This one will not be easy. I'll say in advance, I'm posting this here because it needs to be put down. Feel free to comment, I welcome insight, but probably won't want to talk about it.
Back story: my brother lives in Reno, NV. He is 53. He ended up out west back in the late 70s. That in itself has a long story, and here's the quick version. Dropped out of high school, had a couple of jobs, got in trouble, lost one of his best friends to a tragic accident during a camping trip, took off on a bus (never forget that day) to New Mexico, where he worked and lived for a while (and oh how I wish I'd saved the letters he wrote...), eventually came back and apprenticed as an electrician. After retiring from the Navy, my father had started a company that would be doing work overseas (in Iran, just before the hostage crisis), and my brother signed up. This was amazing, as up until this time their relationship had been very, very rocky. This working together proved to be a very good healing time for them, and my brother matured. Unfortunately, during this time my parents' marriage dissolved, and my father came home to try to salvage things. My brother witnessed the anguish my father experienced, and thus began a rift between he and my mother. This was especially upsetting, since they had up until then been very, very close. Not long after dad and my brother returned from Iran, my brother decided to load up his truck (a 56 Chevy pick-up he had named Rosebud, shift on the column) and drive west. His girlfriend invited herself along (she was escaping something else entirely) and he agreed. They lived in Gillette, WY for about nine years, and ultimately moved to Reno for better jobs.
At some point in this relationship, brother and g.f. married. It was an uneasy relationship in many ways. She became a Jehovah's Witness, and my brother is pretty much agnostic. He likes to drink, and she viewed the drinking as a problem (and one she was trying to fix by witnessing to him often.) At one point they separated, and she called me and told me more things about my brother than I cared to know (including how rough he was during sex.) Then they reconciled and made a second go of things. Unfortunately, the problems ran deep and they ultimately separated again. During this time, the wife was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis (her mother had ultimately died from complications of this disease and it's treatment) and she needed medical care, but was not insured. So, they came to an agreement which involved not finalizing the divorce so that she could stay covered under my brother's health insurance. Then things became so bad (complications from mediation) that my brother agreed that she live in the house with him again, so that he could help take care of her.
Well, yesterday my mom called. I could tell by her voice it was something upsetting. It seems my brother was served with a restraining order yesterday at work. Mom was able to get out of him that they had an argument over the weekend (the same as always, her confronting him about drinking and trying to witness to him, and him getting angry and telling her to leave it alone), but we don't know the extent of what happened. So, now he is not allowed to go home; to the home that he had opened up to her so he could help during her medical complications. He had a friend staying there who recently separated from his wife, and now he can't go back either.
The rest of the family is out here not knowing what to think; we don't know the extent of their argument, we don't know if she has reason to be concerned for her safety, or if this is another manipulation on her part (and there have been many) to control his behavior. It is hard being this far removed, both physically and through the passage of time. Obviously we want to reach out to him, but there is always the possibility that his reactions to her attempts to 'help' him were indeed angry, maybe violent. Difficult to consider.
Time will certainly tell.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Cue Euphoria
You've got to read this guy: http://windinyourvagina.blogspot.com/
Excerpt: "So I did it. I started running again. And let me just warn you that your body doesn’t really care about how you used to run. I ran 17 miles last week and it was like climbing Everest. But, somehow, in spite of the pain and the panting, I found that part of me that used to love it. There’s a place, and you usually have to go longer than a half hour to get it, where your body kinda says “Fuck it. He’s not gonna stop and everything’s starting to hurt. Cue euphoria!” and there’s this whole layer of yourself that drops away. That bitchy veneer of you that moans and whines and complains just gives up and the python in your head suddenly dies of unknown causes and turns into butterflies or some other poetry shit."
That one line, you know, the one that starts with, "Fuck it..."? That's the mantra that needs to keep going through my head. This guy needs to be my running coach, seriously.
I hadn't run in a couple of weeks (you know, the rain, cuz I'm a wimp and it is so easy to talk myself out of doing something I really don't want to do...), but I decided to try yesterday, but it hurt. My ankles and my shins hurt. So I walked some more, thinking I needed more of a warm-up than I already had; then I tried to run again...but it hurt. I did this about three more times, and then said, "Fuck it..." but the sentence ends differently than the one above. Because I ended up walking for an hour, and gave up on the running. And the whole time I'm thinking, "Well, walking the half marathon would still be an accomplishment, right?" This whole conversation in my head, fueled by the ever-present guilt that comes from god-knows-where that seems to plague me no matter WHAT I do...but I digress.
