 2 stepsisters.

T. Tattoos & Piercings: I have a nickel-sized butterfly on the back of my neck near my hairline I got in Dallas in the early 00′s after 2 bottles of sake. It’s my favorite one. I also have Kanji on my left ankle I got with Allison in ’98. I’ve been thinking about covering it up because in hindsight, it doesn’t make sense and they’re bigger than I wanted and the guy put this magenta fade around it that causes people to ask if it’s new fairly often, but most of the time I forget that it’s there.

Piercings: my ears, only once. I had my tongue pierced in the early 00′s, twice (once with Sarah). Like y’do. And I had my nose pierced in the mid 90′s — just a tiny tiny little one that I took out a few weeks later when it was allergy season.

U. Underwear: I used to not wear any in my 20′s, like girls do for some reason. Then I went on a “let’s wear sexy underwear all the time to make ourselves feel sexier” kick, but that just left me with expensive underpants and a lace chafe, so I’m a fan of cotton boyshorts in black, white, or nude. Wank accordingly.

V. Vegetable(s) you hate: I have to agree with Sizzle, mealy tomatoes are abominable. But I generally like most veggies. I’m not the biggest fan of fresh green beans, for some reason. The crappy canned kind I love, but fresh ones just feel hairy and tough to me.

W. What makes you run late: Very little. I tend to be one of those annoying early people and spend a lot of time in my car on my iphone waiting.

X. X-Rays you’ve had: Oh, lots. Mostly my ankle, which I’ve twisted and sprained several times falling down stairs. (It’s a gift of mine.) I also have had my back x-rayed when I slipped and fell in a grocery store meat department and my lungs x-rayed to make sure I didn’t have TUMAH.

Y. Yummy food that you make: I make pretty good chili, I think. And tacos. I make good spaghetti sauce — I got Kathy to eat mushrooms, so that’s saying something. I also bake these cookies that are affectionately called Orgasm Cookies due to the sounds people make when they eat them.

Z. Zoo animal: Pandas, pandas, pandas. I also love to see the flamingos, even though they reek. And the polar bears.

Creepy Ass Babies

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Source: imgfave.com via Joelle on Pinterest

When I was a teenager, my younger stepsister had a thing for babies. She probably still does, I haven’t asked her. But she loooooooooved babies. Wanted a baby, talked about babies, loved to babysit, couldn’t wait to have babies… and she love love loved those Anne Geddes photographs and calendars depicting babies in a daisy, curled up like a ladybug and other uber-precious scenarios.

I’ve got to confess that they creeped me then and they creep me even more now with the deluge of maternity/newborn photographers that have surged the internet in the last 5 years.  The digital camera has made everyone Anne Geddes and for me, they might as well all have become clowns. *shudder*

Continue reading →

Of Evictions and Gaydar

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The home we rent is fine. It’s quite nice by most standards and we are happy with it. We wouldn’t buy it or anything, it’s got it’s quirks as any place does, but we’ve no issue with our actual house for the time being.

But “subpar” is too kind of a word for the property management we’ve had here in the last year since we moved in. Terrible. Lazy. Combative, even. It’s been a revolving door of management companies, but the thread between them all is that no one wants to do their job and every month, they evict us.

We are bill-paying people. I bust my ass and make sure every bill is paid on time, usually without incident. I use my bank’s bill pay and know, without question, that the bill has been paid and issued on time. But for some reason, five times in a year we’ve been issued a “5 Day Pay or Evict” notice on our front door, as well as by mail.  Five times. Four of which happened in a 6 month period. In December, they even issued it on festive red paper! Ho ho ho!

For some reason, these people insist that they don’t get our rent check. We’ve been told it’s our fault, we’ve been told it’s the mail man’s fault, the bank’s fault… we’ve been asked to prove that we’ve paid. And once, back in December, I was told I “have an attitude” and I “probably just trying to get the fee waived” when I deigned to come into the office and address it personally.

Every single time, when I’ve insisted my check has been issued and/or provided proof from my bank, they’ve found the check. Magically… in the back of the mailbox, under a pile of old mail, in a letter tray, and my favorite, in the front seat of the maintenance man’s truck a week later.

