Java
Coffee. Need more coffee.
While I am off finding more coffee, you think of interesting things for us to talk about. Feel free to leave them in the comments.
Now, as you were.
P.S. Kind of related, someone asked me the other day what the theme of my blog is. Now this blog doesn't really have a theme, and it makes me feel like a bad blogger. It's just all the random shit that flows out of my brain, through my finger tips and onto the Internets for strangers to read. I have my recipe blog, which would be better if I: a) cooked and b) posted pictures of what I cook. And I tried that whole music thing, but I stopped caring. Although I am feeling the urge to address an important issue here in Nashville. Maybe soon.
The point of this sidebar, which is now actually longer than the post it accompanies, was to ask all of you if I needed a theme. Do I have to be a certain type of blogger? Do I have to blog about
something?
I don't know. If I get to choose, I just want to be me. And besides, I'm pretty sure the only people left reading this are my friends who crave more than my assinine Facebook updates. I don't even think my stalkers care anymore! But good for them.
Really.
Places
Remember when I told you that I thought social networking was like putting lojack on your own ass? And how I thought I didn't really want to be that connected?
I don't have Twitter. I don't have Foursquare. I have Facebook, but I am still not sure I like it.
I've been noticing on FB that it's been telling me when people arrive at work, Starbucks, etc., and I thought that was either a) creepy or b) people who missed my memo on oversharing.
Turns out FB has realized people like Foursquare and has found a new way to continue to rule the universe: the Places app.
And, in typical, FB fashion, it just hooked you up to it. So, Zuckerberg woke up this morning and decided to put Lojack on my ass.
But thanks to Wil Wheaton (yes,
that Wil Wheaton) bitching about it on
his blog, I was able to go in and disable that shit. So, my FB should not be telling you where I am or who I am with.
Which is good, because if I wanted you to know, I'd post about it.
And, with that, I am headed to Babies R Us, and then home. And I'm telling you that because I want to (not that you care), not because FB decided I had to.
Two thoughts
Just two quick thoughts. I will spare you the big, giant, pissed-off rant that I had started to write. Too personal anyhow.
1. I can't figure out who's scarier: people who think Islam is a cult and not a religion OR people who think Catholicism is a cult and not a religion. But, secretly I suspect they may be the same people.
2. People who make fun of someone because they could have cancer are evil, malicious, asshole-y cunt bags. And, for the first time in months, I really hope they are still reading this. I hate to waste a good insult.
Which leads me to my "bonus" thought (let's call this 2B): No one deserves cancer. I don't care if they smoke six packs a day, go to the tanning bed everyday or drink half of the Jack Daniels distillery. No one deserves to get sick, especially not from a super shitty disease.
And, in case you're not my FB friend and I scared you a little, I don't officially have cancer. My doctor thinks I might have some pre-cancerous spots that need to be removed surgically, but I will know more later this week. But a) I didn't do anything to cause myself to have cancer and b) even if I did, it's not anyone's business, nor did I deserve it. So, there.
Remorse.
I was so upset about getting hurt by others' words, that I didn't really think that maybe my words would hurt them. Or maybe I didn't care. Regardless, I was sitting at home last night feeling bad about what I wrote yesterday. I don't like to hurt people. I would much rather be hurt than hurt someone else. Story of my life, really.
But, of course, I don't have a computer at home right now to go in and delete things. Or perhaps, just temper them. And, I've always made it a policy to let this blog capture the moment, and I very rarely delete things. I've had some pretty pissed off folks at one time or another, but I don't often feel compelled to delete things in order to please others.
But, I am not a hurtful person. But sometimes (like, for example, when my hormones are all out of whack from the massive "female problems" that I've has of late), I let my anger get the best of me. I let my hurt cause me to lash out at other people.
Some of these feelings stem from bigger issues. I'm not getting into it. I just need to deal with it, and I will. Everything will be fine.
In some ways, I kind of hope that I'm not doing well. Maybe I just need a break from life, whatever that means. Maybe I would like for people to feel bad for me (although I was percolating another blog on that subject). Maybe I'm just ready to be done. All I know is that even though it's looking less and less like I'm dying (my white blood count came back normal which is a good sign that it's not cancer), everything just seems to have a sense of finality about it. I know that sounds strange, but I am just tired, worn out, cranky, hormonal, sad, insert-your-favorite-adjective-that-invokes-a-sense-of-melancholy-and-general-malaise-here.
On the plus side, maybe the hurtful comments will help in the long run. Because I don't think I'm going to eat for a while. After all, we know I can go 28 days without food before I need to go to the doctor's office...
