Under Construction

I'm in Beta! Or, rather, the New Blogger. Either way, I was finally allowed to switch over. An act that made the OCD girl inside of me go NUTS because everything on my beloved blog changed. I've spent the last few hours fucking around with it to get it back to how I want it. And don't even get me started on the labels. That list of "Filed under" over there on the side? I'm sure it's going to be fourteen thousand times as long as it is right now by the time I'm finished going through all of my archives and categorizing everything. Man. This is going to be one massive undertaking.

So, that being said, please pardon my appearance for the next few days (weeks?) while I go about the dirty business of playing around with two years worth of my life.

Also, I lost my list of music on the side there, and I can't figure out how to get it back - getting both the links and the just plain ol' typed out words that weren't links to show back up has proven to be far too much for my limited HTML/Blogger template capacity to handle. So, can anybody help me with that? Also, how the eff do I get my sidebar links to open in a new window?

I think I just realized I needed another category: Wannabe Computer Geek! Check it out!

Ahem. Sorry. I'm getting way too carried away with this. Let's hope I don't get all into this "Labeling every archived post" thing for a week and then give up. Because I probably will.

I'm Gonna Have to Face It...

I've said it many times before: I am a creature of habit. From my morning routine to my shopping rituals, I refuse to believe all the hype of how variety is the spice of life. I enjoy my routines. The careful carrying-out of my morning ritual can make or break my day. And I happen to think that routines make the barely-tolerable things life mundane enough to make the other stuff spicier. I don't ritualize sex or drinking or partying or dancing; Just the boring stuff gets squished into little molds. Makeup application, the sequence of my showering, when I smoke my cigarettes on the drive into and home from work. Things like that. Also, I think I'm OCD.

Anyway, another thing I do that, for whatever reason, is always the same has to do with blogs. It's the same thing every day: I get into work, I wiggle my mouse so that the screen comes to life. I get on the internet. I go to my blog. I check my comments. Then I check out the links of the people who commented. When that's done, I go about The Reading of Other People's Blogs. If any of you out there keep religious track of your sitemeters, I'm sure you'd see ME checking your site at roughly the same time every day. Because it's always the SAME. First, the gossip blogs. Because I have to know all of the juicy stuff that happens in the world of celebrities. Starting with Go Fug Yourself, and working my way down that list, I get my fill of photos and quotes and info regarding all things famous. Depending on my mood (and whether or not I'm alone in the office), I write after I've read the gossip. Once I've written and published my post for the day, that's when the real reading begins: The Blogs. I go down that list to the right there, in alphabetical order. I read every new post that I come across. I actually get disappointed when I see that someone hasn't been updating (I'm looking at YOU, Dale's Big Fat Blog. You had that Guns'n'Roses thing up for, like, a week. I know you have a new one up now, but don't let that shit happen again.). So I read the new stuff. I peruse archives. I follow the trails of links within posts. And once I've made it all the way from A to Z, usually, I start all over. Multiple times. When, clearly, there is nothing new being posted, I start reading the blogs that other blogs recommend. This process can, if necessary, last me all day long.

There is a problem, though. I get very involved with blog reading. Like, too involved. So involved, in fact, that I begin to resent customers. And telephone calls. And the actual work I'm supposed to be doing. So things get sort of, how shall I say, neglected in lieu of reading more blogs. Or writing a new one. Or checking my email. Or anything involving the internet.

I think I'm addicted.

Is there a support group for this?

Pusher

As I do every day, I checked Tequila Red's blog yesterday. And she introduced me to a new addiction.

Secrets.

As she said, it's Post Secret, but without the attempt at art.

I may sit and read it all day long.

It's Like You're a Drug...

Hello. My name is Laurie. And I am an addict.

My drug of choice (Besides cigarettes and vodka)? No, it's not heroin, or crack. Or even Xanax. My addiction, ladies and gentlemen, is far more shameful - and far more powerful - than those indulgences.

My addiction is to...American Idol.

And I can't help it. I can't. It's like a power over me, undeniable and irrefutable. Come 8:00 on Tuesday and Wednesday nights, I'm drawn to the television, unable to flip through the other billion channels on DirecTV, for fear that I may miss even a second of my show. And if, for some reason beyond my control, I miss the show, I'll stay up and watch the West Coast broadcast at 11. Even if I'm tired. Even if I have to go to sleep. I have to watch.

Last night was no different. Billy and I, along with the three other people in the house last night, gathered in front of the new, large television to drown in American Idol. The surround sound was on. The volume was loud. It was like we were actually there. And, friends: It. Was. Fabulous.