So then I come in this morning and I read Black Hockey Jesus's post, and it's a sign. I have to do this. I have to keep running. I have to push myself, push my body, and achieve this goal. Ugh.
Anyone want to run w/me tonight? It'll be fun, I swear. "Cue euphoria!"
Excerpt: "So I did it. I started running again. And let me just warn you that your body doesn’t really care about how you used to run. I ran 17 miles last week and it was like climbing Everest. But, somehow, in spite of the pain and the panting, I found that part of me that used to love it. There’s a place, and you usually have to go longer than a half hour to get it, where your body kinda says “Fuck it. He’s not gonna stop and everything’s starting to hurt. Cue euphoria!” and there’s this whole layer of yourself that drops away. That bitchy veneer of you that moans and whines and complains just gives up and the python in your head suddenly dies of unknown causes and turns into butterflies or some other poetry shit."
That one line, you know, the one that starts with, "Fuck it..."? That's the mantra that needs to keep going through my head. This guy needs to be my running coach, seriously.
I hadn't run in a couple of weeks (you know, the rain, cuz I'm a wimp and it is so easy to talk myself out of doing something I really don't want to do...), but I decided to try yesterday, but it hurt. My ankles and my shins hurt. So I walked some more, thinking I needed more of a warm-up than I already had; then I tried to run again...but it hurt. I did this about three more times, and then said, "Fuck it..." but the sentence ends differently than the one above. Because I ended up walking for an hour, and gave up on the running. And the whole time I'm thinking, "Well, walking the half marathon would still be an accomplishment, right?" This whole conversation in my head, fueled by the ever-present guilt that comes from god-knows-where that seems to plague me no matter WHAT I do...but I digress.
So then I come in this morning and I read Black Hockey Jesus's post, and it's a sign. I have to do this. I have to keep running. I have to push myself, push my body, and achieve this goal. Ugh.
Anyone want to run w/me tonight? It'll be fun, I swear. "Cue euphoria!"
Monday, May 11, 2009
Just need to put it down, not angry, but...
...I'm a little frustrated. Previous conversations regarding stereotypes and judgment have left me wondering what the heck is going on. Why is it that the things that make folks feel a part of a group and 'unique' to that group are the very things that put them on the defensive and even cause hurt feelings? Why is it that folks don't like to be pigeon-holed or qualified, and yet possess certain traits/phrases/habit they feel are exclusively 'theirs' (I believe one friend's friend termed it self-segregation.) I've been put in my place with little comments with regard to all of this, and I'm mildly annoyed. What happened to the melting pot that is America? Why insist on letting me know that I've somehow judged you (which I have not), and at the same time let me know that I can't understand because it's a (fill-in-the-blank) thing. Whatever. Maybe I can understand. Maybe I don't speak your language, but I am not immune to your exclusive remarks that attempt to keep me out of your loop. What do you know about me? What do you know about where I come from, how I grew up, what I've experienced, what makes me who I am today? Before getting your hackles up, please do us all the favor of checking your own pre-judgments and self-segregation. You'd be surprised how much we all have in common, and the differences we have are what make us who we are...in a good way. Why can't we all just get along...
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Judgment Day
This is an email I wrote recently to a friend during an ongoing conversation about judgment and classism, spurred on most recently by a blog post at http://Robgwrites.wordpress.com (hey, spell check doesn't recognize classism...it 'should'...or maybe I spelled it wrong!):
We are talking about the same thing and on the same side, believe it or not. I was raised not to judge people based on the very things you're talking about, and my father was the anti-bigot, made sure we didn't pass judgment. So I was almost afraid to say I didn't like someone (for some real reason, like they were leering at me lustily with dishonorable intention) for fear it would be misinterpreted as racism, or whatever.
As I said, I was raised blue collar by a beer drinking, whiskey swilling, smoking, womanizing father (I can't say anything about my mom, she's got her issues, but nothing that applies to this conversation) who was funny, fun, and loved by almost everyone he met. He raised me to be confident and proud of myself, no matter what I did with my life.
I was the first grandchild on my father's side of the family to graduate high school, and didn't take college courses until I was about 30. I married a man who, ten years into the marriage, told me he knew from the very beginning that his parents wouldn't like me, because in their eyes I
wasn't good enough for him. His parents never asked me anything about me or my family, didn't care to know.
