Close Encounter of the Blog Kind

I started blogging in 2006.

No, clearly not here so don't bother looking at my archives for anything earlier than September, 2009. 

I started...uh...on Friendster (I think) at the recommendation of my sister, Dr. J, before moving within just a couple of months to LiveJournal. I can't remember now why I made the switch back then but I stuck to LiveJournal for roughly 3 years and loved it. I loved the combination of blogging and friendship - reading lengthy tomes or short snippets from people's lives and commenting. Occasionally, I miss that interaction as Facebook just isn't conducive to the same kinds of give and take. LiveJournal felt like...social media for people who actually liked to write. It was a community of people who wrote, who read, who cared about each other and the original content each person posted.

I had no awareness that there were people out there blogging on stand alone blogs - people like The Bloggess, like Dooce, like Pioneer Woman, like Crazy Aunt Purl - who had eleventy-billion followers and could make a living blogging.

And then? Then, in 2009, I did a Google Search for something akin to "what does it mean when he doesn't call". No, I'm not kidding. Shuddup. And stumbled across She Just Walks Around With It. I have read (and continue to read even though she's sporadic since the birth of her two children) every single post Kristy has ever posted to her blog. That's alotta entries, folks.

It was Kristy who introduced me to The Bloggess, to Crazy Aunt Purl, to Dooce. More importantly, it was Kristy who introduced me to BlogHer - she worked for them for awhile - and to an entire community of people who blog for personal satisfaction as well as for profit.

It was Kristy who first put the idea in my head that people who blog, read blogs and/or comment on blogs would actually want to meet in meat space. It was Kristy who initiated me into the ways of blogging conferences.

I was intrigued.

I was also terrified.

Who would actually want to, you know, read and then meet me?

Regardless, I started Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom, mainly, because I wanted my own blogging identity far removed from the LiveJournal community. I joined BlogHer. I began reading and occasionally commenting on other people's blogs. I even, a few times, worked up the courage to comment on Kristy's blog. I even went so far as to start posting links to my posts on Facebook (at my mother's request). And I was THRILLED when people far and wide - some I knew, some I didn't - began reading and, sometimes, commenting.

But...it wasn't until NaBloPoMo 2011 when I truly found what I was looking for...somewhere I belong. Somewhere amid the food bloggers, the mommy bloggers, the political/celebri-gossip/fashion bloggers was a sweet little niche in which I fit with a group of people who might be foodies and mommies and politically opinionated but who, generally speaking, blogged about...well...everything and nothing in particular. Like me.

My people. The Seinfeld bloggers.

For the last month or so, I've been thinking about how wonderful it would be to get to hang out in person with y'all. I've frankly fantasized about a blogger coffee klatch - maybe in Chicago (near the center of the contiguous United States without being in, you know, Nowhere, Kansas) so all but Word Nerd would have to travel some distance. Not a conference and nothing nearly so formal as even a workshop. Just...friends meeting up to drink wine, hang out and gab.

So...

When the M Half of the M - n - J Show e-mailed me late last week to let me know she would be in the Denver area this week and asked if I'd be interested in having lunch or a drink with her while she was here, I was ecstatic!!!! Close Encounter! Of the BLOG KIND!!!

Today was that day.

I must confess she and I were both nervous. On my part, I wondered what she would think of me in person. I wondered what we would talk about for an hour plus change having never met each other. I was afraid we'd stall out after exchanging hellos.

You know what?

Have you ever conversed with a long-time friend, one you haven't seen or spoken to in awhile - perhaps a college chum - and your meeting is like a tumbled waterfall of words as you rush to catch up?

It was exactly like that.

We met at Street Kitchen Asian Bistro¹ for lunch and, for over an hour, reveled in a gabfest to rival all gabfests about everything!

Sincerely. Meeting the M Half was like meeting up with a dear, long-lost friend.

It was the most enjoyable lunch I can remember.

So...for those of you nervous about potentially meeting other bloggers and afraid you'll have nothing to talk about? I want to say to you now, "You are both bloggers, for crying out loud! Don't we all have diarrhea of the mouth?" Trust me, you'll be just fine.

And now, after all that worry and anxiety, I've made a real life friend. One I would recognize on the street and give a loving hug.

Close encounters of the blog kind are pretty awesome. 

1: Owen. O? Owen? O! Pay attention. Street Kitchen Asian Bistro. It's in our work 'hood - like Sahara - but it's run by the P17 chef and is just as, if not more so, amazing!!!

Technical Difficulties

There was a time, back in the day, when I was MOUS (Microsoft Office User Specialist) certified. Not only was I certified but I also supported reluctant users who ran into trouble with it...over the phone.

Of course, this was through the release of Office XP - so that should give you your first clue at how long ago we're talking. I left the hotline in 2005.

With the release of Office 2007, Microsoft, because they are dicks, made massive changes to the software - adding even more buggy bells and whistles they barely bothered to test. And then came Office 2010 - the current version I use at my own humble office.

So, when I was asked to create some labels for a mailing, I felt confident in my abilities but also cautious about what Microsoft might have done to the mail merge process.

Just so we're clear, the mail merge function in Word has never been particularly intuitive. In fact, it was one of the only tasks in Word that I fumbled with every single time I had to walk someone through it. But I was feeling, I guess, a bit too optimistic today when I set out to create those labels thinking that, perhaps, Microsoft might have, for once, done something right.

*sigh*

Wrong.

I swore. I fiddled. I faddled. I tore up big swaths of paper and tore out my hair. I wasted 5 perfectly good sheets of laser jet labels. I tried to look up "labels" and "mail merge" and "mailings" in Help. All 3 returned search results dedicated to charts. What? Finally, I broke down, hid my face in my hands, and cried.

