Today I checked out my Google reader for the first time in who knows how long. And I saw that Nina has been blogging again.
I have not.
When I started on Facebook, and then actually started *using* that Twitter account I've had forever, all my idle writing time and random thoughts got redirected there. Which is sad, because I used to really enjoy writing more than 140 characters at a time.
It's also sad that I think I stopped writing because I thought no one was really interested. My former place of employment was such a degrading cesspool of misery, that I spent a few years there thinking that I wasn't really worth much, and making lots of bad choices because of that mistaken notion. But clicking through some old posts, I see a lot of linkbacks, so I guess folks relay were reading after all!
Yes, I said former employer. I left in January, and like Nina, have been taking some time to try to figure out what would make me happier. I was *supposed* to be writing, but haven't done nearly enough of that. Finding Nina again today reminded me of my own beloved blog here.
I can't promise that I'll be as prolific as I once was. First of all, I need to start writing under my real name, to build up my reputation and clips file. And I'm still not comfortable having employers see some of the tales of my wild urban youth. (Also, my mom is totally into the interwebs now; she finds everything.) But I can try.
I love and miss you all. And I miss Maggie!
love and monkeys,
xo
Showing posts with label aging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aging. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Monday, October 26, 2009
Some things you just can't Twitter about
...even if what you want to say is perfectly expressed in under 140 characters:
"At bedtime, the still-rumpled sheets were a sweet reminder of the afternoon's indiscretion."
Oh, Captain, my Captain!
So first off, I've begun to think descriptively, to capture moments, in Twitter bites. This is sad, and really bad for my writing muscles. For example, the post above is a pale shadow of what I thought of last night, but refrained from Tweeting (thank God I still have a little bit of decorum left, and have not gone full-on We Live In Public quite yet). I can't remember the good structure that floated through my head last night, and my writing is just too rusty to come up with something equivalent or better.
Next oddness, when I decided to blog this instead of Tweet it, I autopilot logged on to Twitter anyway. Twitter has infiltrated my brain way more insidiously than I'd realized.
Thirdly, in the time I've been away, Blogger has gotten really hard to log onto! Annoying (though they do have a new "Monetize" tab that I might want to check out...)
You know what else is annoying? A clearly dominant personality who claims he wants to be dominated, but could never let go. And there's something else I'm rusty at, as well; I've totally lost the skills and was unable to keep him in line. Sigh, I've got a lot of work to do to get back on track.
PS: that link above talks about way more than just the "We Live In Public" project, so I don't want to give it short shrift. The end of empathy is something I've felt, ironically but most noticeably, since 9/11. Almost as if true feeling and connection has been replaced by the Cliff Notes version. Maybe this is another aspect of my Twitter-ready mind right now, and something else I'd like to work on more. But I think that will deserve a post all on its own. For now, let me just say that I agree with pretty much everything Jason said up there...
"At bedtime, the still-rumpled sheets were a sweet reminder of the afternoon's indiscretion."
Oh, Captain, my Captain!
So first off, I've begun to think descriptively, to capture moments, in Twitter bites. This is sad, and really bad for my writing muscles. For example, the post above is a pale shadow of what I thought of last night, but refrained from Tweeting (thank God I still have a little bit of decorum left, and have not gone full-on We Live In Public quite yet). I can't remember the good structure that floated through my head last night, and my writing is just too rusty to come up with something equivalent or better.
Next oddness, when I decided to blog this instead of Tweet it, I autopilot logged on to Twitter anyway. Twitter has infiltrated my brain way more insidiously than I'd realized.
Thirdly, in the time I've been away, Blogger has gotten really hard to log onto! Annoying (though they do have a new "Monetize" tab that I might want to check out...)
You know what else is annoying? A clearly dominant personality who claims he wants to be dominated, but could never let go. And there's something else I'm rusty at, as well; I've totally lost the skills and was unable to keep him in line. Sigh, I've got a lot of work to do to get back on track.
PS: that link above talks about way more than just the "We Live In Public" project, so I don't want to give it short shrift. The end of empathy is something I've felt, ironically but most noticeably, since 9/11. Almost as if true feeling and connection has been replaced by the Cliff Notes version. Maybe this is another aspect of my Twitter-ready mind right now, and something else I'd like to work on more. But I think that will deserve a post all on its own. For now, let me just say that I agree with pretty much everything Jason said up there...