And yet, because I was married to a Naval officer, I was often pointedly (I mean in my face, in a checkout line) sneered at because of it (as if I thought somehow I was better because of who I married...I never gave a shit that he was an officer, didn't even know they were different than enlisted until I met him, and my dad was Navy for 20 years!) I felt defensive, and wanted to wear a sign that said, "You don't know me or where I come from, so don't judge me!" One night at a ball (full dress, long gowns) I was drinking a beer (out of a bottle) and I overheard another wife whisper, "Someone should get her a glass." As if!
Contrast this with the folks back home in Norfolk (looked down upon in general by many in Virginia, and I defend it like it were my own child), who at one point implied that I thought I was too good for them, simply because I left home and went out into the world and saw and did things. When I came back years later, they realized I was basically the same person, but still.
I have struggled all my life not to care about the fact that I didn't have a college eduation, or that my degree, when I did get one, is 'only' an AA in Japanese Studies and nothing more lofty. It encroaches into my dating life, when I find myself figuring I'm not good enough for someone because they are more educated or hold a 'better' job.
...we're all just human and we make judgments (like it or not) based on our life experiences. I've got folks who live near me right now who are considered redneck or even white trash, and my daughter is friends with one of the kids there. I have no issue with these folks in general, but when the one guy w/the souped up car starts squealing up and down Naomi Drive (and not just once, but for 30 minutes at a time) to the point where I can't sit on my patio and hear the person directly across from me when we're talking, well, I get a little pissed off...more at the lack of
consideration for other folks than anything. I try to base my judgment on how folks treat me and how they treat others.
We are talking about the same thing and on the same side, believe it or not. I was raised not to judge people based on the very things you're talking about, and my father was the anti-bigot, made sure we didn't pass judgment. So I was almost afraid to say I didn't like someone (for some real reason, like they were leering at me lustily with dishonorable intention) for fear it would be misinterpreted as racism, or whatever.
As I said, I was raised blue collar by a beer drinking, whiskey swilling, smoking, womanizing father (I can't say anything about my mom, she's got her issues, but nothing that applies to this conversation) who was funny, fun, and loved by almost everyone he met. He raised me to be confident and proud of myself, no matter what I did with my life.
I was the first grandchild on my father's side of the family to graduate high school, and didn't take college courses until I was about 30. I married a man who, ten years into the marriage, told me he knew from the very beginning that his parents wouldn't like me, because in their eyes I
wasn't good enough for him. His parents never asked me anything about me or my family, didn't care to know.
And yet, because I was married to a Naval officer, I was often pointedly (I mean in my face, in a checkout line) sneered at because of it (as if I thought somehow I was better because of who I married...I never gave a shit that he was an officer, didn't even know they were different than enlisted until I met him, and my dad was Navy for 20 years!) I felt defensive, and wanted to wear a sign that said, "You don't know me or where I come from, so don't judge me!" One night at a ball (full dress, long gowns) I was drinking a beer (out of a bottle) and I overheard another wife whisper, "Someone should get her a glass." As if!
Contrast this with the folks back home in Norfolk (looked down upon in general by many in Virginia, and I defend it like it were my own child), who at one point implied that I thought I was too good for them, simply because I left home and went out into the world and saw and did things. When I came back years later, they realized I was basically the same person, but still.
I have struggled all my life not to care about the fact that I didn't have a college eduation, or that my degree, when I did get one, is 'only' an AA in Japanese Studies and nothing more lofty. It encroaches into my dating life, when I find myself figuring I'm not good enough for someone because they are more educated or hold a 'better' job.
...we're all just human and we make judgments (like it or not) based on our life experiences. I've got folks who live near me right now who are considered redneck or even white trash, and my daughter is friends with one of the kids there. I have no issue with these folks in general, but when the one guy w/the souped up car starts squealing up and down Naomi Drive (and not just once, but for 30 minutes at a time) to the point where I can't sit on my patio and hear the person directly across from me when we're talking, well, I get a little pissed off...more at the lack of
consideration for other folks than anything. I try to base my judgment on how folks treat me and how they treat others.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
This is Your Brain on Hormones
Tuesday I got a call from the dentist's office confirming Rebecca's appointment. Yes, I said, we'll be there. Now, I already had this appointment on my calendar (because I am organized and way ahead of the game.) But just to be sure, I open my Groupwise calendar to Wednesday, but it's not there (stay w/me.) So, I enter the appointment for 3, and tell Rebecca when she calls me that I'll be picking her up right after she gets of the bus the next day to get to the appointment on time. Then, being ever efficient, I email my co-workers and tell them I'll be leaving early on Thursday (seriously, stay w/me) to take Rebecca to her appointment.
