kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Life

  • Sometimes you feel like a dork…sometimes you don’t.

    This would be one of those times. You know. Where you realize it seems like you were pandering. Not you. Me. I was pandering.

    Pandering for attention.

    But I wasn’t. And now I feel like it seems as if I was even though I’m one to pay attention to myself, so have never really needed anyone else to, and if that doesn’t convince you I’m a piece of work, nothing will.

    I said I was wondering about those things that I was mulling over yesterday when it was grey and chilly out (like about 65 degrees?) and….well, sometimes, that’s enough.

    I used to like grey days, so who knew?

    I’d not delete my words. There are too many and they count for something. And in the past, when I’ve done that, I’ve regretted it, because part of my life has gone with whatever I’d erased. Even if it was the flowery writing of a teenager, or the wistful thoughts of a young woman.

    I’ll never quite remember who I was when I put those words down.

    So, no deleting. Just figuring things out, which is something I’m quite familiar with.

    Like my new camera. I’m trying to figure that out and I’m thinking I need an adult beverage right now, because the software’s loaded, and well, it’s yet another new thing.

    I swear. Just another thing to be thankful for. That my brain works. It’s kind of nice on most days.

    Yanno?

  • What’s the point of this, anyway?

    It’s funny how things sometimes change, and as much as I can see that beginning to happen — to not want it to happen — it does anyway. There’s nothing I can do about it. Things that once mattered end up in a place we never intended for them to be, and they get lost amongst all the other parts of life that are…well, life.

    I guess I’ve reached the point where I’m wondering what this is all about. This. At first, I began here to simply write. But I’ve never been a journaler, not having the patience to put down what happened in a day’s time I’ve always been more of someone who has a noisy mind, and writing always helped to get some of what was there, out. It’s been nice that in the process, I’ve also gotten to do something I love: work with words.

    I love words. And as odd as it may seem, the simple look of some, or the feel of others as I speak are fascinating. Regardless that English has myriad synonyms able to get across a particular point, only one of those synonyms is the best for a sentence to convey exactly what I intend. When it matters.

    But there seems to be so little time now, and I’m not sure why that is.

    I’ve had my other speck in the bloggosphere as long as I’ve had this one, so that certainly isn’t the issue, although that speck is extremely high maintenance. Sometimes, unbearably.

    I’ve enjoyed working with them both, as they’ve allowed me to know a variety of people with different interests. But with the growth of my high maintenance speck, this one — troubled as it’s been with its identity crisis — seems to get pushed aside. And now, often, it just sits here. Doing nothing.

    That makes me quite sad.

    As much as I love all things food, and as much as I can have my mind wrapped around it quite a good portion of my day, writing about it doesn’t provide me what this space does. And when I don’t take that time for myself, I miss it. No one wants to hear my horror-scope and then take a gander at my cookie recipe. Or survive my latest rant, and then dig into a chocolate mousse. Somehow, that doesn’t quite work. When I’m in my kitchen, I’m usually not waving a wooden spoon and complaining about the guy I have to listen to on the radio each morning when the alarm goes off. As much as writing here provides me a sense of balance, so does being in my kitchen. The two are completely unrelated.

    I miss being here quite a bit.

    Are blog years like dog years?

    So is this the part where I sort of fade off into the sunset? I’ve noticed when others have stopped writing. Their blogs sit there unattended. Forever. Others just disappear. I know I couldn’t do that. There’s too much of my life wrapped up in these words and to me, a significant part of my life. I’d have to put it somewhere because like all the photos I’ve taken in my life, it’s part of me.

    I’ve always embraced change and chided those who avoid it. Change is inevitable. It is the one thing we can count on in life — and learn from. But I also know that in spite of change, constants remain.

    Maybe the constant for me here is to write when I can.

    For me.

    There is a little box I can check to keep my writing private.

    Is that what I need? I doubt it.

    I was going to write about something I saw on one of those network morning shows yesterday that really got me going. But today, it’s overcast and chilly, and I just don’t care now.

    This is the part where Scarlett O’Hara would remind herself that tomorrow is another day, and Annie would begin singing, Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you, tomorrow, you’re always a day away…

    Tuesday has never been my favorite day of the week.

  • Friday in my world.