Apparently, that was the magic key to making Word mail merge work...the crying. Sadistic bastards. Because that's when it dawned on me what was wrong.

I subsequently printed the labels, got the packets in the mail, and then went off to hunt down the largest diet Pepsi I could find in which to drown my sorrows.

Stupid Microsoft.
Stupid user.
Lovely diet Pepsi though.


PS On another technical difficulty note...after recording with Dr. Finger for more than an hour on Sunday afternoon, we took a short pee break and came back to the table to find the recording software - the one recording the audio - was hung up and then crashed.

We. Lost. All. The. Audio.

All of it.

Gone.

We've re-scheduled recording for this coming Sunday but sad Jane is sad. The next episode won't be ready then for at least another week or so.

*insert curse words, shaking fists, and frowny faces here*

A Tantrum Tail

Vinny is really a very congenial, expressive cat.

He's not one of those sneaky, passive-aggressive, do-what-I-want-or-I'll-piss-in-your-favorite-shoes kind of a guy. He doesn't even get into the trash can. Mostly he just follows me around chattering in Catonese, his tail shivering and shaking in excitement when I talk back to him, and only occasionally whines when I pick him up and cart him around.

About the only thing he does to truly annoy me (other than drinking out of the toilet) is when he plays what I call the "Hop on Pop" game whereby, when I'm sleeping in and he's ready to be paid attention to, he will launch himself on top of me in a bounce-bounce-bounce pattern and then sit by my head and just stare intently. Who knew a 9-pound cat could make himself feel like 50?

Regardless, I'm convinced he doesn't have it in him to be deceptive...

Except...

At night, when we're snuggling down for a good old fashioned cuddle, if I stop petting him or don't pet him in just the right way, he'll purr purr purr and nuzzle...but his tail betrays him.

*THWAP* It comes thumping down on my arm.

He winds it up, swings back and up and *THWAP* down it comes again.

It is impossible to ignore. A 9-pound cat's tail carries a significant amount of weight. Something to do with physics and force = mass times acceleration. Anyway! He will continue to beat me, throwing his tantrum with his tail, until I make all necessary adjustments to my behavior to satisfy him.

Then, and only then, will his *THWAP*ing turn into the sweetest, most gentle caresses with that very same tail...as though he's petting me.

Tantrum over.

Like Sand In My Underpants

February feels an awful lot like attempting to remove a too-tight, wet, bathing suit from a cold, shivering person who's been sitting around in its clammy moistness way too long.

It feels as though I'm pulling, pushing, shoving, rolling at stubborn lycra just trying to get it off and away from my body so I can sink into a hot tub of lavender bath salts and finally get rid of the chill of the dead months.

It's a damn good thing February is a short month. This dreadful feeling as though winter is and has always been has long overstayed its welcome (stupid leap year). I'm ready for the March of the lion and the lamb. I'm ready to step outside my front door without worrying about whether or not I need a coat AND gloves AND scarf. I'm ready to emerge from my cave without worrying if I need the boots that are good for snow but bad Bad BAD for my plantar fasciitis. I'm more than ready to see friends like the Gothfather and his lovely bride without worrying if I'm going to freeze to death on the patio at Shelter. I'm ready to drive to AND from work in the daylight and know I've got hours to spare before the sun sinks behind the Rocky Mountains. I'm ready to put away the snow brush and ice scraper. I'm longing for the days when I can legitimately complain about the heat.

Spring, I'm ready for you. Come to mama.

Here are some February sun flares for you though.

This week, I'm going to have my first Close Encounter of the Blog Kind when M of The M Half of the M-n-J Show comes to town. I am beyond excited! When you've been reading a blogger for awhile and feel as though you know them, it's simultaneously awesome and nerve-wracking to think about getting a rare opportunity to meet them over lunch or an after work cocktail or two. I mean, what if I spill salsa down my cleavage (as I'm prone to do)? Will she still like me? Regardless, when she e-mailed to say she'd be nearby, I jumped at the chance to sit down with her for an epic, I'm sure, gab fest. She did just get back from Costa Rica after all. Hmmmm...I wish Acr0nym were available to record a podcast mid-week.

Speaking of the podcast, this afternoon I'll be sitting down with my good friend, "Doctor" Finger, to record episode 2.  Sincerely, if I make it through recording without bursting into tears, it'll be a miracle. His story...it's...wow. I hope y'all who listen will find it as awesomely compelling and sad and wonderful and happy as I do.

If you aren't too busy and you want to "like" the podcast on Facebook, I'd be forever grateful. We're 2 away from 50 which feels pretty significant. You can find us here. I hate to shill for likes here. I've never done that before. And yet, for some reason, I'm able to solicit likes and listens when it comes to the podcast. As for Jane In Her Infinite Wisdom, I'm too cowardly to even put up a fan page. Why is that?

Speaking of meeting bloggers...

I realized yesterday after reading this entry filed under Jared's Journal at In the Pursuit of Happiness that a top priority on my wish/bucket list is to travel the country and beyond - possibly in an Airstream - to meet all my blogging friends and record podcast episodes with each and every one of you. So many of you feel as though you don't really have a tale to tell. In fact, Mike at Perception Is Reality Corner, left me a comment stating that he didn't think I'd be able to find a story in him in 5 days let alone 5 minutes. I beg to differ. Our stories vary in intensity and excitement but every single one of us has a tale to tell. I want to record all of them...like Jane's version of Story Corps.

Now...about that Airstream. Hmmm...maybe I should start a ChipIn account? *laughing*

That Podcast Thing

So...