So, yesterday, at about 2:30, I remember I'm leaving at 3. I leave here and arrive home just after Rebecca. I am proud of myself for the good timing. We even stop to give the lab across the street treats and check the mail.
On the way to N. Stafford going north on Route 1, I see a school bus stopped on the opposite side. I slow down, trying to remember if I am supposed to stop on a four lane highway when headed in the opposite direction. A few blasts on the bus's horn tell me, yes, I am supposed to stop, but at this point I'm abreast of the bus and drive on, muffler tucked between my tires. Then we encounter dark clouds and the subsequent large drops of rain. Wipers are now going full on fast.
We arrive at the dentist and I am able to secure 'princess parking.' We dash to the door...but it's locked. What?! Wait, maybe they moved, I mean, the last time we were here they had experienced major flooding from burst pipes. But why didn't Mary mention this when she called me on Tuesday...? I have my phone out, it's ringing, we're still standing in the rain. Mary's voice thanks me for calling Dr. Rai's office, and tells me their office hours. Closed on Wednesdays. I look at Rebecca: Crap, the appointment is tomorrow.
Okay, regroup (I'm good at this part): traffic was looking bad going south, so I suggest we head to Kohl's, do a little shopping (she for unmentionables, me for a new purse...another entire adventure in and of itself.)
Fast forward. We've just spent $80 or so on Rebecca, and nothing on me (me and purses, it's ridiculous) and are walking out the door. Can't find my keys. This is nothing new. I look again, no keys. I'm certain I've left them in the dressing room (no, I don't try on my purses, at least not in the dressing room, but I did try on a couple of...oh, never mind, it's irrelevant and was a disaster.) Anyhow, no keys there either. A bit of panic at this point; Rebecca asks if she can check my purse, and I let her because this has worked in the past. No luck. So now, we're retracing our steps through rows of panties, bras, camisoles, purses, and belts. Looking high and low, and wishing ever so much Rebecca was a toddler again so that she could have that optimal vantage point. Nothing. No keys. I tell everyone I see in the aisles that we're looking for keys. They all respond with the same knowing nod and sympathetic gaze.
We go out to the car...maybe in our haste to dash through the rain...but no; the car is unlocked, and I'm able to retrieve my cell phone, but no keys. So now we're going back in to look again amongst the lace and leather. We overhear a conversation at one of the checkout counters...someone has lost some keys. Ridiculous, I think. A couple is standing there looking befuddled -- they have been looking for over an hour for a set of keys. What are the odds? We wish each other luck, and go our separate ways in our searches.
After no luck again, we go back to customer service. No keys have been turned in; I give a description of my nondescript keys and my cell number. We head back to the car to look again for what I know is not there. Halfway to the car, I hear a woman calling, "I found your keys! You must have been using the cart I have, they were in the bottom!" She was oh so proud, and had abandoned her cart at the checkout counter to run after us. "Oh, thank you so much, but those aren't our keys...but I think I know whose they are." Crestfallen, she hands me the keys. I thank her again, saying the couple will be so relieved and I will turn them in. She walks back in with us, and I thank her yet again. I feel so bad that I've disappointed her.
As we arrive at customer service, I see the couple and hold up the keys. Oh, they are so happy! They thank me and thank me. I've done nothing, really. Then she tells me in a lilting Carribean accent, "I pray for you to find your keys too!" We smile and say goodbye, united by our recent loss and her more recent reunion.
Finally, I cave and call my friend, my hero, Lois. She has a key to the house. No problem, I'll just come pick you up, I'm on Route 3 now. Well, I say, I'm in N. Stafford. Oh... So, Lois heads to my house, I walk her through the possible places where the spare keys might be, and soon she shows up, my spare keys in hand, and saves our day.
This is my brain on hormones. Today, at 3 p.m., I will leave work and go pick up Rebecca after she gets off the bus, and we will head to her dentist appointment. Pray for me.
So, yesterday, at about 2:30, I remember I'm leaving at 3. I leave here and arrive home just after Rebecca. I am proud of myself for the good timing. We even stop to give the lab across the street treats and check the mail.