So, today, when we got yet another one, both of us kind of lost our shit and stormed over to the office, intending to tear (yet another new) property manager a new one and possibly even ask to be let out of our lease.  But fortunately, this new manager seems like he’s got a clue.  He seems professional, experienced, friendly, like he really cared who we were and where we lived, so Mike and I both were instantly calmed and felt confident he’s doing his best to clean up the “hot mess” as he put it.

I’d told mike the day before after talking to the manager on the phone about the barking dog, “We have a new manager. He seems nice… professional. My gaydar totally went off.” And sure enough! My gaydar doesn’t lie.

Not that I’m the Homo Whisperer or anything. Just because someone’s gay doesn’t mean he’s competent or that we’ll get along, but I felt at ease instantly, for some reason. He had a dishy and friendly, yet still professional demeanor and let’s just say he was well maintained. I knew he probably handled his job the same way. I sort of want to go over at quitting time with a pitcher of cosmos and meet his cocker spaniel.

At one point, while he was reassuring us that he was going to whip the property into shape, he said, with this totally SoCal Latino/gay accent, “I don’t want to be dramatic or anything, but I’m really good at my job. I’m excellent, but I have to be allowed to practice my craft.”

I had a hard time stifling my smile, so I just let ‘er rip.  I found that totally endearing.  It’s prop management in North Vegas, honey. Not Cats.

Anyway, our lease is up at the end of October, and hopefully, we’ll be on our way back to San Diego, but in the meantime (or, if heaven forbid, we have to stay), we hope this manager sticks around.

If I Squint, I Can See 2003.

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Given that I don’t blog as regularly here as I’d like, I totally overlooked my “blogiversary”… which means nothing, really, but hey, what the hell? Let’s celebrate my half-hearted commitment to writing for 9 years!  HURRAH!

I started this blog on January 22, 2003.  For all you youngin’s out there, back then blogging was actually kind of like Twitter, just with more characters and less people. It was more of a stream of consciousness — you’d blog short things, long things, multiple times a day, whatever.

Blogging was a bit more intimate with considerably less bloggers — we used to be able to count them on list. Remember the Top 100 on Blogrolling? No? I’m old.

It was a tiny pond and at the time, I guess I was about a mackerel in terms of popularity or maybe a trout. I wasn’t like, a yellowfin tuna or anything. I kind of want an “I was famous on the internet once” shirt, but they don’t make those.

I had a total blast meeting people online. We’d start conversations between blogs, “trackbacks” were all the rage, and Zonkboards. Holy crap, Zonkboards… the original Twitter.

I kind of miss those days sometimes — I had more things to say (after 9 years, you get tired of writing about yourself and can’t remember if you already blogged about that. Blog senility, I guess.). I was also almost a decade younger, single and living in Texas. So… life was decidedly different.

I’ve met amazing people through blogging.  Kathy, the blonde ying to my yang, and I started Blog Moxie a mere 3 weeks after we met through our blogs in Feb 2003. I met mikey at the same time, thanks to blogging. I met my best gays because of blogs. And so many other wonderful people I now consider good friends are all because of blogging.

So I have my career, my family and my friends all because Sarah (who I ran a message board with prior to blogging) suggested I start a blog. She even picked this domain name.

I’ve pansied around with other domains over the years — some of you may remember SnappyHour.com and YetUpbeat.com, both of which I didn’t connect with and came back to my roots: Tenth Muse. I recently found the database with the posts from those urls in them, so I hope to dig them out.

In my older blog posts, you can see immaturity — I complained a lot and swore a lot — mostly because that’s what bloggers did most of the time back then (and I suppose still do). It’s cool to be disenfranchised and sarcastic when you’re in your 20′s. It’s not as hot at 38.  But that won’t stop me from virtually rolling my eyes, saying ‘fuck’ where appropriate or posting conversations about monk balls. I’m only human, people.

I’m glad I’ve kept this blog alive, even when it gets a little dusty. I hope to write more on it, as whenever I do write, I think of like 30 other things I want to write about… then forget… until I write one of these “I haven’t written in a while” posts and the cycle starts all over again.

In the meantime, I’ll share some of my favorite posts with you from over the years.