Temperance
First off, I want to apologize to all of my friends at home, because this is not a post about
one of the gateways to Ohio from our youth.
No, this is about the virtue, temperance, which is defined as "moderation in action, thought or feeling; restraint."
As many of you have figured out by now, I cook and bake when I am stressed out. And let's briefly recap my life as of late: I might have cancer. I am broke again until payday. Even if those things weren't sufficient, I am sure there are plenty of other things that are stressing me out. Needless to say, lots of yummies have come out of my kitchen lately. And trying new recipes really does help me feel better. Believe it or not, frosting cupcakes keeps my mind off biopsies and overdue bills. And, frosting doesn't cost anything, because it's just butter and powdered sugar anyhow.
A few weeks ago, one of my co-workers had a birthday, and she wanted me to make her some cupcakes. So I made some super-yummy strawberry lemondade cupcakes. Well, people liked those and another coworker suggested that I make some margarita cupcakes. So, I did.
I didn't go around the office shoving cupcakes down anyone's throats, but I did bring them in so that people who either appreciated my cooking or just wanted a treat. What was I going to do with 20 cupcakes at home?
Well, I mentioned to one of my co-workers (the one who pouted about not getting one of the birthday cupcakes) that I made them and they were down in the fridge if she wanted one.
Not only did she say she didn't want one, but she went on for about 15 minutes about how fat she was. And then later in the day, she told me she looked at my cupcakes and they looked really pretty but she really hoped I was taking them home with me because everyone at work was on a diet and I didn't really need to be bringing foods that would tempt them.
Once again, I did not stuff a single cupcake down a single person's pie hole.
My biggest issue is not this person's (constant) complaining or her hatred of my baked goods.
My problem is that she weighs 140 pounds. Might be a size 12. Maybe.
And all the time, she bitches and moans about how fat she is.
I don't know if any of you have noticed, but I am fat. I am bariatric surgery candidate fat. And, frankly, I am sick and tired about people who have no idea what fat is bitching and moaning about being fat. It pisses me off a little.
And, more importantly, it hurts my feelings. A LOT. Because if you weigh 140 pounds, and you think you are the most disgusting person on the face of the planet, what do you think about me?
Words hurt. They hurt more than daggers. Haven't we always been taught that? So, why don't people like that think before they speak?
It's bad enough that we hate our bodies and base our self-worth on a number on the scale, but please, before you talk about how gross and disgusting you are because you're five pounds overweight, think about how the person who is 50 or more pounds overweight must feel.
It makes me want to shove cupcakes down your throat.
And hit you. But, unlike you, I'm working on having a little temperance, so I won't.
Small political rant
So, I have seen the rumblings on the Interwebs about Michelle Obama's vacation. Let me sum them up if you haven't seen them.
They go something like this: Can you believe that Michelle Obama has the nerve to go overseas and blow America's money while there is a recession going on. Lots of Americans would love to be taking a European vacation!
First comment: I highly doubt the Americans bitching about Michelle Obama's vacation want to go to Europe. They're real Americans who don't want to interact with pansy-ass foreigners, especially not -- God forbid -- Europeans.
They don't speak English in Europe, and everyone knows people who don't speak English are worthless, right?
So, after we get past people who hate the Obamas being separatists and racists, then let's get to the next part of my rant.
Michelle Obama doesn't actually work for America. In fact, she really doesn't have a job. Yeah, she's first lady, but that's a job where
she does a whole bunch of shit for America for free. Did you hear me? We give Michelle an office and a staff, but we don't pay her shit. In fact, she gave up a pretty rockin' job with a great salary to be first lady. If nothing else, we should give her a fist bump and a beer for being such a trooper for the good ol' US of A.
So, since Michelle is not on our payroll, really we shouldn't bitch about how much vacation time she takes. If she wanted to travel the globe and only show up for the occasional state dinner, do we really have a gripe? I'll bet these same people bitching about Michelle going on vacation would've loved it if Hillary had just traveled abroad on her own dime and left America alone.
Lastly, as I mentioned before, Michelle used to have a pretty good job and did OK for herself before she started working for America for free. I'm guessing she has a few pesos in the bank for special occasions like a vacation with a grieving friend. She must, because she paid for everything out of her own pocket. I know our closed-minded friends will find that hard to believe because she's black and from Chicago and a -- the horror -- Democrat. So is Oprah. Live with it.
Millionaires get to take more vacations. That's life. Sorry you're not one of them, and if you keep voting for Republicans who like to screw the poor, I'm guessing it's never going to happen for you.