But indulging in my favorite guilty pleasure of American Idol necessitates that I listen to music on my drive into work, singing at the top of my cigarette-smoke-filled lungs, pretending that I, too, am an American Idol. With my window cracked and my cigarette tucked firmly between my pointer and middle fingers, I belt out the lyrics to my favorite show-stoppers: Mariah Carey, Christina Aguilera, Susan Tadeschi, Counting Crows, Otis Redding, Wynonna Judd, Celine Dion, Anthony David. (A good Idol knows she must be diverse.) I try to stay true to the original tune, but add a bit of individuality. (A good Idol knows she must own the song.) I smile. (A good Idol knows she must be a performer.)

And by the time I've made it from the house to work, I'm hoarse and my vocal chords ache. My throat hurts. As does my forehead, where I've pinched my eyebrows together in agony during the sad ballads and lifted my eyebrows in glee during the pop tunes. And I just know that if it weren't for that damn American Idol, I'd be just fine. I would've listened to Howard Stern, I probably would've chuckled. And my throat would be fine and my face wouldn't feel like I've been mashing it up against a window for thirty minutes.

Damn you, American Idol. Damn you.

Or Maybe I'm Just High

I think the universe is against me writing anything today.

My computer decided it didn't feel like hooking up to the internet for the first half of this morning. Then, when it lazily connected, it took me four tries to post a comment on one of my daily blog stops. Sure that that was a sign that I would lose anything I wrote in blogger, I decided to wait it out for a bit. In that time, my boss decided to take me out to a see a few clients, which took me out of the office - and away from the computer - for over three hours. I came back to my desk after returning to the office to a heated conversation with my two coworkers about weddings and death that lasted an hour. Now, there are some men doing work in the office, and the whole place reeks of epoxy (?) glue. My head hurts a little bit. I'm kinda dizzy. But I'm laughing more than usual. So, needless to say, the post that I was working on took a turn for the weird, and was rendered incomprehensible.

Looks like I'll have to wait until the fumes die down.

In a Cloud

After seeing one on Snapperhead's blog, I just had to do one of these "word clouds" for myself. I'm pretty pleased with the results.

Do one for yourself here. I, of course, took the liberty of making mine pink. But you don't have to.

Random Afternoon

So, I do a lot of blog-reading. A lot. Like, an inordinate amount of my day is spent checking and re-checking that list of blogs on the right to see if they've been updated. Along with a handful of others that are either saved as favorites on my computer (I've been too lazy to add them as links) or from links on other people's sites.

And I follow the daily life of so many people that I get a little, I guess, weird about it. I actually caught myself referring to an awesome fellow blogger - with whom I've never exchanged personal words beyond comments - as a "friend from Ann Arbor." Huh? And then, of course, I have a small network of people who have become what I consider to be friends through the blog. (Casey and Dale and Scoot and NJ and Julie fall into this category. And they're all familiar with my horrible KIT skills.)

But then, there are some blogs that I've never commented on. But I read them daily. And two of these just recently came out with big news. One of the bloggers announced a pregnancy, an engagement, and a miscarriage in the space of three days. One just announced a pregnancy.

And it's so strange, but I totally wanted to tell someone "Oh my God! Guess who's pregnant! [Insert Blogger's Name Here]! Can you believe it? I'm so happy for her!" And "Oh my God! [Blogger] is engaged! Isn't that wonderful!" But I'm pretty much the only person I know who is deeply involved in this whole blogging thing. So no body would know who I'm talking about.

But isn't it strange to get this involved in some stranger's life? I mean, I love it, don't get me wrong...But isn't it a bit peculiar to realize that you've just felt genuine glee or sorrow for someone you've never met? I can't believe how close I feel to some of these bloggers.

Is that strange?

Quickie

Not to state the obvious or anything, but Valentine's Day is tomorrow. And because I have this wonderful boyfriend who makes me blissfully happy, it's fun for me to reflect on Ghosts of Valentine's Days Past - The Horrible, the Just Sorta Bad and the Good.

Reflect with me, respectively: Here, here and here.

Also, I appreciate all the help and comments with regard to my question about Divinities's design.

Because DesignGuy said it would be costly to get a new one, and I'm not really a fan of the other templates Blogger provides, it looks like we'll be staying the same (but what about a banner? Would that be any easier, DesignGuy?)...And yesterday I actually put my digital camera in my purse, which means that it'll be with me everywhere that I go. Billy's camera is the same as mine, so it should be relatively easy to hook my camera up to the computer at his house. Which means that, yes, I will (hopefully) be posting pictures very, very soon.

Nude ones.

No, not really.

But I will post pictures.