You know that podcast thing - Sharp Pointy Objects?

I am floored by its reception.

When Acr0nym and I set out to do this thing, I truly didn't think we'd have more than a dozen or so people tune in or care. At least, not with the first episode...not until we'd established ourselves, got some practice under our belts, honed our collective voice, and just generally figured out what was what in a podcast world.

So...when we got 95 hits to the podcast on the very first day it was posted?

Excuse me. I have to go scoop my dropped jaw off the ground.

For those bloggers out there - the ones who watch and care about their statistics - I suspect you can appreciate why I'm flabbergasted and very very pleased. We've had 140 unique visitors and over 400 page views...in 4 days. For a brand new podcast, a brand new blog? That feels overwhelmingly huge.

Not only that but I'm more than appreciative of the reception we've received on Facebook. 45 "likes" and counting...in 4 days. Again, it's a modest number but for someone who is terrified of creating a Facebook fan page for this blog for fear of crickets chirping, 45 exceeds my wildest expectations - especially for the first episode.

Those are just numbers though.

What has meant the most to me have been the comments and the personal e-mails from people I know and from people I've never heard of contacting me, thanking me, telling me they felt as though they were a part of the conversation and wanted to jump in when they had something to say.

What's meant the most is having those same people ask me for more.

And more they shall have.

The Divatologist e-mailed me this morning and asked "How do you get so lucky to know all these interesting, erudite, and dynamic people?"  My response: "I somehow developed quite a discerning taste for unique, lively, interesting people and began collecting them early and often. It helps that I bribe them with baked goods."

You know I collect only the finest, right? I've got confirmations to record enough episodes to post bi-weekly podcasts over the next 6 months. That's barely scratching the surface of the people I know and love. You all aren't likely to get rid of Sharp Pointy Objects anytime soon.


In fact, we're set to record this upcoming Sunday with my very special friend and guest, "Dr." Finger, who has a story to tell...a magnificent story, a compelling story. A story of triumph, a story of fear, a story of success...and failure, of love, and the kindness of strangers.

Hey! Don't we all have a story to tell? You bet you do. I do too. Even if you don't think you do, give me 5 minutes and I'll find it.

Won't you be my neighbor? Won't you let me record you being my neighbor? Come on. You know you want to!

Face Time

It had been a very long time since I realized just how stressful the world outside my front door is until I was enveloped in the silken comforts of a love and recovery cocoon last week and then unceremoniously dumped out of it this week.

I returned to work at the office Monday morning. I hadn't driven even a few blocks for 9 days. I'd barely left my house or donned anything besides a clean pair of pajama pants in that time. While I did work from home every single day last week, that required me to roll out of bed whenever and take 10 steps to my computer to press a few keys and BAM! I was remotely connected to my desktop at work. Stress is minimal when wrestling work demons to the dust in sweat pants and a Life Is Good t-shirt.

So, just the idea of having to drive into work - a 25-minute commute mostly on the highway, never mind the dread of the caring stares and inquiries regarding my well-being I faced when I got there - set off a fitful, sleepless night Sunday night during which the bedclothes ended up puddled in a heap on the floor at the foot.

I drove in - taking surface streets only - on Monday and, when I pulled into the parking lot at work, found myself in tears.

I love my job. I wasn't sorry to be there. But the drive alone had taken its emotional toll. I would have a repeat experience in reverse going home that afternoon.

All week I've had moments of awareness of just how vulnerable we are when we step outside our front doors. Just attempting to cross the street as I also tried to avoid icy patches was frightening. Navigating through traffic with any number of distracted drivers was nerve-wracking.

But...

Beyond that...

The push-pull of the common place every day can feel like an assault to one's senses if we've been protected from it for any length of time. I didn't want to stand too close to anyone. Not because I don't enjoy my co-workers but because it's too easy for other people to forget to mind their carefree elbows, hands, scratchy woolen sleeves when coming in for a hug. The stitches are out but my face is sensitive to the touch and it alternately aches or feels pin-and-needle-y just on its own.

I finally totally understand - on a visceral level - my mother's desire for armor during her treatment for breast cancer.

I've also decided it is much easier to go out among strangers - people who might stare but won't ask questions - than it is to meet co-workers in hallways, who greet me with sympathetic smiles and looks of concern all the while attempting to scope out my injury. With my permission, they announced to all staff that I'd had an accident during which I'd cut my face and they weren't to ask questions upon my return.

None of them have. But now it feels as though my face is an elephant in the room. Everyone is wondering and I'm not talking. It takes too much of my precious little energy to tell the story once never mind multiple times. If I were braver, I'd point them all to the blog and say, "There. Go. Read." But I'm not that brave...no matter what the GBE2 writers have conjured up for me in the bravery department this week.

While the wound is healing very nicely - I'm extraordinarily lucky - there are still some emotional pieces that are mending at a slower pace. For instance, I've discovered I am running low on the ability to cope with little stressors like...technology malfunctions. I know that will go away as I start to feel stronger. I just don't feel particularly strong right now. And that's difficult for other people to remember when there isn't physical evidence to remind them.

On the upside, tomorrow is Friday. I'm attending an all-day workshop with a few other women from my work and then it'll be an evening out with Acr0nym, a sleep over with the much missed Noodle (I haven't seen him all week), and time to relax and heal.

I'll be glad to be myself again. I hope that's soon.

I TOLD You!

Sharp Pointy Objects - the podcast - makes it's world premiere tonight!

If you're interested in actually hearing me, in hearing my brilliant friends...

Click Here.

WOO HOO!

Finally.

World Premiere of Scarface Starring Jane

Real quick...

This evening, I went out to supper with some friends.