And yes, she had to drag along the secret service. That's the law. Not one of you bitched and moaned about Laura Bush having secret service. No one griped when our cowboy crusader holed up on his private ranch (that he totally made us pay for) when there was work to do.
I'm so sick of the double standard. I am way over all the Republicans bitching and moaning about the Democrats doing all this shit that doesn't even compare to what Bush and Cheney did. But God forbid I ever mention that because I'd be as un-American as French fries (which are American, by the way). Maybe you're just trying to blame the eight nightmare years of Bush trying to run this country on people who actually know what they are doing.
I don't know. But I do know you all thought Michelle Obama was "un-American" when she said during the campaign it was the only time she felt proud to be an American. Well, you know what, call me whatever name you want (Commie lesbian baby killer is a favorite of mine), but you all make feel like I need to take a shower. You embarrass me. I worry for our country.
And before everyone gets in a huff, I don't mean all Republicans. Some of my best friends are Republicans. But they don't use their politics as an excuse to be racist. They base their politics on the issues, not on the color of a man's skin. That's fine. If everyone agreed, America would be boring. But at least try to sound intelligent and less hateful. Because hate doesn't prove any point except that you are a jackass.
OK, this was not a small rant. Sorry about that.
I don't really want to talk, but I feel like I should keep people in the loop. Who knows? Soon enough, I might need all of you more than you need me.
I have some medical stuff going on. At this point, it is unpleasant medical stuff, but it has the potential to be really frightening medical stuff. I know I shouldn't freak out until I really need to, but I freaked out a little last week. Words like "biopsy" and phrases like "Whatever this ends up being, we believe we've caught it in time to beat it" are pretty freak-out-worthy. Cheesecake helps, really.
Surprisingly, none of this medical excitement has to do with the fact that I'm a moo cow. In fact, I went to the doctor today, and everything weight-wise is good except that I am getting too fat for my little knees.
I am not sure what I am going to do. I am old and tired, and frankly, I am not really seeing the point in busting my ass to lose a whole bunch of weight that I will gain back, because I always do. I'm pretty sure that some people are supposed to be fat.
I just don't want to buy new pants.
I'm toying with the idea of some sort of medical intervention, but frankly I don't see me giving up the booze and every person I talk to says that I would have to give up the booze.
I used to make fun of people who were too fat for pants, so surely I don't want to become one.
But there is no magical panacea. I am not going to lose weight and all of my problems go away. If I lose too much weight, I'll still have to buy new pants.
Oh well, I am not really worrying about the moo cow situation until I get done worrying about the other situation.
We'll see. I am not really in the mood to eat, so maybe that will help. I was down one pound this week from last week's doctor's visit!
Noise
"It's not you; it's me."
We've all heard that sentence and thought that it was the biggest bullshit line in the history of the world.
But sometimes it isn't. Sometimes it's true.
Sometimes we're the ones who fuck everything up. Sometimes it's intentional, but most of the time we might not even realize we're doing it.
I don't like myself right now. Not one little bit. A lot of it has to do with the fact that a lot of people don't like me because I'm fat, and I've let that affect me. And, because of that, it's caused my latest round of issues and neuroses.
But, hey, at least my toilet is fixed and my ceiling fans are installed.
I am feeling very anti-social right now. I don't want to talk to anyone in the whole world. I don't know when that will change.
I'm not seeing many blog posts in my future. I think I am just going to exist. Come to work, close my door, complete my tasks, collect my paycheck. Then I'll just go home and hole up in my room and watch TV. That's probably better, seeing as how I don't have any money right now. (I fixed the toilets and installed ceiling fans, remember?)
Just don't bitch if I'm quiet. I can't deal with one more minute of bitching. I am way past my limit.
I need to just eliminate the noise and see what I hear and where I'm supposed to go. I am sure I will tell you if I ever figure it out.
I am not going on Facebook either. No noise. If you really need me, you probably know how to call or text me or maybe have my e-mail.
Just don't be offended when I don't answer. Leave a message. I'm sure I'll call you back at some point. Maybe shortly, if it's urgent.
Twitter
I was one of the first people I knew to have a blog. Actually, my work at the time, which was not so much tech savvy as they were cheap, started a blog for its donors. Cheaper than actually paying
Emma to do your e-mail marketing, you could just give your donors a blog link and expect them to go visit it once a week for their donor newsletter. It wasn't very exclusive, but it was a pretty cool vehicle.
Anyhow, working on the work blog and realizing that blogger just gave these out for free, I decided this would be a good outlet to get me writing again, because nonprofit fundraising zapped a lot of my writer brain cells. I knew when I was craving the days when I got to write appeal letters that I wasn't writing enough.
I needed a creative outlet.