That all being said, I'm actually quite busy here at work today...Which means that I don't really have the time right now to devote to a real post. Later tonight, hopefully.

But anyway, Happy Valentine's Day Eve!

Ch-Ch-Changes

Now that Divinities is a year old (and I've proved to myself that I'm going to stick with this whole "blogging" thing), I've been thinking about making some changes.

Namely, the design.

But I am clueless - CLUELESS, I tell you - when it comes to template changes, much less a whole redesign.

I clicked on some links from some of my favorite blogs (things that said "Design by:") and perused the templates and portfolios of a few people. But I'm not finding anything that blows me away. And, really, I don't quite understand it.

Do you tell these people what you want, and then they go to town designing something for you? Do you pick a few elements out of their portfolios? And what if you have no idea what you want your blog to ultimately look like? Do they help you? Do they look at your blog and give you ideas? And what if you don't like what they do? What then?

Also, I saw on one "Transferring of posts begins at $35.00" or something like that. What? Does that mean I have to pay to have all of my eighty billion posts transferred into a new template? Because that, to me, sounds like it could get expensive. I'm wordy. I post a lot. I'm not concise.

But I think Ol' Divinities looks pretty boring. Don't you? I mean, sure, it's alright, but I think we need some, I dunno, pizzaz around these parts.

Does anyone have any suggestions? Tips? Help? Advice?

Wow

Holy shit.

Ten Thousand Visitors Since May 7, 2005.

I can't believe it.

It may not be a big deal to anyone but me, but I'm flabbergasted.

Thank you to everyone who has ever stopped by, thank you for those who read my words, and thank you to those of you who leave words for me.

I started this in January, and I never expected it to be read by anyone but Tumbleweed. And the fact that I've been viewed 10,000 times just makes me smile.

Thank you.

An Early Birthday Wish

I have a cold. My face hurts, I'm coughing up a storm. (On the bright side, a customer - a roofer who obviously moonlights as a physician - told me "Iit's probably just allergies. Rather than telling the doctor what you think you have, why not let him tell you what you have? Tell him that you don't feel like it's a cold, and - I'm tellin' you - he'll tell you it's allergies." Gee, thanks, Doc.) This is horrible timing: My birthday is tomorrow, and my boyfriend and I will be leaving for a trip to Florida on Thursday. I could really do without the sniffles and the coughing right about now; the last thing I want is to be under the weather on my birthday.

I'm really quite upset about this whole being-sick-thing. But then I went on one of my daily blog stops and found a birthday tribute to me. I laughed. I cried. I coughed. It was fabulous.

Dale Bentley is the coolest. Seriously.

Words Fail Me

This weekend, Billy actually called me out on my reluctance to open up to him.

“About what?” I asked defensively, rolling over in bed so that I faced the window instead of him.

“About everything,” he huffed, playfully pulling me back to him. “About what you like, what you don’t like…We’ve been together a month and a half and I still don’t know so much.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know – You just have to ask. And you haven’t. I’m not just going to spew my history all over you or hit you with a litany of my likes and dislikes,” I told him. And although it was the truth, I felt badly about saying it; all that does is toss blame around. And, really, I don’t like saying what I like. I feel like telling you that I do like something is basically telling you that what you’re doing for or giving to me isn’t good enough. But I didn’t tell him that part.

“But I don’t want to have to ask you how you feel about me,” he said. I tried to control the shock I felt. Somehow, as a girl, it never crosses my mind that men might want to know that you dig them, that you’re into them, that you like them, too. I just assume he knows how I feel by the way I look at him, by the amount of time I spend with him, my insatiable desire for him.

“Oh, come on,” my voice was incredulous, “like you don’t know.” His face was open, questioning; inviting me to tell him more. But I just couldn’t. Nothing sincere, nothing close to how I actually feel about him would come out. “You know I like you.” I knew that alone wasn’t enough. “A lot,” I added, just for good measure.

You’d never believe it from reading what I’ve written here, but actually saying out loud how I feel makes me horribly uncomfortable. I usually meet “I miss you” with a sarcastic quip, “I wish I was with you right now” with a joking “yeah, whatever. Sure you do.”

I can always write out what I feel better than I could ever hope to say it. I can spit venom more effectively with my pen than with my mouth when I’m angry. I can better articulate love on paper than I can with my vocal chords. I suppose it seems strange that I would prefer to write my feelings on paper as opposed to saying them out loud. Once you’ve said something, no on can actually prove you’ve said it. You can pretend it never happened. “No, I never said that,” can immediately diffuse volatile situations. But when you write those same words down? Irreversible. You’re forever held accountable for the letter, the note, the post you’ve written to or about someone. To some, that’s horrifying.