Most notably, a friend of Devo Was Right who is a trauma plastic surgeon PA at the #1 trauma hospital in the region and who examined my wound and told me how to care for it and reassured me it would hardly be noticeable eventually if I took good care.

But also of note...Acr0nym brought his camera and took pictures of me sans stitches. I think this is a reasonable picture to post so you all know what it is I'm dealing with. After all, this is how my face will look for a long time to come...

   

No rulers and Exact-O knives were used in the making of this wound. Oddly, I can't draw a straight line to save my life when I'm awake and alert. Who knew I could be so straight and narrow while unconscious using only a jagged wineglass?

So.

There you have it.

My new face.

If you see me out in public and exclaim, "Holy shit! What happened to your face?!" I'm now armed with an arsenal of kickass answers that belie the banality of the truth. Be forewarned.

Laughter Truly Is the Best Medicine

A day or two after my unfortunate run in with a renegade wine glass, I was bantering back and forth with one of my favorite blog friends, Word Nerd, who is also the leader of the GBE2 (group blogging experience) on Facebook.

Somehow she and I came to the conclusion that we ought to offer up the opportunity to the GBE2 folks to write the tale of how I came by the wound and subsequent scar - considering the blandness of the true story. I was sworn to secrecy until today when the topic was announced to the group at large.

Just after the trauma, before it had really sunk in, the idea seemed like a good one. As the week progressed, my anxiety took over and I questioned the decision. Who was I to think the group would want to write on this topic? It felt presumptuous anyone would care.

So when Word Nerd e-mailed me last night to make sure I was still OK with people making light of the event, I told her I wanted to make light of it but felt as though I were asking people to write about something they wouldn't be interested in and I didn't want the group to resent a dramatic change to the typical prompt format. She assured me it would be just fine. She has a great deal of faith in these people who write for and with each other week after week.

Turns out, she was right.

Several entries have already been linked to the topic post and I have to tell you every one has had me laughing aloud in great gulping guffaws! So far I have danced naked zumba (hee hee), rumbled with a high flautin' society lady with a terrible attitude (YES! Take THAT, snooty snot lady!), gotten tangled up in a fly fishing rod (which is not only possible but probable), attempted to stab a bitchy beauty pageant judge in the eye with her very own pencil (while pregnant with Lex's love quadruplets *snicker*), and attended a rock concert on ill-gotten VIP passes and fallen off the stage (I'm fairly certain I've already done this at one time or another).

This day has been full of coconut bra fun and I've loved every minute of it!

So...I would just like to take a moment tonight to tell all of these phenomenal bloggers who have made me laugh today thank you. You've given me so many opportunities to laugh out loud today and every single story has contributed to my recovery and well-being. You're awesome!

It Smells Like Adolescence In Here - You Know, Faintly Goat Like

Back in the last years of elementary school and all of junior high, I was not a cute kid. I hit my awkward stage very early - glasses and braces in the 4th grade - a stage made even more awkward by my early development and painfully-obvious-from-the-start large chest.

I've written about my popularity challenges and limited dating experiences before. At 40, I feel nearly as inexperienced and all elbows and left feet as I did at 14. Luckily, Noodle likes all my elbows and left feet. But that's not why I'm here tonight.

Tonight I'm going to tell you a secret.

My generation - or, at least, the generation I knew growing up in Wyoming - was particularly promiscuous at a very early age. My peers began readily losing their virginity at the age of 12. Kids were coupling up - angsty balls of raging hormones and tween spirit - before we'd graduated to junior high. One of my old elementary school friends - TB - was dating a senior in high school before she became a teenager herself. I remember listening in fascination and horror as she detailed the events surrounding her de-flowering and how humiliated she was...how much she hated it. Thinking back on it, while I understand her thrill of catching the attention of an older "man", her willingness to sacrifice that part of herself in order to keep him, what he did to her borders on pedophilia. I feel sick over it.

But this isn't about her either.

As I said, all the kids, it seemed, were coupling up, attending boy/girl parties - parties to which my invitations have yet to arrive, kissing by the gym, holding hands, dancing awkwardly - doing their best at the hug and shuffle - at every junior high school dance. Rites of passage from which I was, and would continue to be, excluded. I was so very desperate for attention and affection - shyly waiting for it, convinced it would never come.

And then...

I met CP.

CP was the best friend of the older brother of MY best friend. He was older - he had a driver's license and a 1964 electric blue Chevy Impala - he was 16. I was 14. It wasn't exactly squicky. But he had a girlfriend...a girlfriend I not only knew but a girl who counted me as one of her closest friends.

CP and I began our clandestine liaisons soon after we met. It started in the back row of the Beverly Twin movie house as we "watched" Pee Wee's Big Adventure. He would kiss me - my first kisses - a lot. Our make out sessions would continue weekly or as often as we could make them happen and usually before Wednesday night youth group meetings. One afternoon, I arrived at his house and he'd been eating sour cream and onion Pringles. To this day, those chips taste like salty shame to me.

One day, after months of these secret passion-filled afternoons, he pulled me into his parents' laundry room and told me we should "do it" on top of the dryer. I was 14 and terrified. I told him "no". Repeatedly. He would eventually respect my answer - but only after numerous attempts to convince me otherwise. 

Soon after, he would break up with his girlfriend and I...I foolishly thought it was because he wanted ME to be his girlfriend...

Until he announced he was seeing someone else and abruptly cut off all contact with me.

And I knew...I was his secret. His dirty, shameful secret. A concept I was familiar with. A concept I would continue to manifest again and again...and again.

At the time though, I didn't understand why he would have taken up with me if he didn't actually like me. I was heartbroken. I was ashamed. I didn't believe I deserved any better.