Thursday, October 01, 2009
The psychology of the booty call
Wow. It was just pointed out to me that I haven't blogged in months, and that I should, because I used to be funny once upon a time.
Then, like a sign from above, someone sends me a very bloggable and appropriate link:
The psychology of the booty call.
Safe dialing, everyone!
Then, like a sign from above, someone sends me a very bloggable and appropriate link:
The psychology of the booty call.
Safe dialing, everyone!
Monday, January 12, 2009
Shades of Bridget Jones
On Saturday, I felt a bit like dear Bridget when the neighborhood women and I gathered to ooh and ahh over the newest baby on the street. Cameron's mom got married in her late 30s after a marathon of internet dating, and then needed fertility intervention to have her two kids. The other women, moms all, got married very young and had less than no trouble getting pregnant (more like trouble preventing their pregnancies).
The Young Moms swooned over the baby. Then they started joking about how their ovaries hurt, and speculating on the baby boom that Cameron's arrival would trigger in the neighborhood. Because, you see, everyone can have babies, right? Why, certainly, no one in that very room has had trouble getting pregnant, right? Definitely not half the women in the room at that very moment, RIGHT?!?!
On the verge of tears, I got up to leave. Cameron's mom saw the look on my face and quickly tried to change the subject to something more encouraging and less... insensitive.
"Maggie, I meant to tell you! Remember my friend Camille, the one who had her son by insemination? She's engaged!"
Apparently this friend of hers, who had a child on her own three years ago when she was 39, has been swept up in a whirlwind romance with a 35-year-old she met through work. He loves her, he loves her son, the son is already calling him "Dad," and they're getting married in May.
At which point the traditionally more cluelessly insulting (truly, I don't think she means to be hurtful, I think she's just an idiot) Young Mom chimed in:
"Ooh, it's like some urban myth from Sex and the City; you always hear about women who get married in their 30s but you know they don't really exist. But now you actually know one, so maybe there is hope after all!"
I left. Cam's mom left with me, and let me have a good cry on the sidewalk before I went home. Seriously, it's like a scene from Bridget Jones, where the Smug Marrieds treat us like a different species or something.
Maybe I need more "Sex and the City" after all, and less Bridget. Certainly New York Magazine thinks this is a fine time for Singletons in New York.
Hmm, and George wants to see a movie tonight, how interesting....
(Also, the Captain checked in on me last night, but that has nothing whatsoever to do with marriage and babies, in any order.)
The Young Moms swooned over the baby. Then they started joking about how their ovaries hurt, and speculating on the baby boom that Cameron's arrival would trigger in the neighborhood. Because, you see, everyone can have babies, right? Why, certainly, no one in that very room has had trouble getting pregnant, right? Definitely not half the women in the room at that very moment, RIGHT?!?!
On the verge of tears, I got up to leave. Cameron's mom saw the look on my face and quickly tried to change the subject to something more encouraging and less... insensitive.
"Maggie, I meant to tell you! Remember my friend Camille, the one who had her son by insemination? She's engaged!"
Apparently this friend of hers, who had a child on her own three years ago when she was 39, has been swept up in a whirlwind romance with a 35-year-old she met through work. He loves her, he loves her son, the son is already calling him "Dad," and they're getting married in May.
At which point the traditionally more cluelessly insulting (truly, I don't think she means to be hurtful, I think she's just an idiot) Young Mom chimed in:
"Ooh, it's like some urban myth from Sex and the City; you always hear about women who get married in their 30s but you know they don't really exist. But now you actually know one, so maybe there is hope after all!"
I left. Cam's mom left with me, and let me have a good cry on the sidewalk before I went home. Seriously, it's like a scene from Bridget Jones, where the Smug Marrieds treat us like a different species or something.
Maybe I need more "Sex and the City" after all, and less Bridget. Certainly New York Magazine thinks this is a fine time for Singletons in New York.
Hmm, and George wants to see a movie tonight, how interesting....
(Also, the Captain checked in on me last night, but that has nothing whatsoever to do with marriage and babies, in any order.)
Friday, November 28, 2008
Finally, a reason to watch the Macy's parade
I've never been a big fan of parades, and the Macy's T-Day parade in general is just one big traffic snarl. But this might forever redeem it for me.
And Oh My God I love that guy! I wish more people and his sense of humor, and took themselves less seriously. Also, so cute! Aging so well!
