Monday, October 24, 2005

golly! I just got an email from a blogfriend (danke, Mark!) drawing my attention to the fact that I had made it into the #100 spot on Salon's most read blogs since 2002! I'm on the chart! Woohoo! I'm heading for #99! Maybe! Someday! 35,360 visits or hits or whatchamacalits since March 7, 2005. Yep, that's when BlogCabin began (not counting false starts at other addresses). We've been through a system crash, an archive loss, and a host of other technical woes. But we're still here! Big love out to everyone that ever clicked, read, laughed, ranted or cried! We may not be number one, but we're not #101, either! 7:44:12 PM    well, yes, but...  [] so? I used to love flossing until I had a violent hygienist floss my gums to ribbons on a horrible, fateful visit to the dentist. I still own floss -- Tom's of Maine Natural Floss, actually -- but every time I try to use it now, I feel a wash of fear rush over my mouth. A mouth wash, if you will. Why am I laughing so hard right now? Sometimes, when I am in conversations with people that are awkward -- disciplinary sessions, dealing with negative feedback, hearing bad news, trying to pour my heart out to someone who just doesn't get it -- I just want to jump up and run away yelling, "This is aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawkward! Someone heeeeeeeeeeeeeelp me!" Instead, I just stay there and keep trying. But know that I'm thinking it next time I have an awkward conversation with you. In the middle of the night, when I am dying of thirst, I never want a drink of water. I just want a really cold glass of skim milk -- which is kind of like water with clouds dissolved in it. But still really good. Today, at the coffee shop, the guy who was making my latte was wincing as he moved his shoulder. I gave him a look of concern -- non-invasive, but open to bitching if he wanted to bitch -- and he informed me that his shoulder was dislocated. Remembering all the weird physical motions I used to make when I was a barista, I offered him sympathy: "Oh, this job really sucks for having a dislocated shoulder!" To which he replied, without skipping a beat : "In exactly what job does having a dislocated shoulder not suck?" Right now, I'm listening to a song that goes: "When will you say 'yes' to me? Tell me quando, quando, quando... You mean happiness to me, Oh, my love, please tell me when..." It seemed all yearning and charming and sweet, and the little bossa nova thing going on in the background made it even more sweet. It's a twirling-around-the-dance-floor-at-some-ballroom-in-NYC song. But when I went to look up the lyrics on Google, I typed in "panda panda panda". I didn't mean to -- I only realized on the third panda. What is going on in my head? I love the love songs. I really do. Even in my cynical, singular, narrowed-eyes state, I swoon and swoon and swoon. It's like a sickness I cannot heal. An addiction that I cannot shake. A mental bent that I cannot straighten. A hope that will not die. Anyone else with my romantic history would have gone goth by now, I think, but I still end up plugged in to my iPod in public places, grinning to myself when Louis sings back to Ella or Tony Bennett tells me about the way I look tonight. And when people give me a funny look and ask me what I'm listening to, I usually pull out an ear bud and say, "Oh -- love song." Without fail, everyone just nods. What better reason to smile? Oh -- besides actual love, that is... I just spent a full ten minutes in some weird reverie about dancing in a ballroom in NYC. Panda, panda, panda, indeed. And this was the face I was making: Goodnight, loved ones. 12:50:37 AM    well, yes, but...  []

© Copyright 2006 Meg Fowler. Last update: 3/4/06; 2:29:27 PM.