It wasn't until years later, after I'd had enough distance and experience, I'd recall how CP was first introduced to me, and I would begin to understand. I had spent the night at my best friend's house and was in her room applying my new-to-makeup, inexperienced heavy hand when her older brother, SB, came into her room talking on the phone to CP. SB continued to talk on the phone as he watched me paint my face and, at one point, declared my makeup application the art of a "super slut".

Taken out of context - from CP's end of the conversation - he heard, "super slut". He thought I was easy. The mating call of every over-sexed, hormonally-over driven teenage boy alive. And the rest is (my) history.

A history that was doomed to repeat itself - several times - over many years. A history that continues to haunt me...continues to send chills up my spine when there is even a hint of secrecy to any relationship I engage.

So...

While I would love to say I have no regrets, while I would love to say everything that's happened in my life has brought me to the place I am now - a particularly awesome place to be (and it is), if I could have a do over, it would start there. 14-year-old me would have just a little self-confidence and a little self-esteem. 14-year-old me would have told him, "Hey! You want to fool around with me? You'd better be free to do it AND you'd better act like I'm worth solid gold. Because I am solid gold. Otherwise, you won't come near me without a warrant."

Written in response to the GBE2 (Group Blogging Experience 2) prompt: Do Over.

Coming to Jeebus

Hi.

First things first:

I'm exhausted - a consequence of trauma-induced shock - weepy, and a bit befuddled, but I'm OK. No, really. I am. The wound is healing nicely, it isn't raised or puffed up at all, and the stitches come out tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully, after a few days, it'll just look like Vinny got really mad or incredibly frisky and scratched the hell outta me. That's a whole lot better than having to tell people I decided to use a broken wineglass for a pillow.

Acr0nym stopped by with Spux in tow yesterday evening to take a few pictures and eat my cheese. Both of them were amazed at the skill of the ER staff who stitched me up. I must confess, after having seen Acr0nym's professional pictures, I'm encouraged. I'll post a picture of my face once the stitches come out. I'm confident that will be alright.

Test results and subsequent consults with my doctor have taken place. My doctor is convinced there is nothing wrong with me a lot of water and a good deal of rest can't fix. Verdict: dehydration, exhaustion, and remnants of the upper respiratory infection I've been battling were the culprits. It's still unclear whether or not I fainted or simply fell asleep. Both are possible. Regardless, I've had no additional episodes and should be cleared to drive by the time I have to go back to work at the office on Monday.

As an aside: I kinda feel like a celebrity with that exhaustion diagnosis. Isn't that what all celebrities check into rehab for? Exhaustion? It sounds so glamorous. Although...perhaps it would have been more glamorous if I'd been doing whip-its...which I wasn't.

Fame. You elude me once again.

I want all my blog friends to know I've been slowly but surely catching up with you and all your writings. Several of you have been posting daily - that's what happens when y'all sign up for NaBloPoMo - and I've been reading every single word. I know you'll understand that I haven't had the energy or brain power to comment on every post. I am reading though and I appreciate every single kind word you've left for me in your blogs, on my blog, and in the personal e-mails I've received. If I've inadvertently left an incoherent comment that seems to make absolutely no sense, please know my intentions were good.

I want to mention just how amazing it feels to have an incredible group of friends I've never met to add to the love and support of the people I can recognize on the street. This internet thingy is pretty cool.

I also want all my friends with street recognition to know how much I appreciate all the offers for assistance. While the majority of my needs were met quite handily by one tuckered out Lex, just knowing I have my bases covered if I need it is a humbling experience. Thank you.

I have to confess something. Over the last couple of days, I've attempted to minimize this experience to myself, to others. I've tried to make it seem as though this is No Big Deal and felt as though I should be back at my desk at work, working on the podcast (I swear! It really is coming!), writing every day, reading and commenting on 130+ blogs, falling in major like, running a household, and nurturing everyone around me. But this IS a big deal. Not the scar. That's not a big deal in the larger scheme of things. The message is the big deal - the life-altering event. I had this experience precisely because I have not been taking care of myself. Because I've been burning every candle I own with a blow torch, going full steam ahead even though I knew I was tired, knew I was sick, knew I was practically out of gas, and, most importantly, know I've got chronic fatigue even though I love to deny deny deny.

I am a cautionary tale of what can happen when a person forgets to eat, poo-poos the idea of a full night's sleep, and who, even though she knows way better after having lived at altitude her entire life, thinks water is a last resort for thirst quenching. I've never been quite this girl - this poster child for teetering on the brink of health disaster - at least, not quite in this controllable way.

What happened IS a big deal. And I will not minimize it. I will not turn away sympathy but I want each and every one of you to know I did this to myself. I am both perpetrator and victim. This was every bit my fault. I didn't listen to myself. I didn't listen to Lex. I didn't do what I knew was right because I was too busy putting my energies into everything except my own health.

Don't be like me. Take care of yourself. Even if you have to let something else that seems important go.



PS Here's a very special shout out to my long time friend and former co-worker, Dole: Dude, you've had one hell of a hard year. I can understand and appreciate your desire to minimize what you've been through. But remember, you are important and what you've gone through is HUGE. You have my deepest sympathies for the loss of your dad, for the loss of the life you'd thought you'd built. Hang in there, my friend, and take care. It will get better.

I'm OK

I'm OK.

But I got the first real look at the scope of things last night when I made Lex take a picture.

I won't be posting it here because A) I suspect I could be in trouble with blogger for posting inappropriate images and B) I really do enjoy having people read my blog and don't want y'all to squick and never read me again. So, instead, I've taken a current picture of me (or, at least, one from the Nerd Crawl in September) and drew in exactly where the cut is in relation to my face as well as the 27 stitches it took to pull it back into place.