On the way to N. Stafford going north on Route 1, I see a school bus stopped on the opposite side. I slow down, trying to remember if I am supposed to stop on a four lane highway when headed in the opposite direction. A few blasts on the bus's horn tell me, yes, I am supposed to stop, but at this point I'm abreast of the bus and drive on, muffler tucked between my tires. Then we encounter dark clouds and the subsequent large drops of rain. Wipers are now going full on fast.
We arrive at the dentist and I am able to secure 'princess parking.' We dash to the door...but it's locked. What?! Wait, maybe they moved, I mean, the last time we were here they had experienced major flooding from burst pipes. But why didn't Mary mention this when she called me on Tuesday...? I have my phone out, it's ringing, we're still standing in the rain. Mary's voice thanks me for calling Dr. Rai's office, and tells me their office hours. Closed on Wednesdays. I look at Rebecca: Crap, the appointment is tomorrow.
Okay, regroup (I'm good at this part): traffic was looking bad going south, so I suggest we head to Kohl's, do a little shopping (she for unmentionables, me for a new purse...another entire adventure in and of itself.)
Fast forward. We've just spent $80 or so on Rebecca, and nothing on me (me and purses, it's ridiculous) and are walking out the door. Can't find my keys. This is nothing new. I look again, no keys. I'm certain I've left them in the dressing room (no, I don't try on my purses, at least not in the dressing room, but I did try on a couple of...oh, never mind, it's irrelevant and was a disaster.) Anyhow, no keys there either. A bit of panic at this point; Rebecca asks if she can check my purse, and I let her because this has worked in the past. No luck. So now, we're retracing our steps through rows of panties, bras, camisoles, purses, and belts. Looking high and low, and wishing ever so much Rebecca was a toddler again so that she could have that optimal vantage point. Nothing. No keys. I tell everyone I see in the aisles that we're looking for keys. They all respond with the same knowing nod and sympathetic gaze.
We go out to the car...maybe in our haste to dash through the rain...but no; the car is unlocked, and I'm able to retrieve my cell phone, but no keys. So now we're going back in to look again amongst the lace and leather. We overhear a conversation at one of the checkout counters...someone has lost some keys. Ridiculous, I think. A couple is standing there looking befuddled -- they have been looking for over an hour for a set of keys. What are the odds? We wish each other luck, and go our separate ways in our searches.
After no luck again, we go back to customer service. No keys have been turned in; I give a description of my nondescript keys and my cell number. We head back to the car to look again for what I know is not there. Halfway to the car, I hear a woman calling, "I found your keys! You must have been using the cart I have, they were in the bottom!" She was oh so proud, and had abandoned her cart at the checkout counter to run after us. "Oh, thank you so much, but those aren't our keys...but I think I know whose they are." Crestfallen, she hands me the keys. I thank her again, saying the couple will be so relieved and I will turn them in. She walks back in with us, and I thank her yet again. I feel so bad that I've disappointed her.
As we arrive at customer service, I see the couple and hold up the keys. Oh, they are so happy! They thank me and thank me. I've done nothing, really. Then she tells me in a lilting Carribean accent, "I pray for you to find your keys too!" We smile and say goodbye, united by our recent loss and her more recent reunion.
Finally, I cave and call my friend, my hero, Lois. She has a key to the house. No problem, I'll just come pick you up, I'm on Route 3 now. Well, I say, I'm in N. Stafford. Oh... So, Lois heads to my house, I walk her through the possible places where the spare keys might be, and soon she shows up, my spare keys in hand, and saves our day.
This is my brain on hormones. Today, at 3 p.m., I will leave work and go pick up Rebecca after she gets off the bus, and we will head to her dentist appointment. Pray for me.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Back to 'Normal'
Been a busy couple of weeks. First we had a friend and her two cats staying with us while her kitchen was being renovated. Then my mom came into town, so the friend went to stay with another friend, but the cats hung out at my house (mom liked that...) Mom and I had a great visit, I was able to take off of work and we took a few days to drive a part of the Crooked Road and visit Floyd, VA for music, food, and scenery. Had a few more days off here in town, mostly relaxed, had a fun mother/daughter night at Bistro Bethem, and mom got to meet and see a lot of my friends and get a taste of my life in the 'burg (which she knows I love.) During this time Rebecca was away with her dad, which went well and she had a good time, visiting museums, Longwood Gardens in PA, and attending The Lion King in NYC.