But for me, not having to face someone while they find out how you feel about them is priceless. I can’t back down. It’s how I really feel, and it’s out there. I have a horrible habit of recanting words once I’ve said them. “No, that’s not really what I meant” is very easy for me to say, even if I did mean it. And you can’t argue with me when I’ve written something. Those words are irrefutable. But, more importantly, my written words can’t be rejected. I don’t have to look at your face when I say I’m crazy about you, crossing my fingers in hopes that your eyes reciprocate what I’ve just said. I don’t have to chance the awkward tension that comes with me admitting that I was dreaming of you when my alarm went off this morning, and thought of you from the moment I woke up and never stopped until I fell asleep that night, if you don’t feel the same way. Even, even, if I know you do.

This fear has been with me forever. Sentimentality makes me uneasy. It has nothing to do with my last relationship, or the one before that. My mom has complained, since I was small, that I wasn’t affectionate or mushy. It’s just something in my wiring. But I’m a romantic, a hopeless one. I cried during the movie and the book The Notebook, I love love, I crave to hear that my boyfriend likes me. I want to know what he likes about me, why he likes me, how much. But when it comes time to say it back, though my mind is flooded with things I adore about him, I just can’t say it. I feel silly. Contrived. Like I’m only saying it because I should. And so, much to my dismay, my spoken description of my affection for him falls dreadfully short of accurate.

“You want to know how I feel about you?” I said, my face only inches from his. “Read my blog.” For some reason this causes me less terror than having to say it to his face. Even though he could call up every friend he has, give them the address and say “Check out how whipped I have this girl.” Even though it could terrify him with how much I really like him. At least he’ll know, and I won’t have to watch his reaction.

“I feel like that such an invasion of your privacy,” he responded. How sweet, I thought. But if you had a blog, I’d be reading it obsessively.

“But it’s not private. It’s a blog. On the internet. Anyone who wishes to read it can. Including you. And it’s all on there. There are people I don’t even know from all over the world who know how I feel about you. You may as well be one of them.”

I know he read it, because I told him – via email – exactly which ones to read. And though I feel better knowing he knows, I’m working on being able to say right to his face “I’m crazy about you.”

Welcome Back

Guess who stepped out of the dark ages!!!!

I now have an internet connection at home. Never have I been so excited about something so mundane. Internet! At home! I can't believe it.

Now I have to get my internet fix before it's time for me to go to work, so I'll post tonight. I can't believe it! I'll be able to post again. What a concept!

Down Time

Well, it's 10:46 pm here in Milford, and I'm sitting in the computer room of my parents' house, catching up on emails and typing here because, as you may or may not know from my recent podcast, I don't have internet at my house.

Normally, the absence of the world wide web in my home doesn't bother me. I'm at work more than I'm home, so it makes sense that I would do all things internet-related in the down time of my work day. Sure, I get my work done: I'm productive, pleasant, and hard-working, but once my projects are finished, it's blog-hopping time.

Apparently, I spoke too soon in the podcast when I said I'd continue blogging "as long as I have internet access," because I was given some devastating news recently. Someone, somewhere within my bank clicked on an "inappropriate" website recently, resulting in the confiscation of her address book, which resulted in a slew of lewd and pornographic junk mail thorughout the bank. This epidemic has caused the president of the bank to crack down on all email and internet use at work. He has advised us via email, ironically, that our email and internet use will be monitored from this point forward, and anyone using his or her computer for purposes other than business will face disciplinary action and/or termination. To which I say "Woah, man! Lighten up!" But he's the president, and I'm just a lowly assistant, so what I have to say doesn't really count for much.

Three months ago, I would've said "Bah! Who cares?! Internet-Schminternet." But now things have changed: I have this wonderful space into which I can pour my thoughts, words and feelings. I get comments. I feel like I'm part of a circle of bloggers. I feel good reading other people's blogs, as well as when I write on my own. And now, I can't. Until I get an internet connection at home, I'm stuck playing Spider Solitare and wondering what NJ has been saying on his blog, what Tumbleweed is up to, what Scoot's rambling about, what dirtly little secrets Melina has to share, what cute story Bry is going to tell, and what Brian will say today. I'm left without the little peephole through which I get to view other bloggers, all with their own distinct personalities and senses of humor. And, selfishly, even worse than that: I won't be able to post. This truly breaks my heart. As I've said before, I believe that writing here keeps me sane: Something about writing it out where there's a chance someone else will see it feels like liberation.

But, as of today, I will be stuck in an internet-free prison, forced to post only when I visit Ma and Pa. Until, that is, I get around to talking to my roommate/landlord about internet at the house.