Yeah.

*takes bow*

I've spent much of last night and today feeling weepy, lost, sad. Much of this, I'm certain, is due to having been in shock. But I'm also having a difficult time comprehending - now that I've seen it - just how fortunate I am that I didn't lose my eye. I close my eyes to sleep and I can imagine it and that's terrifying.

I won't be going back to work until the stitches come out at the end of this week. It's not vanity. Honestly, I gave up the idea of physical beauty long ago - that's not how I'm beautiful. I just don't want to have to answer a lot of questions right now - questions I can't answer and maybe don't want to answer because the answers are embarrassing - and presenting myself with either a ginormous bandage that covers half my face or, worse, all the very distinct black stitches begs people to ask, "Holy shit! What happened to your face?!"

On the bright side, I am being cocooned, protected, and very well cared for by Lex who has cooked every meal for me, lovingly changed my dressings 3 times a day, taken care of the dishes, and made sure I was eating. He took the day off work today to make sure I wasn't alone at any point.

Modchen and #himself have continued to offer up their services to me and made a much needed run to Wal-Greens for supplies on icy streets in the cold last night.

Peej came over to clean our house tonight after having worked all day - making a special point to do it now, while I'm feeling lost, because she knows just how important it is to have a clean house when you're down and out.

Acr0nym has been working to finish up the first episode of the podcast on his own so that I can have that finished and off my plate of worries. He's also promised to come see me on Wednesday. He might even bring Spux. This makes me very very happy.

My boss and assistant managed to convince a floral shop to deliver me a last minute bouquet of lovely daisies and roses - the day before Valentine's Day no less - in sunny yellows and cheerful white.

Finally, I have Noodle here with me now. He fixed me supper and we're lounging in pajamas and in a few minutes I'm going to get held and everything's going to be OK.

I'm OK.


PS As an aside, before this happened on Saturday night, I'd been listening to the 2nd edit of the podcast. At one point, the Divatologist mentions how much she loves her hysterectomy scar - that scars are tattoos with better stories. I talked about what made me beautiful if not physical beauty. The irony is not lost on me.

Apples to Apples

It happened over the apple cart at King Soopers.

Noodle and I went grocery shopping together - me to do the weekly Grotto shopping and he to get just a few necessities he'd identified while we were there. First stop for me: produce. It's located just inside the front door, after all. While I wandered around examining fruits and vegetables, I sent him over to check out the Chicken Wings By the Pound Bar over in the deli and unique to this particular store.

As I stood surveying the variety of apple types - seeking out the Fujis or the Galas Lex prefers - Noodle materialized beside me. I felt him before I saw him and, when I looked up at him, I saw he was grinning from ear to ear just as he leaned down to kiss me sweetly.

It wasn't one of those horrifying displays where everyone within sight was silently begging the offenders to go get a room. It was a simple acknowledgement of affection...the softest, quickest little kiss exchanged as we hovered near the apples and then, once again, parted ways to seek out our own grocery needs beyond that kiss.

I'd never done that before. I'd never so publicly, comfortably demonstrated a sense of togetherness with another human being in such close proximity to other human beings - especially ones who were just looking to pick up a few items for supper and didn't have time or the patience for a little love.

All of a sudden I felt included in some kind of strange, exclusive club to which I'd never been invited before. A club filled with affectionate couples who grocery shop together.

And it - that physical affection and acknowledgement of affection demonstrated during the most mundane of tasks - upset my proverbial apple cart.

And made me smile.

Clean up in produce.

Written for the GBE 2 prompt "upset". I'm sorry for the lateness. I have a doctor's note. This is the entry I was working on last night just prior to my unfortunate incident.

It Was Either Somali Pirates or Ninjas...I'm Not Sure Which

Yesterday was kind of a strange day. One of those days where I was puttering about, getting some things done around the house, running to the grocery store, and spending time with Noodle.

I didn't realize I hadn't eaten anything at all except coffee until about 6 p.m.

So I did what I always do...cut a few slices of cheese and served them to myself with a side of cracked pepper Triscuits and sat down at my computer with a glass of wine to write.

I was not drunk.

I was listening to the final edit of the podcast and then drafting a blog entry while e-mailing back and forth with Noodle who, by then, was working. I was reading a response from him, in fact, wine glass in hand...at least, that's the last thing I remember doing.

The next thing I knew, I heard the sound of breaking glass, opened my eyes, and realized I was slumped over in my chair, the remnants of the shattered glass still in my hand. Blood flowing down my chest. At first, I didn't understand what had happened. I tossed the wine glass into the trash can and went into the bathroom to see if I could figure out the source of blood.

It was my face. It looked kinda bad.

I called and called for Lex. He came in, took one look, and bundled me up to take me to the emergency room. I was lucid - remained lucid the rest of the night. I was able to e-mail Noodle before I left to tell him where I was going and why. I was able to text Acr0nym to tell him I needed him.

The hospital isn't far from here. Lex got me checked in and then went out to park his car and wait for Acr0nym who wasn't far away. Pretty soon, I was resting comfortably in an exam room with Lex, Acr0nym, and Spux - the official 3rd non-husband - who was with Acr0nym when he received my text.

The doctor ordered an EKG and blood work and x-rays to make sure there was no glass in the laceration.

When Mary, the radiologist, wheeled me back into my exam room, there was Noodle too. And I felt very very loved surrounded by these four. Even though they were all Han Solo'ing me when I told them I loved them and each one just said, "I know".