    Welcome to my Friday Follies. I figured it was a great way to cover what competes for attention in my brain. You know. In case anyone is actually interested. And since Friday is only so long, I can’t exactly include my entire list.

    Question of the Day/Week/Month/Lifetime: Would any of the unthinkably serious crap that is taking place in the world right now be happening if women ruled? Seriously. Clearly, I’m not opposed to men in general. I’m quite fond of four of my own, all of whom are quite pleasant humans. But I will never, ever understand what possesses some to be so consumed with a desire for power, that they destroy what and whomever lies in their path. It makes absolutely no sense.  I would say, “Nuke ’em ’till they glow,” but Greenpeace would revoke my membership and I’d have to take my sticker off my Mac.

    Now I’ve heard everything: BBC News is reporting today that we can now blame the obese for the planet’s energy woes. I can officially expect the BBC to pick up some of the crap I write since they have decided to bring attention to this illustrious study and call it news.

    For the shopper who has everything and can’t resist yet another… um…thing: The ultimate cake server. My VBF handed it to me unopened the other day on our morning walk saying she didn’t want it. I think it was something she received at a dinner party? Lo and behold, a wonder of design revealed itself after I was done fighting with the packaging. Just chuck the magnetized heel, and you’ve got a swanky brushed stainless cake server that may or may not fit in your utensil drawer. My VBF is sooooo getting this back.

    For summer travel plans: Consider Paradise your destination. Palm trees, fish tacos, an excellent ball park with a less than stellar ball team, and no more spine-wrenching plunges into bathtub-sized potholes! An end to days of signs warning of sewage spills at the bay? Standard & Poor has finally given our fair city an acceptable bond rating again. We will now get to use plastic to pay for street repairs, faulty sewer lines and broken water mains. Party on! Maybe they can also do something about our pump prices?

    My gentle menfolk: I am willing to act like I’m somewhat interested in anyone who can convince me that a person interested in the arts needs to take advanced mathematics. But I think I’ve heard it all before. The RTR will be bypassing pre-calculus for statistics as a junior next year since it’s the lesser of two evils and he has to take a third year of math. The MoH has concocted a bribe — monetary — if the RTR can squeak by with a “C” in Algebra II and Spanish. He does have an “A” in PE, however, which is huge when one considers that actually moving his now more than 6′-tall lankiness is not something he enjoys. And that he has a swim coach who makes the entire class do 45 laps — yes, that would be 45 — to compensate for kids caught sneaking into the locker room early. Maybe the RTR needs to swim with me this summer. And pigs will fly.

    My Tiny Paradise:

    I saw this guy early this morning when I should have been sleeping in. My VBF had an early appointment so I didn’t have to stumble out of bed at dawn’s crack to walk. Do you think I could actually sleep? Um. No. So of course I got up and thought…Hell. I can take macro snail shots while enjoying my coffee! He looked so cute, I couldn’t bring myself to chuck him over the wall into the early morning traffic. Which probably saved me a law suit now that I think of it. Gawd forbid that I hit someone’s Maserati with snail guts.

    On the menu? Feh. I never have a menu. But my friend Gina always does. *sigh* In my next life, I’ll be as organized. Our meals are all mushed around in my head with all this other crap I think about. But I have finally edited the photos from our latest dinner party featuring Rick Bayless’s Mexican cuisine and will be getting around to doing that mammoth post today. And I’m thinking next week is going to be Indian…Tiki Masala, anyone?

    Me & my mom: Things are great! We’ve only had 3 arguments, 5 disagreements, uttered 49 sighs of exasperation, clucked our tongues 89 times, and been disgusted with one another once or twice. Don’t get me wrong — that’s all normal — at least it has been since I was In High School. We have our laughs and snorts, too. We’ve been on a few field trips, (Wally World, Target…) have drunk umpteen gazillion pots of coffee, analyzed the state of the human condition at least 14 times, moved my bedroom around, and jeered each other’s candidates with gusto. Her cat finally ventured down the stairs by herself today to be greeted by my hissing pretentious attack cat, and the doggo has stopped following my mom up and down the stairs, realizing her favorite person isn’t going anywhere. Her hips thank her. The dog’s. Not my mom’s.

    I’d say that’s enough folly for a Friday.

    Don’t you?

