Whores. The whole lot of us.

It’s been nearly five years since I started this blog. FIVE! And in that time, the number of readers has stayed relatively static (I’m assuming, since I don’t use a tracker). The vast majority of you are people who know me in real life, or know someone who does. Again, I’m assuming, as I base who’s reading the blog on who posts comments, or who makes comments about it in person. For all I know, there are thousands of randoms all over the country reading it, but I highly doubt it since I do almost nothing to draw attention to.

It just never occurred to me that random strangers would be interested in reading the details of my day to day life; my rants and raves; my snarky witticisms. I suppose that’s because this blog was originally started with the specific intent of keeping my loved ones up do date on my overseas adventures back in the day.

There are maybe 5 other blogs on the whole interweb who link to me, and all but 1 belong to a flesh-and-blood friend, or friend of a friend. I read those, but until quite recently, I wasn’t particularly interested in reading blogs belonging to strangers.

First, someone suggested The Company Bitch, and almost immediately I developed a girlcrush on her and started reading every day. Sadly, the bitch abandoned her blog many, many months ago, which I’m guessing means she got a: fired or b: a book deal. My money is on the latter. But before she disappeared, she blogged about another mid-20s New York female: Clink. Clink soon became my replacement girlcrush, with her fantastic writing style and willingness to admit that she’s batshit crazy most of the time. Then that bitch abandoned her blog. So I started reading her friend Molly’s blog. Molly doesn’t appear to be going anywhere anytime soon, but you never know. I enjoy her writing, but not quite as much as CB and Clink.

I recently noticed that alot of bloggers solicit comments in the form of a question or request for advice at the end of almost every entry. I never thought anything of it until someone recently called Molly a comment whore. Then I realized…she kind of is. In fact, most bloggers are. There’s this whole sub-culture of bloggers who make the rounds on a daily basis, commenting on the latest post on every blog they read, like clockwork. Depending on the content of the post, people will leave comments sympathizing with them, laughing along with (or at) them, answering questions, relating a similar experience, or worst of all, directing them to a similar post on their own blog. I mean…that’s just advertising, right?

Obviously, there’s an element of relentless self-promotion to almost every blog under the sun. The simple fact that I or anyone else invites others - whether they be friends or complete strangers - to read about the inner workings of our lives and opinions is a testament to our attention-whoredom, correct? But it recently occurred to me that some people are making money off this blogging business. A lot of money. If you can prove that you have X amount of readers, companies will buy ad space, and of course the easiest way to prove that you have X amount of readers is through the number of hits and comments you receive each day.

So now it all makes sense. Run around the internet commenting on every blog you come across, and direct people to your own where you ask them them to comment, and soon, everyone’s pulling down the dollars. Except me.

I think I might give it a shot.

Just called to say…

Having called many places home over the years, I have alot of friends that fall into the long-distance category. True, some of my besties have moved to Denver in the 3 years that I’ve lived here (holy shit, three years!?!?!), but many more are spread far and wide, from California, to Michigan, to DC and beyond.

Having a lot of friends is a blessing, no doubt, but it makes keeping in touch incredibly difficult. For example, one of my oldest, closest girlfriends has gotten divorced since I last spoke to her. Divorces are pretty time-consuming, no? Which means it’s been many, many months since we last chewed the fat (8 to be exact). Between the divorce and her itty-bitty baby boy, there just hasn’t been much time for social calls. So instead, we communicate via phone tag - leaving one another long, detailed voice mails - and (sadder still), our blogs. Yes. Our blogs. It’s true.

Similarly, Shorty called me on Sunday, after a long hiatus. I missed the call, and instead got a voice mail saying she and Mike D. had big news. (Note to friends: If you want me to call you back, tell me you’ve got big news.) My mind immediately went to marriage, assuming they’d either gotten engaged (’bout time, they’ve only been together 10 years!), or just gone ahead and made it official (which I wouldn’t put past them). Next, I thought maybe she had good news about her plans for graduate school, and finally, I thought ‘maybe she’s pregnant. HA! Shorty pregnant…not!’

After two-days of phone tag, we finally connected. The verdict? Take a guess.

Yup. PREGGERS! And not only is she pregnant, she’s seven months pregnant. Mike D. was out to visit last fall, so I immediately did some mental math to determine if she was pregnant at the time, but I don’t think she was. I’m having the hardest time imagining her with a baby bump, because she’s just the tiniest little scrap of a thing. I am not however, having a hard time imagining her and Mike D. being the funnest parents ever. Goodness me. Shorty’s gonna be a mommy!