Pod People

Courtesy of Scoot, I have been interviewed on a pod cast!

Click here to hear it.

But listener beware! I speak very fast and I do, as the website name implies, ramble.

Talk, Talk

I was at home last night, attempting to unpack the mountain of boxes sitting beside my bed, when it hit me: I'm alone. Sure, physically I was alone. It didn't take an epiphany for me to figure that out. It was the other side of the alone coin that I ran head-first into: Lonely.

There's a huge difference between lonely and alone. Alone is freeing. Alone is unencumbered. Alone is quiet and comfortable and necessary from time to time. You choose to be alone, and you choose when you've had enough of it. Lonely is another beast entirely. There's no choice, no control in lonely. Correct me if I'm wrong, but generally, people don't choose to be lonely, it just happens. I've said before that I prefer to be alone - live alone, dance alone, eat alone - but I despise being lonely.

And being lonely has nothing to do with being single. It has nothing to do with whether or not I have a man I can run to. Because I've had a man and been lonely at the exact same time. This has more to do with not knowing anyone who knows me.

I have a general demeanor of calm, cool and collected around my friends. I don't show up to parties pissed off, I don't cry at bars, and although I'll lament about my man troubles (or lack thereof) I shrug it off, giving the impression that it may have bothered me enough to talk about it, but not enough to cry about it. But it's so not true. I'm a big ol' faker. I look my friends in the eye and tell them that I'm fine, when really all I want to do is go home, listen to some sad music and weep. And they believe me when I say I'm fine, because I would never let on that I feel otherwise.

Because I appear to have no issues of my own, my friends see me as their therapist. It is my job to listen to and subsequently solve their problems. Most times, I'm thrilled with the duty I've been assigned. I love that they trust me and my opinion enough to share with me their deepest, darkest secrets. I'm flattered and honored that they choose me to come to when they need help. But after conversation upon conversation where I find myself only nodding and listening, not offering anything of my own, I just want to scream, Hey, what about me? Don't you want to ask if I'm okay? If I'm doing alright now that I'm single? If I'm happy in my new house? If anything is bothering me? But then I remind myself, that if they asked me any of these questions, I'd lie right through my teeth and say "I'm fine. I'm happy being single. I love my new place. Everything is great."

But everything is not fine. I hate being single. It saddens me that I spent over three years with a guy who ultimately didn't want me. I don't understand how I could be with one man who would give anything to spend his life with me, and then give him up for a man who would give me up to be free. It's true that I love my new house, but I have no one to share it with. And I'd kill for someone to ask me how I am, and really want to hear the answer - Most people I know just ask me out of courtesy. I can see them waiting for me to get through with my shit so we can move onto theirs. So I hurry through tidbits about me, and get to what they want to say. And so I wish I had never given them the impression I was fine, because now I can't take it back. I wish I wasn't so terrified of looking weak. I wish I wasn't so resistant to advice. I feel like I'm bursting with things to talk about, but no one to talk to.

Sunday night I only slept for two hours. After watching both Jerry Maguire and Mermaids, crying into my crisp white pillowcase, and staring my ceiling, I realized that I just needed to talk. My first instinct was to call my ex, but I pushed that thought away, refusing to rely on old crutches to heal new wounds. Then I thought of calling my mom, but I didn't want to wake her, or bother her with my "problems" that, in the grand scheme of things, aren't that big. A weekend without internet access prevented me from writing here, and I guess that's what did it to me. I had nowhere to just talk (or type, as it were) about myself without worrying if I really should be listening to someone else instead.

So to whoever reads this, allowing me to maintain my sanity: Thank you.

D'Oh!

I've just realized what a galoot I am when it comes to computers. I'm embarrassed to admit that I have been fiddling with this damn computer for what feels like hours just trying to post a fucking picture. I have resorted to clicking the help button and sending off an email...That I'm sure will be replied to with a message like:
"Dear Idiot.
You are the only person in the world who cannot figure this out. You do not even deserve to have this explained to you. If you can't figure it out, you are out of your league.
Sincerely,
Someone Smarter Than You"
I'm an intelligent chick, but when I start delving into anything beyond Word and Outlook, I turn into a buffoon.
Gosh. The internet is intimidating.

Procrastination

I suppose I should've started this earlier, back when I felt like my world was closing in on me...But procrastination has always been one of my strong suits. So here it is, 2005 already, and I'm only now getting started. But better late than never, right?

So now I've gone and done it. I've claimed one little corner of the internet as my own and started a blog.

And now I feel like I'm part of this little club...Less like the girl scouts, and more like AA or something.

Hello, my name is Laurie...And I'm a blogger.