And Oh My God I love that guy! I wish more people and his sense of humor, and took themselves less seriously. Also, so cute! Aging so well!
Monday, February 25, 2008
Hit the spot? Not....
Wednesday, I felt stirrings.
Thursday, I saw a sign, right on time.
Friday, I was still seeing spots, which was still okay.
Saturday, I started worrying. By Saturday night, the spots should have been tapering off; instead, it was continuing, maybe even increasing. (come on, if you can watch CSI, you can read this.) But only a little; I still had hope. Anyway, Saturday was just WAY too early for a period, right?
Well, sure, if you presume that I ovulated on Tuesday or Wednesday, which is what we figured. But what if I'd actually ovulated Sunday, when the pee stick first went dark?
It is also worth noting at this time that, due to my erratic sleep habits, my temp charts are consistently an inconsistent mess. Here is what a normal temp chart should look like:
That little blip on Day 10 is what happens if you don't sleep the same number of hours every night or wake up at the same time every day. But overall, that sample chart shows lower temperatures pre-ovulation, and elevated temperatures afterwards. See that big leap on day 14? That's ovulation. See that big drop on day 28? That's the beginning of menstruation. If you're actually pregnant, you don't have a drop, you stay in the hot zone.
I have the worst sleeping habits in the world. Consequently, my temp charts are on crack, all over the place. So, though my temp did rise on the morning of the insemination, who knows if that meant anything?
Whatever, I'm babbling, and prolly giving TMI for some of you.
The point is, by Sunday it sure looked like my period, complete with cramps. I curled up crying and achy on the couch all morning...
This morning? My temp plummeted. No hot zone for me. As I said, my temps are ridiculous and oscillate wildly, so I'll still pee on a stick on Wednesday -- might as well. But it looks like I'll have to keep trying. One down, three to seven more to go!
I'm not going to lie; it sucks. I've been weepy and moody and short-tempered. I'm worried about racking up the continued expenses. But I knew, barring some miracle of beating the odds, that this is what I signed on for, probably for a year or more. And so I'm prepared to stick with it.
Thank you all so so much for your support, your involvement, your excitement. Blogging cannot express what it means to me, I swear.
I probably won't Twitter hourly as Nina requested, mostly because I still don't understand how to use Twitter. But I will keep the updates coming, promise.
Thursday, I saw a sign, right on time.
Friday, I was still seeing spots, which was still okay.
Saturday, I started worrying. By Saturday night, the spots should have been tapering off; instead, it was continuing, maybe even increasing. (come on, if you can watch CSI, you can read this.) But only a little; I still had hope. Anyway, Saturday was just WAY too early for a period, right?
Well, sure, if you presume that I ovulated on Tuesday or Wednesday, which is what we figured. But what if I'd actually ovulated Sunday, when the pee stick first went dark?
It is also worth noting at this time that, due to my erratic sleep habits, my temp charts are consistently an inconsistent mess. Here is what a normal temp chart should look like:
That little blip on Day 10 is what happens if you don't sleep the same number of hours every night or wake up at the same time every day. But overall, that sample chart shows lower temperatures pre-ovulation, and elevated temperatures afterwards. See that big leap on day 14? That's ovulation. See that big drop on day 28? That's the beginning of menstruation. If you're actually pregnant, you don't have a drop, you stay in the hot zone.
I have the worst sleeping habits in the world. Consequently, my temp charts are on crack, all over the place. So, though my temp did rise on the morning of the insemination, who knows if that meant anything?
Whatever, I'm babbling, and prolly giving TMI for some of you.
The point is, by Sunday it sure looked like my period, complete with cramps. I curled up crying and achy on the couch all morning...
This morning? My temp plummeted. No hot zone for me. As I said, my temps are ridiculous and oscillate wildly, so I'll still pee on a stick on Wednesday -- might as well. But it looks like I'll have to keep trying. One down, three to seven more to go!
I'm not going to lie; it sucks. I've been weepy and moody and short-tempered. I'm worried about racking up the continued expenses. But I knew, barring some miracle of beating the odds, that this is what I signed on for, probably for a year or more. And so I'm prepared to stick with it.
Thank you all so so much for your support, your involvement, your excitement. Blogging cannot express what it means to me, I swear.