And I wanted to bitch about people and know they saw it.
And they did. They did, and so did a whole lot of random strangers along the way. Some of those strangers, like
Sheri, Beth and Colleen, have become real friends. Some, are still IIFs* like
Kristy Sammis.
We're all pals on Facebook now, because a lot of the cool kids (like Beth and Colleen, which is why they have no links) have abandoned their blogs in favor of FB. It is quite handy. You can keep in touch with friends from the olden days, like my friend DeDe that I hadn't talked to since the 9th grade who friended me today. And, you can make it private.
Sometimes that would've helped when the crazies were all up in my shit and spreading my business -- both real and imagined -- all over the fucking world, both virtual and bricks-and-mortar.
But, even thinking about all that pisses me off. It's no good when reality and imaginary land get too mixed together. Therapy, people. Look into it. And if you can't afford therapy, I am still recommending knitting.
However, I don't dig private, because if a writer writes and nobody reads it, what's the point? I need feedback. I need validation. And, if I ever write a book, I will need people to buy it. :)
What was I talking about?
Oh yeah, the evolution of social media.
I used to be all cool with my blog. I used to post my ramblings -- both long and short -- all the time. Then I got a job writing all day and found the last thing I wanted to do when I got home was sit down and write some more. Although my loyal blog readers tell me they want to read about me, and not about the nursing home olympics anyhow.
I got a Myspace, but it was drama-filled and virus-y. And the people on there, not really my friends anymore. We grow, we stop logging on.
All the cool kids came to FB. I think they are still there, although I am seeing things like FourSquare and Twitter infiltrating the ranks.
I think our society is voyeuristic. We like to virtually (and anonymously) peek through the virtual windows. And, we like to take jabs when we think no one realizes that it's us. (We always know, by the way. They're called IP addresses, and computers are way smart.)
I've noticed on FB that it's easy to get on information overload and learn things about people you probably don't need to know.
And, for the first time in my life, Facebook makes me feel like I talk too much. I measure my amount of status updates versus other people's and wonder if my commentary annoys people. And, of course, sometimes I say things to piss people off.
But there's nothing new about that. I love the brown people, the gays, the President. I have a HUGE girl crush on Rachel Maddow (but in a totally platonic way). I spout her rhetoric the ways other repeat Rush's soundbites. I'm bound to piss people off. Especially because -- I know this will shock you -- I have some conservative friends. Although, admittedly, less than I did before I started talking about things like civil rights and universal health care on the Facebook.
So, I like to stay up on social media. I think I am going to need to in my job. Because there aren't many communications jobs for folks who don't know social media anymore.
I just can't get on board with Twitter. I have tried, but it gives me not-so-fresh feelings.
Why, you ask?
Thanks for asking. I have a list of grievances.
First of all, look at this blog. Brevity is not my strong suit. 140 characters? Fuhgeddaboudit.
Secondly, I truly believe that people use it to stalk people. Kinda like this: "OMG! Dierks Bentley just tweeted that he's at the Starbucks on West End! OMG let's go see if we see him!"
Really, get a grip.
Thirdly, it encourages poor grammar and spelling. I detest poor grammar and spelling. Everyone who has ever gotten a text from me can vouch for me that I do not use text speech. Sorry if you go over on your plan because of it, but I am not ever going to use the "word" (and I use that term loosely) "gr8," or anything similar, anytime soon.
Brevity. Stalkers. Misspelling. Hmmm...what else?
Oh yes, while it is fourth on my list, it is really my number one reason. Are you ready?
In the immortal words of Jack Nicholson in "A Few Good Men," "You want the truth? You can't handle the truth."
But here it is:
Twitter makes people tell you shit you don't need to know and/or care about. And reading about it could possibly make you feel dumb. And a little bit like you've been violated or your time is wasted.
As I said before, we are all on information overload. And much like some of us don't know how to stop talking (don't look at me; I am working on it), some of us don't know how to shut off the Twitter.
And I don't care if you drank a glass of milk today.
Did you hear me? I don't care if you peed or went to the beach or drank milk. And, to be fair, you probably don't care when I drink margaritas. But, I am usually drunk when I tell you that, so I don't care if you care.
True story.
I don't want to Twitter every 15 seconds about nothing. I don't want your phone to be like lojack on my ass. I don't want to sign up for Twitter because then my friends will want me to be their friends on there and I will feel pressure to do it and my phone will be off the hook with people telling me they peed or drank milk.
Too. Much. Information.
Maybe there is a way to use Twitter for work. Maybe I will need to figure that out.
But until then, I am going to have a margarita. And I probably can't tell you that in 140 characters or less.