Amen

Train the trainer

As a leadership education professional, I do a lot of work around communication styles and conflict management. This is part proclivity, and part self-psychology. Much like therapists are often the biggest ball of crazy in the room, I can be a pretty shitty communicator at times, which is why I first became interested in delving into and developing other peoples’ styles; It helps me understand my own.

Long story short, I spent the whole of today in a process communication workshop where I learned that I am a rebel base with strong promoter tendencies.

I, for one, am shocked.

Money, honey

I’ve recently become obsessed with blogs dedicated to personal-finance, particularly personal-finance for the ladyfolk. Well-Heeled, Beachgirl’s Budget Blog, and Give Me Back my Five Bucks are my faves. It’s like I have three new friends standing by to bitchslap me the moment I think about stopping by Starbucks for a chai tea misto.

It’s no secret that I often lament money, and my general lack of it. Fortunately, my financial downfall is not that I have poor spending habits, but poor earning habits (how that is an upside is beyond me). I’d probably be far worse off if I was pulling down twice as much money while entertaining a shoe-addiction or partaking of $200 highlights each month. But I don’t. And I’m not. I might have a student loan in excess of my parents’ mortgage, but I don’t have any credit card debt (anymore), which I suppose is a good thing.

A not so good thing is that I didn’t start saving for retirement until last year, although I’m pleased to report that in that short time, my 401(k) has grown to over $4000, and I’m already 100% vested. I’ve also been diligently setting aside $150 per month along with my mileage reimbursements, which is slowly but surely turning into the all important “emergency fund.” (Sidebar: Is wanting an HDTV an emergency? No? OK. Can someone please tell Dude that?)

Reading these PF blogs both inspires me to make smarter decisions when it comes to money, and depresses me because I am so. far. behind. where I should be at this point in my life in terms of financial security. Let’s get real: my 12 year old nephew has a savings account. I’m not special. And I don’t know the first thing about investing. And I feel like I am never going to get out from under this goddamn student loan. And how am I supposed to “save aggressively” on my current salary? At my current rate, I should have enough for a down-payment on a house in about, ohhhhh…20 years!!! What’s the point!? I suppose it’s fun to watch the balance of my savings accounts grow each month, but I’m almost positive that it’d be a whole lot more fun to blow it all on a trip to Argentina.

I know, I know. Choices. My current financial situation is the product of all the choices I’ve made over the past several years, such as spending a year abroad rather than banking the money, and continuing to work in the non-profit sector, and financing a car instead of paying cash for another hooptie.

There is very little fat to trim from my budget, so the bottom line is that in order to save more money, I need to make more money. But how? I don’t want to be one of those people who does online surveys, or medical trials, or sells ad-space on my blog. For fucks’ sake, I have like 10 readers. And I don’t want to partake of some work-from-home scam, or sell my crap on ebay (I don’t have any crap to sell on ebay, and I sure as hell don’t want to go out and find crap to sell on ebay). So what does that leave? Second job? Where? Doing what? When? I already work full-time and regularly give up Saturdays for my real job. I have no interest in (or business doing) anything related to customer service, and I refuse to burden my friends and their friends with pressure to host candle, make-up, jewelry or lingerie parties.

So that leaves only one thing: Madame it is.

Death March

It’s no secret that I’ve spent the past couple months staring down death’s door (ie: thirty) with more than just a little trepidation. Slowly but surely, I’m coming to terms with my rapidly receding youth, although I must point out the gross injustice in having to use face wash designed to protect against both blemishes and wrinkles at the same time. If there were a God, the two would surely be mutually exclusive.

This weekend, a good friend visited from Boston, and we decided to hit the town with another friend who lives in Denver as well. And by town, I mean downtown. As in swanky red-tinted lounges where the music is too loud, the clothes too small, and the booze too expensive. As a general rule, I don’t hang out downtown - especially after dark; It’s not an issue of safety, but sanity. I mean, really, what business does a girl like me have in a place like that? None. A girl like me belongs in dive bars where the Miller Lite flows like water, and not a single man is wearing jeans tighter than mine. When a whole new generation of barely legal girls are wearing outfits that you wore when you were seven (leggings! flourescent tops! paint splatters!), it’s probably time to find somewhere a little more age-appropriate to get your jollies.