    I feel so much better now.

  • Perfect Days & Apologies

    I think this is the longest I haven’t written since beginning this place I miss so much when I don’t write. And the only legitimate explanation I have for not writing may not make much sense to most.

    I can remember living in a dreary apartment when I was finishing my degree. It was brown. Regardless of how much I enjoy that particular color at this point in my life, somehow, brown then seemed dreary. And it was. It was a means to an end, and I tolerated it because I had to.

    Well, I’ve been having trouble tolerating the orange. I know brown isn’t orange, but still. Surely you must have an inkling of an idea of why this is a problem. Let’s just say my house isn’t in order. Or my blog, in this case. It makes me sad.

    I actually like the layout. I really do. But I spent quite a bit of time on thinking about changing out the orange and switching the font, and all that sort of thing, and when I looked in my files, I saw strange things.

    Can someone please tell me why, oh, why do designers have to subject the rest of us to their particular style of code? I understand creative license, and all, but man.

    I can figure it all out. Really I can. I just don’t want to. I want to download a theme, plug in my widgets, make minor adjustments, maybe have some fun designing a header or two, and then think about writing. Because that’s the whole point of a blog, isn’t it?

    So in fewer words, I’m working on this theme, but not since Thursday, which was days and days ago.

    I guess I just become disgusted, and avoid the problem. And that causes yet another problem because I truly enjoy being here and taking the time to spread my particular style of propaganda. Except I haven’t.

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  • It’s not easy being Green.

    Feeling-Green.jpg I know you’re sick of hearing it, but it is what it is. I’m sick. My head feels as if it’s the size of Barbie’s, the right side of my throat (if not constantly lubed up with scorching hot tea or ice cold water) feels like I swallowed a cup of glass shards, and the right side of my neck and ear are sore.

    I should probably go to the doctor, but I don’t think I have one. I sort of got one a little more than a year ago when I was desperate, and then when I decided that the COBRA payment on our medical insurance was highway robbery, purchased Blue Cross, which is just legalized highway robbery. You know, make your monthly payments, and at the same time, put money in an account, so when you go to the doctor and pay for the visit you can get a tax break. Who thinks of this malarkey? So I haven’t figured out who our doctor is or whether she takes Blue Cross. And no, we haven’t gone to the doctor. We have paid eight trillion dollars for the insurance in the last year, however. You know. Because we have absolutely nothing better to spend the money on. But I tell you, I truly sleep well at night knowing that we’re helping support the payroll at Blue Cross. There’s nothing like giving back. Bleary-Eye.jpg

    Where was I on my suffering and pain…

    Oh yes, and then there’s this goop thing. How is it possible to breathe out of both nostrils, yet detect swamp remnants somewhere behind my face, causing me to make persistent noises at night when the MoH, who is the world’s worst sleeper, is trying to act like he can pretend as if he’ll ever go to sleep. Ever. It just gives him another reason to not sleep, which I wouldn’t wish on anyone. So to be THE reason he’s not sleeping is humiliating.

    He said to me this morning as I was surveying my puffy unloveliness through bleary eyeballs in my bathroom mirror:

    “Do you know how loud it was last night?”

    “No,” I answer, not really wanting to know.

    “It was so loud I could hear it downstairs over the radio.”

    Puffy-Unloveliness.jpg Now, I’m wondering what radio because it’s easier to think about that than what he’s describing, and am trying to picture him down there in the middle of the night. Well, actually, I think it was a bit after twelve. Is that the middle of the night?

    He continues, “You really sleep soundly. I even tried kicking you.” I’ve invited him to try and wake me up by nudging and shaking, but kicking? I should check my legs for bruises. I did volunteer to sleep on the couch tonight, however. True love and all that sort of thing, you know?