All my tests were normal. No heart problems, blood pressure good, pulse ox good, blood work normal. No explanation about why I might have passed out. They kept asking me if I was pregnant *sigh*. Nope. Not even a possibility. One PA asked me, "With all these amazing men doting on you, there's not even a slight chance of pregnancy?" I laughed. Nope. Not even a little.

They took before pictures - after they rinsed out the laceration. They measured it - 8 1/2 cm. It took 27 stitches to close.

Then they sent me home with my Lex and my Noodle who have both taken very good care of me. Lex is, right now, making me bacon and eggs.

I'm shaken up and I'm scared. I don't have any answers.

What I do have is 27 neatly sewn stitches prominently displayed along the left hand side of my Frankenstein face with assurances that it will, indeed, scar and something going on that's causing me to faint like goats.

I don't know what more to say.

So I'm going to go eat some bacon and eggs and snuggle up to Noodle who is warm and thinks I'm beautiful - even with a scarred face.

Nothing but sippy cups from now on.

Coconut Bra

Just weeks before my mom, Blind Betsy, was diagnosed with breast cancer in the fall of 2002, a work friend, Tim, went to Hawaii on vacation and brought me back the best vacation present. Of. All. Time.

He brought me a coconut bra.

This had nothing to do with any kind of fixation he had on my breasts (which I assume there was none) and, instead, was namely because, when he asked me what I wanted from Hawaii I said, "You know, I'd really like a coconut bra."

I was tickled pink when he handed it over - but not in a Susan G. Komen Foundation sort of way...then.

Soon after, the call came. Cancer. Breast cancer. Lumpectomy. Radiation. Blessedly, no mastectomy and no chemo. Still...breast cancer. Ouch. Terror.

Even though it was the worst possible time of year for me to take time off from my job, my boss - herself a breast cancer survivor - said, "Go."

And I did. For a week. About 3 weeks into the 10-week course of radiation.

Prior to my stay with my mom, I talked to her on the phone one night and asked her, "How are you doing?"

The one thing I remember her saying was, "You know, I'm doing OK but I feel really really protective of myself...of my breasts. I don't want anyone to touch me and all anyone wants to do is give me a hug. I wish I had a set of armor so no one could touch me."

I had no armor. I couldn't afford any armor. But I did have something that might suffice as armor for a woman I'd give anything to help...

A coconut bra.

So...armed with a sense of humor, a coconut bra, and fear of my mother's mortality, I arrived at her doorstep and presented her with the "authentic" Hawaiian vacation gift. Hell, it's not like it would have fit me anyway.

She laughed.

Long and loud.

It was the best medicine I could have presented her.

In my defense, in her defense, this is the same woman who, when nearly killed when she was side-swiped by a dump truck in 1985, thought it hysterical when a dear friend had flowers delivered to her...flowers arranged in a Tonka Toy dump truck.

We are sick, sick people, y'all.

Anyway!

The gift of a useless coconut bra and an invaluable laugh were enough to make her feel good - if only for a moment. It helped her to laugh when she didn't know what she needed. It helped me to hear her laugh when I didn't know how to help. It was only for a moment but it was something in a sea of nothing good.

I tell you this because...

A dear friend of ours - my mom's and mine - is in the hospital currently. She has been there for more than a week. It's cancer. It's scary.

I talked to my mom about it tonight. She's beside herself in wanting to help and not knowing just how she can. When she said she didn't know what to do, I didn't know what to tell her.

After we hung up, I remembered the coconut bra.

And so I say...

Mommy? Keep an eye out for your opportunity. It may not be a coconut bra. It may not be a laugh. But you won't have to physically see the opportunity to know it when it presents itself. You only have to keep yourself open to however the opportunity manifests itself. Remember. You're open to possibility (isn't that what you said to me just tonight?). She (they) aren't going to know to ask for it but they will be grateful when you trip over it and then offer it - no matter what it is - in all its glory.

The littlest things mean a lot. Remember.

Much love, peace, health and happiness to you all.

But for the grace of...go I.

I Haven't Blogged Since Thursday?!

The last 3 days have been a complete time suck.

I have no idea where I've been.

OK, yes, I do. I've been buried alive under 2 feet of snow and, somehow, that translates into falling off the internet...mostly.

Thursday night and most of the day Friday, I was occupied by Noodle. I don't know exactly how I came up with that particular identity for him but, for now, he's Noodle. I'm sure you'll get used to it. He arrived late. We cuddled. There was much laughter. There was some hanky sans panky. And he stayed until he had to go to work on Friday afternoon.

There were no shaving casualties.

The rest of my time has been spent working on the podcast and either digging my car out of its cave or worrying about digging my car out of its cave.

After 24 hours of melt time, it was still thigh deep on the passenger side.

The crater my car left when we finally got it excavated. That's Brad with the shovel.

Almost the moment it stopped snowing yesterday - 40 hours after it had begun - I went out, snow brush in hand, to survey the situation. I'd felt confident - gleeful - when I'd chosen my on-street parking spot Thursday afternoon before the first flake flew. I got the spot right on the corner of Walk/Don't Walk so that no one could park behind me and block me completely in *ahem*.

I did not take into account the fact that the City of Denver would do something quite so absurd as plow side streets during the storm. Nor did I take into account that this particular spot is a bit unprotected from the wind and drifting snow.

So, what I was confronted with yesterday afternoon, snow brush in hand, was a snow drift - 3 feet deep - on the passenger side of my car, a 2-foot plowed wall of ice chunks on the driver's side, and 2 feet of heavy, wet snow piled high atop every surface.

I set about to clean off the car itself anyway, laughing maniacally to myself the entire time thinking, "Well...at least the windows will be clear so I can see I'm not going anywhere from the inside."