Took mom to the airport in Richmond yesterday...she got home safely, after an annoying delay in Atlanta (this is no surprise to anyone who has traveled through Atlanta!) Had a nice drive back on Route 2, listening to Prairie Home Companion and some great music by Tom Rush...wow. I'll be checking out his new CD.
So now, everything is settling in back to our normal routine. I am so glad to have Rebecca home; I am so glad mom and I had a good visit (she's great, I am very lucky); and I am so glad Rebecca and her dad had a good vacation together. Life is good right now. Have allowed myself to spend some quality time getting to know new friends and, in spite of the insecurities and self-doubt that crop up, am enjoying myself. Key to this is taking things easy and allowing the friendships to evolve naturally. No pressure, no hurry. Just glad I'm finally at this stage where I can let people in a little closer.
Took mom to the airport in Richmond yesterday...she got home safely, after an annoying delay in Atlanta (this is no surprise to anyone who has traveled through Atlanta!) Had a nice drive back on Route 2, listening to Prairie Home Companion and some great music by Tom Rush...wow. I'll be checking out his new CD.
So now, everything is settling in back to our normal routine. I am so glad to have Rebecca home; I am so glad mom and I had a good visit (she's great, I am very lucky); and I am so glad Rebecca and her dad had a good vacation together. Life is good right now. Have allowed myself to spend some quality time getting to know new friends and, in spite of the insecurities and self-doubt that crop up, am enjoying myself. Key to this is taking things easy and allowing the friendships to evolve naturally. No pressure, no hurry. Just glad I'm finally at this stage where I can let people in a little closer.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Writing When I'm Not Unhappy
A friend told me recently I need to blog more. Trouble is, my writing is not very interesting when I'm free of troubled thoughts. At least, I don't think it's very interesting. I am not troubled right now, although I am a little jangled of late. Spring is here, and there's twitterpating all around me. Reason enough to write, I suppose. For those who don't know, twitterpated is (one of many definitions from the urban dictionary, but it originated from Bambi):
"An enjoyable disorder characterized by feelings of excitement, anticipation, high hopes, recent memories of interludes, giddiness, and physical over-stimulation which occur simultaneously when experiencing a new love. These feelings take over without warning, usually at odd times (such as at a check-out line), with or without the partner present, and make it difficult to concentrate on anything but romance. They interfere with work and safe driving, but should be experienced at least once in every person's lifetime."
Indeed, at least once in every person's lifetime. I think the definition should include something about this feeling being at once exhilarating and unnerving and just a little scary.
So, give me your stories about your twitterpating experiences. Could make for some fun writing and entertaining reading. You can remain anonymous, it's okay!
Me? Well, it's too soon to say for me. But obviously this is on my mind for a reason. Cautious and superstitious right now. But my twitterpating experiences in the past (and the very few recent ones) tell me it's a feeling I like, and at the same time causes me to ponder what is left when the twitterpating subsides. That is the real stuff, of course, but the twitterpating stage is awfully fun, so I'm inclined to give in to it again, if given the chance.
There. My April blog post. I look forward to hearing feedback on this tittilating topic (or should that be twitterpating topic?!)
"An enjoyable disorder characterized by feelings of excitement, anticipation, high hopes, recent memories of interludes, giddiness, and physical over-stimulation which occur simultaneously when experiencing a new love. These feelings take over without warning, usually at odd times (such as at a check-out line), with or without the partner present, and make it difficult to concentrate on anything but romance. They interfere with work and safe driving, but should be experienced at least once in every person's lifetime."
Indeed, at least once in every person's lifetime. I think the definition should include something about this feeling being at once exhilarating and unnerving and just a little scary.
So, give me your stories about your twitterpating experiences. Could make for some fun writing and entertaining reading. You can remain anonymous, it's okay!
Me? Well, it's too soon to say for me. But obviously this is on my mind for a reason. Cautious and superstitious right now. But my twitterpating experiences in the past (and the very few recent ones) tell me it's a feeling I like, and at the same time causes me to ponder what is left when the twitterpating subsides. That is the real stuff, of course, but the twitterpating stage is awfully fun, so I'm inclined to give in to it again, if given the chance.
There. My April blog post. I look forward to hearing feedback on this tittilating topic (or should that be twitterpating topic?!)
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