    Clearly, I’m not running on all cylinders, but I’m still aware of a few things that are going on out there through my haze of swamp residue and general disgusting grossness:

    Like Earth Day. Being green. Saving the planet one curly light bulb or ugly Prius at a time. I’ve started our transition to those curly light bulbs for more than green reasons. They’re beyond cheap at Trader Joe’s. But we have a ton of those recessed lights whose brightness rivals that of approach lights on a runway, and I haven’t quite gotten around to figuring out what to do about those. Our telescopic light bulb changer isn’t designed to hang on to those curly light bulbs and I’m not thrilled about getting up on our extendable ladder. It’s a bummer, because I just can’t wait to see what it’s going to look like with a bunch of pig tails protruding from our ceiling. In the meantime, we just don’t turn them on. Does that count? Green-Light.jpg

    It should count that on trash day, our recycler is beyond full. I need to receive an award for this. Of course, much of it is wine bottles, but the paper takes up quite a bit of space, too. Junk mail should be outlawed. Not the email kind. The snail mail kind. There’s tons of it and I can’t begin to find out how to stop receiving it. Junk-Mail.jpg The unwanted magazine subscriptions that feature plastic surgeons and society events are an easy phone call or email. But the election crap, and the charity organizations asking for money? It’s ridiculous. At least it gets recycled.

    We keep our cell phones way beyond what’s fashionably correct. But that isn’t because we’re being conscientious, it’s because we just don’t care that we are carrying fat, heavy phones that are banged up beyond all repair. What? Worry about the looks I’ll get the next time my clunker crashes to the floor in the grocery store bringing looks of disdain from those who have surgically attached the latest RAZR2 to their ear? Feh. Ours work just fine.

    Disposal-or-Trash-.jpg I rarely put anything down the garbage disposal any more. It’s a toss up whether putting food in the land fills or out to sea is best, and it sounds noble to even consider it, but I have to be honest. Our plumbing sucks. And since we’ve had a few back ups in the last year, I try to keep the ol’ disposal’s running time down to only when necessary. That means if anything stinky is going in the trash, it has to be orchestrated with trash day. Do I need to explain how many things are in my freezer that are headed for the trash because I couldn’t leave them to rot for a week before the garbage truck came? What. A. Pain.

    Full-Fridge.jpg But hey! Did you know that having a full fridge helps keep energy costs down? There’s less space to circulate the air, so the motor doesn’t have to work as hard. I wondered why I kept all that food in there. It couldn’t possibly be that I have deep-seated problems relating to hunger or neglect from childhood. Just kidding, mom. Really.

    Sticking with the food theme, my coffee grounds go out to the flowerbeds as much as possible. And I’ve thought of taking the leftovers that Starbucks puts out each day, but I just don’t have that much dirt to plant in anymore.

    And I bought those grocery bags that are reusable. Ten of them. I’ve actually used them three whole times since I got them. Of course carrying them in the trunk of my car doesn’t exactly help me remember that I have to use them every single time and it’s hilarious when I pop the trunk after leaving the store and see them unused. Dork. Reusable-Bags.jpg There is another problem: without the plastic grocery bags, the RTR is concerned that he’ll have to use the clear thin plastic bags the newspaper comes in to scoop the dog poop when he’s walking Miss Big. The horrors of carrying doggy poop are bad enough, let alone doggy poop that you can actually see. But I’ve got that covered when the time comes.

    I haven’t figured out what to do about the kitty litter, though.

    Any ideas out there?

    No, the cat is staying. Besides, she’s adopted and fixed.

    So happy almost Earth Day, all. Aren’t you exhausted now?

    P.S.  I had absolutely NO idea my nostrils weren’t perfectly symmetrical.  Go figure.

  • Horoscopes and Fairy Godmothers

    img_6936.JPG When I actually think to read my horror-scope, I like to read it at the end of the day. Somehow, it’s all so much more mysterious when given the day’s events, I’m able to analyze the extent to which the stars have been correct. Or at least that Holiday Mathis, who happens to write the horoscopes our daily paper prints, is correct.

    Today, mine stated, “Neither here nor there is a good place to be. It’s not that you’re undecided or wishy-washy. You’re thinking is flexible, open — just in case a better idea comes along. It will tonight.”

    It’s amazing how that works. I know it’s all about interpretation, but still. “Neither here nor there” has to do with my opinion on whether my mother should move back to California or Virginia. She drove across the country to Virginia seeking adventure last summer. She sold her casita, gave away almost all of her possessions, packed her car and left. Why Virginia? Because my sister and her family recently moved there and it makes sense that when you’re 70 years old and you want to relocate on limited resources, you might feel more confident if you know someone once you arrive. I know I would.