And so, it’s come to pass that I am A-OK with turning (gulp) thirty. Mostly. Indeed, my twenties have been been very good to me, which makes it difficult to leave them behind. In fact, sometimes I think it might be nice to live them all over again, but only if they’re my 20s, rather than what awaits those in their 20s today.

Another lesson learned last night is that I am completely uninterested in - and incapable of - flirting with men other than Dude. When the bartender asked me how dirty I like my martinis, my response was “I love olives.”

It’s a family affair

For only the second time in the 7 years since I graduated from college and told Michigan to eat my dust, my parents are coming to visit me. Woot! This will be only the second time that they’ve spent any amount of time with Dude, and since the first time lasted all of about 48 hours, this is a pretty big deal. Especially since they’re staying with us. For a week.

Preceeding them is my 12 year old nephew, who arrived today. Five hours in, and I’m already exhausted - further proof that I have no business having children of my own.

Perhaps my exhaustion can be attributed to the fact that I spent the better part of last night scouring the apartment for all things not-safe-for-family. Which, surprisingly, there was a lot of.

Parking tickets make me feel stabby

Because I live in a neighborhood that offers only street parking (what’s up with the lack of drive ways in Denver?), the city has devised a complex schedule of street sweeping that results in either side of every street being a no-parking zone one day each month from April through October. In my hood, those days are the first Tuesday and the first Wednesday of each month.

Do the math.

Today is Tuesday. Today is also April 1st, making this the first Tuesday of the month. The first Tuesday of the first month of street sweeping for the year.

Which means I woke up to a parking ticket this morning.

Yeah. And something tells me it’s not an attempt at April Fools’ Day humor by the Parking Authority.

The kicker is that I didn’t even drive my car yesterday; Dude did. He’s the one who parked it on the wrong side of the street.

Triskit go ballistic!

Man. I am getting old. I have officially turned into the curmudgeonly old lady who posts NO SOLICITING signs on her front porch. It’s not that I don’t want Girl Scouts and PIRGs knocking on my door (actually, I don’t want the PIRGs knocking on my door, but that’s a story for another post). No, the problem is with the goddamn yellow pages. I shit you not, those assholes leave new phone books on our porch every other month. And not just one phone book, or even two (one for each unit), but FOUR. FOUR new phone books every 2 months. That’s 24 phone books a year. What on earth could I or anyone else possibly do with 24 phone books per year, other than drastically reduce our home heating bill? Who even uses the phone book anymore? For Chrissakes!

In addition to the phone books, we are paper-bombed by a variety of pizza and/or Chinese places multiple times each week, as well as community newspapers and individuals advertising their housecleaning services.

All this makes for a very messy porch, and an unnecessarily full recycling bin. So this week, after coming home to FOUR MORE PHONE BOOKS even though the last four are STILL THERE, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I printed (and laminated!) a sign that reads “NO SOLICITING! Please do not leave phone books, coupons, fliers or anything else that has not been sent through the USPS.”

We’ll see if it works.

And if it doesn’t, I swear to God, I’m going to track down the fucker who drops off the phone books and beat him profusely about the head and shoulders with them.

I get older, they stay the same age…

With my 30th birthday on the not-so-distant horizon, I’ve been struggling just a wee bit with this whole, um, aging thing. I know! I’m as surprised as you. It’s not so much that I fear all the things that thirty connotes, such as wrinkles, gray hair, and mandatory mammograms (OK, I’m scared of the mammograms). But really, it’s more a case of how the fuck did this happen!?!

Perhaps it’s because I work with high school students all day long, and am constantly reminded of my own “youth,” but I honestly can’t believe that I’m almost TWICE these kids’ age! Twice! I remember being 16, when my now step-mom was 30, and thinking she was so old (even though she was 8 years younger that my dad). Do my students think of me as being so old? Probably. And unfortunately, that’s a professional pot-hole, as one of the most important characteristics for someone who does my job to possess is the ability to be relatable to teenagers. Relatable like their best friend? Of course not. But relatable none-the-less. Like a big-sister, if you will. (For the record, I am not a teacher.)

KT and Lady Gavrell often lament the negative effect that their relative youth has on their ability to do business and be taken seriously by suits. Turns out you’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t, as I have to contend the exact opposite. We’ll all keep aging, but whereas they’ll be looked upon as increasingly worthy of professional respect with each gray hair and fine line, I’ll be looked upon as further and further out of touch as far as my students are concerned.

Just call me Wooderson.