I probably won't Twitter hourly as Nina requested, mostly because I still don't understand how to use Twitter. But I will keep the updates coming, promise.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Ninjas, aging, and family chitchat
IMing with my cousin today:
maggieb: nice talking to you, however briefly, last night
maggieb: So what was that character's name?
DCP: Usagi Yojimbo
maggieb: and who was he?
DCP: to be entirely correct, the character was the star of his own comic book series, and he only guest-starred with the ninja turtles every once in a while
DCP: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Usagi_Yojimbo
maggieb: you are a font of knowledge
maggieb: love you
DCP: love ya too
DCP: font of useless geeky knowledge
DCP: I certainly hope this info helps you win a bet or something
maggieb: well, after my bowling pratfall last night
maggieb: I need to contribute something worthwhile to the team
maggieb: You know how I used to complain that I was old?
maggieb: now I actually am
maggieb: I have injured my hip in a BOWLING accident!
maggieb: nice talking to you, however briefly, last night
maggieb: So what was that character's name?
DCP: Usagi Yojimbo
maggieb: and who was he?
DCP: to be entirely correct, the character was the star of his own comic book series, and he only guest-starred with the ninja turtles every once in a while
DCP: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Usagi_Yojimbo
maggieb: you are a font of knowledge
maggieb: love you
DCP: love ya too
DCP: font of useless geeky knowledge
DCP: I certainly hope this info helps you win a bet or something
maggieb: well, after my bowling pratfall last night
maggieb: I need to contribute something worthwhile to the team
maggieb: You know how I used to complain that I was old?
maggieb: now I actually am
maggieb: I have injured my hip in a BOWLING accident!
Monday, September 18, 2006
Bored bored bored
Geez my life has gotten so boring up here in responsible adult-land. The deal with the lumberjack fizzled out -- well, maybe not, but I'm refusing to continue to put in effort just for the sake of drama. (he's doing this stupid possiveness without commitment thing that I find nauseating.) And when have I ever opted AGAINST drama? I met this other guy, total yawn, works in pharmeceuticals! I am a domestic goddess, which is inherently too stable to be exciting. And I'm paying off my credit cards, always a sign of infinite boredom.
Thankfully, no one is sick or dying, unlike last year at this time. Life is good, and safe, and stable, and prosperous -- but no drama, no circus sex, no 17-hour benders or last-minute trips to foreign lands. I can't become a groupie for a punk band, because there are no good punk bands left, and they're closing CBGBs. Last time I was there was on said 17-hour bender, ordering water and underwear, right before I passed out in Nomda's hotel room. (Funny, the first time I was there, I showed my lace underwear to Mindless Self Indulgence, and to Nicfit and the biker, who were with me the last time too. What is it about them, me, CBs and underwear?)
Also, no one is racy up here, I can't even *imagine* having sex on a fire escape (also, I don't have a fire escape...) No one even swears. It is so... Bostonian. Don't get me wrong, I am very very happy, so glad I moved back, hardly miss New York at all -- except for the adventure (and my friends, of course, but we've been doing pretty good with the visits so far). I want circus sex, I want all-night raging benders, I want wild parties!
I don't want to grow up.
No, that's not true. I want to grow up, but I want a partner in crime that will let me be devious and bad on the side. If not on a fire escape or in a taxi cab, then at least on the kitchen floor.
Thankfully, no one is sick or dying, unlike last year at this time. Life is good, and safe, and stable, and prosperous -- but no drama, no circus sex, no 17-hour benders or last-minute trips to foreign lands. I can't become a groupie for a punk band, because there are no good punk bands left, and they're closing CBGBs. Last time I was there was on said 17-hour bender, ordering water and underwear, right before I passed out in Nomda's hotel room. (Funny, the first time I was there, I showed my lace underwear to Mindless Self Indulgence, and to Nicfit and the biker, who were with me the last time too. What is it about them, me, CBs and underwear?)
Also, no one is racy up here, I can't even *imagine* having sex on a fire escape (also, I don't have a fire escape...) No one even swears. It is so... Bostonian. Don't get me wrong, I am very very happy, so glad I moved back, hardly miss New York at all -- except for the adventure (and my friends, of course, but we've been doing pretty good with the visits so far). I want circus sex, I want all-night raging benders, I want wild parties!
I don't want to grow up.
No, that's not true. I want to grow up, but I want a partner in crime that will let me be devious and bad on the side. If not on a fire escape or in a taxi cab, then at least on the kitchen floor.
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