    But things didn’t go quite the way my mother expected and when she couldn’t face the challenges that kind of a move forces on everyone, after a few months, she drove to New York to stay with her sister. There has been no adventure. Zero. I was hoping there might be, because my mother can have quite a spirit, but I was wrong.

    I’ve been wrong before.

    img_6938.JPG

    Mom, you know it’s true. But wouldn’t you have rather had me encourage you than tell you you couldn’t do it? That it wouldn’t work? That you’d never stick it out? That you’re not strong enough, or too old? If I’d believed any of that, I would have told you. I actually believe people can do things they don’t realize they’re capable of. I’ve seen it. I’ve also seen what happens when they’re suffocated by someone who thinks they can’t do anything. Can’t meet expectations. Won’t fit into whatever box has their name on it. It makes me sick.

    I’m a Pollyanna. When I believe in something, I really believe it. I believe it so much that I’m convinced that being positive can influence even the most negative circumstances. I think people struggle with this idea when they really know me, because I’m also very blunt. I haven’t seen a rule that suggests that if I’m an optimist, that I must also be coy. Or “wishy-washy.”

    I suppose some may consider that being wishy-washy is one of my characteristics because I choose not to say exactly what I believe is best at a particular moment in time with five seconds of thought on the situation. Call it the effect of working with and caring for over 1,000 students in my career, each of whom was very different from another. I’d say that being “undecided” about something is more about “flexibility” because the very best decisions are made after time spent measuring and thinking, stewing and talking.

    But that’s difficult for some. Sitting down, making eye contact, and actually talking in a constructive fashion is daunting. I’m supposed to be understanding about this, and I can when I have to, but I’m just not feeling the love right now. What could possibly happen? People might actually understand how one another feels?

    It’s annoying.

    img_6939.JPG

    If I was a calm person, I’d be able to shake it off. People often tell me that. But I’m incapable of shaking anything off. If I was a dog, I’d be a flea bus. Things sit with me, or on me, nudging and poking me to pay attention to them. To argue, to fight, to figure them out…yesterday. Isn’t that ironic? You’d think I wanted to get them over with. But I can’t, because they require time, and what I’ve learned is that with time comes reason.

    Think about all the great aspects of life and living that come with time: babies are born, seeds sprout and blossom, a roast braises, a plot unfolds, wine ferments, love deepens.

    I’ve started this three times and have deleted all that I’ve written. I won’t this time because I’m tired. I shouldn’t be, but I am.

    Going back to the horoscope, as far as a “better idea coming along tonight” is concerned, I’d say yes. I vote for my Fairy Godmother to tap my head with her wand and grant me any wish to come true.

    I’d wish that you were free of worry, Mom. That you could be happy. That you could laugh and enjoy life. That you felt you deserved things…

    …for starters.

    What do you want, Mom? Do you know?

    Have you ever known?

    I can’t imagine.

  • Not much going on.

    Okay. Go ahead and pick yourself off the floor. I know it’s warranted, but the drama doesn’t match your shirt today.

    You looked at your shirt, didn’t you? No? Well if you had, it would have been beyond hilarious, and I do need a good laugh. It would help tone my stomach.

    You’re wondering where I’ve been, or what I’ve been thinking since last Wednesday? I’ve wondered about that myself, and thought this exercise could help me understand that many days can pass and I’m never quite sure where they’ve gone. I’m busy, but if what I’ve accomplished was measured against the endless list of someone who’s driven to accomplish everything three minutes ago, it would not thrill anyone.

    I have been exercising. Since last Monday, I’ve walked about 21 miles — more than half at about 5:30 in the morning. My feet feel like it, too. At least my muscles have stopped screaming obscenities at me. The highlight of the week happened yesterday when we were on the backside of our loop and keeping a decent pace down the boardwalk at Pacific Beach. There’s an alcohol ban on the beach now, so many of the vacation rentals that line the boardwalk were hosting parties. That allows the drunks do things like walk up to passers by and within a few inches of their faces say stuporous things like, “Just get in the house!” while jabbing a finger toward the door and breathing sour beer breath and flinging spittle. “Um, thank you, no?” What a pig.

    I did find something cool to map walking routes and calculate distances, though. Have you seen Google Map Pedometer? Find the red marker, zoom in, and you can see the route we walked yesterday. Spiffy, huh? No more wondering why my tongue’s hanging out toward the end of a good walk. You know, verify the torture while playing with yet another distraction on the web.