It took about an hour.

Today then, I set back out to see about getting out of that forsaken space. Except this time, I posted on Facebook what I was doing and specifically called out my neighbor, #himself, to either point and laugh or come help.

Bless him and modchen. They came out, shovel in hand, and helped.

And then? Miracle of miracles! Brad - 2nd oldest friend in my virtual rolodex - cheerfully walked up and announced that he'd seen my post on Facebook and came over to lend his experienced, Wyoming-bred hands to the task.

It took less than an hour and we had Jane's Infinitely Wise, Reliable, Respectable car freed from its snow prison cell.

Thank you, nice neighbors and friends!

So...that's been the excitement of my weekend. And, just in case you're worried that there will be no podcast, I include these two little itty bitty sound bytes for your sampling pleasure. Mostly because I can.

The first is Diva. It is safe for work.







The second is Peej. It is most definitely not safe for work unless you've got headphones.

FYI: The first episode of the podcast is about self-image and self-esteem. Just in case you couldn't tell.

That's it for now! Ciao!

PS Except...Also? I can't make this stuff up. True life conversation between me and Lex just now when I caught him wearing his boxer shorts, old man black socks, and wrapping a bath towel around his waist:

Jane: That's about the cutest thing ever.
Lex: What?
Jane: You in your old man socks, boxers, and towel getting ready to get in the bath.
Lex: All that's missing is the sock suspenders.
Jane: At which point you'd totally let me take a picture of your feet, right?
Lex: No.
Jane: Why not? No one can identify you by your socked feet, you know.
Lex: Right but my feet have soles and everyone knows that photographs steal souls. My feet have souls...uh soles...uh...too. Keep away from the soles of my feet.

PPS I'm afraid to look at how many unread posts are in my feed reader.

Of Snow, Leg Hair, Anxiety, Blue Mondays, and New Domains...in Other Words, Hello, Brain Dump

It's snowing.

We're expecting to receive 12-24" in the next 36 hours or so. That doesn't seem like much if you're from, say, Cordova, Alaska whose residents scoff at a piddly 1-2 feet but, for Denver, this amount of snow in one snowfall is relatively rare.

My employer has closed our offices for tomorrow. That doesn't excuse me from working - I have the ability to occasionally work from home - but it does mean work will be performed at my leisure and while wearing pajama pants. This makes me happy. I wish I could work while wearing pajama pants all the time. Luckily, I have several pair if the offer ever gets made to telecommute full time.

This also means I don't have to be up at my normal ohmygawdthat'searly time of 5 a.m. To celebrate, I've had a nap and coffee...and I've also invited a certain someone over - someone who works nights - to come cuddle up with me on the couch whereupon I will force him to watch Groundhog Day with me...over and over (well, OK, at least once) until it's well into the early morning hours.

Don't worry. I've already said there can be hanky but no panky. At least, not yet. Especially since my sinuses are still draining generously thanks to the miracle of St. Jude at Qing Ting Acupuncture.

It's surprisingly quiet in my head tonight.

Perhaps it's because the snow is laying a blanket over my anxiety, telling it to hush. Maybe it's because I know I'm about to be excusably house-bound for a couple of days...maybe Acr0nym is right and I do have mild agoraphobia. Whatever the reason, it's peculiar and most welcome.

I would just like to point out that, in the event you find yourself thinking you've had a terrible day, likely it's not included a toddler covered in poop. My blog friend (although I consider her more than that), cdnkaro, recently had the worst possible Monday I can even begin to imagine. I wanted to send her a massage - like...a lot...after reading her post. At least, she got to have a few moments alone with some wine toward the end of it.



I've finally felt well enough to begin reviewing the raw audio files of the first podcast episode. I'm having difficulty figuring out what to cut because, to my subjective ear, all of it sounds brilliant. Y'all, I'm going to apologize in advance but, I think this first episode may be longer than an hour o_O.

Also, because of last night's post and subsequent comment from Word Nerd, I purchased the domain bourbonandshame.com. Can you believe it was actually available?! I couldn't. I snapped it up. Of course, now that means, in addition to developing sharppointyobjects.com for the podcast, figuring out what to do with janeisameanhorriblebitch.com, and updating and moving janesinfinitewisdom.com, I now have another domain to play with...you know, in all my spare time. Still...thanks, Word Nerd. You are absolutely right in your assessment of that title.

Now, if you'll forgive both the rambling and the abrupt departure, I have to go attempt to shave my legs. After several months of no imminent hanky or panky, I'm out of practice.

This should be interesting.

Wait...You Found Me How? January, 2012 Edition

Oh, yes.

You know you want it. You've been anxiously anticipating it from the edge of your seat. I can see you wriggling with anticipation.

So, I'm going to give it to you. That's right, Little Darlins, pull up a chair and get ready for the January edition of #YouFoundMeHow - the monthly wrap up of the top weirdest keyword searches that brought some of you to this little infinitely wise space.

Ready? OK good. Because I couldn't decide on just 3. I had such great ones this month, I'm giving you 6.

1) Color of sex organ of the frog.

Dude. One answer. Green. Now move on to wikipedia.

2) Ban me if I ever say cookies.

I love cookies. I like talking about them. Please don't ban me or anyone else for mentioning them. Cookies are tasty tasty treats.

3) Can drinking wine help grow beard.

Um...maybe? I hope not but it would explain a lot.

4) Evanston pet sitter bacchus kitty

Huh?

5) I love the smell of bourbon and shame

ME TOO!

6) What is the social moratorium

Um...when you stop being social?

So...what do you guys have? Come on, Bloggers! I know you want to!