    And I’ve been cooking. This is not news, you say? I know, but it does take time. Besides, I bought three new cookbooks and have been enjoying some of the new recipes. Unfortunately, I only got one of these cupcakes because they were made for someone else. The bright side of that is that I had fun, and didn’t end up eating a million calories. No comment on how many fingers I licked in the process.

    Oh, and big news alert!  The downstairs is about as clean as it’s been in a while, the patio has had all the damp leafy remnants of winter raked and green weeds from the rains pulled.

    See what I mean? Not much. No lounging at the computer looking for new sites, or visiting old ones to check in and say hello. I haven’t read the paper, I watch TV when the MoH gets home after eight, and am too tired to read before bed anymore.

    Could I get about six more hours each day, please? That would be good.

    I’d like that.

    I’d also like one of those giant balls to sit on when I am at the computer. Then I might be able to write about how anyone can strengthen their core while they blog and make a zillion bucks. I would be the one making the zillion bucks. Not the blogger. Feh. If I’m going to write anything, it won’t be that.

    No, instead, I’ll write about patience. I’ll write about empathy, and understanding. About regret and remorse. Guilt. And fear. I have quite a bit to say about those emotions and the havoc they wreak on families who aren’t synchronized.

    But I’ve gathered some patience over the years, so that will have to wait, too.

  • Not a rage in sight…unfortunately.

    I wish I could say I was doing something that was so stimulating I had no time to sit here and write. But I don’t.

    I spend the littlest time possible getting ready in the morning to get in my car and drive to work for half a day. I do errands if I have them. Then I come home. If I’m lucky, I’m able to sit down and write something, but most often now, whatever I write is less than meaningful. It just reminds me that I am not finding the time I used to have.

    Like now.

    I’m supposed to be getting ready for work. The only reason I’m sitting here is because I didn’t get up at 5:10 to walk. I don’t have to drive semi-comatose and less than thrilled about having to go to class teenagers to school today.

    What I can say about this strange life I’ve been leading for the past few months is that it’s very mechanized, and I’ve thought much about people who have led this type of life for years.

    I would have dropped out of the human race long ago if I’d had to do this for any length of time. It’s monotonous.

    My brain can’t engage when I don’t have extended periods of time to do things that require thought. I’m able to just get started, to begin to think, to warm up, and my eyes flit to the clock on my monitor reminding me that I need to get dressed. I need to put make up on. Comb my hair.

    Get in my car.

    I don’t want to.

    I don’t feel like it. But I will. And I will see pleasant people today who will smile and say hello. I’ll do my work, take care of my errands, and come home.

    I’ll take care of a few things that can’t wait any longer, and then the evening is here.

    I have no clue what’s going on in the world because my short time in the car allows me the barest dose of NPR and its incessant diatribe of Iraq.

    I did get to watch Gordon Ramsay last night on Hell’s Kitchen though. I need to rage against something like him.

    Do not go gentle into that good night,

    Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

    Because their words had forked no lightning they

    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

    Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

    Range, rage against the dying of the light.

    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

    And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

    Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    And you, my father, there on the sad height,

    Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Dylan Thomas

    I’d say that just about sums things up. Like I said. I need to rage about something.

    Anything.

  • Bloggoversary Stats and Memory Lane

    Last night, I couldn’t sleep for some reason, so I found myself as I have so many times in the past sitting here, staring at my Mac. Midnight is most likely not a great time to open Firefox Firebug for the very first time (thanks very much Scott!) oohing and aahing over the newness of it all.

    But I had just finished going through the comments pages on my dashboard , reliving the evolution of my patch of space in Bloggsville and remembering just how things have come to pass. For those of you who are number starved, and whom I promise to continue to try and understand, I’ve included some stats. Hold on to yourself, please.

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  • Almost a bloggoversary

    The anniversary of my first year as a bonafide blogger is approaching. You might think, “So what,” at first notice, but there is so much more that I’m mulling over.

    My blogroll is one of them. Although it’s changed depending on the mood I’ve been in, or what mattered on a given day, it’s remained remarkably the same since I began a year ago on March 15th.

    The Ides of March?

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