*The following is a post from my old blog. I just re-read it & I like it - so now I'm subjecting the internets to it. Again. What? Sometimes once just isn't enough.
originally posted as: "WE NAMED THE DOG INDIANA"
Okay, as some of you are aware - the day I had the sick on me, Arlen handed out something blog-topic-related to the un-sick. And because I'm me, I didn't talk to him about that when I saw him last week.
What can I say? I like to needlessly challenge myself.
However, the Internets (along with astute observation/snooping on my part) have come through yet again and I've tracked down at least one relevent item.
And where could this nugget have been? On the Sawyer Street main computer's home page - bitches. That's right. You can virual-blink and virtual-snub all you want... this house's affinity for Heather B. Armstrong won't be denied. What? She's funny.
Anyhow - the article in question was apparently selected to be in a printed anthology of prominent bloggers. Yay Dooce.
This selection, Alabama Hamilton, is a fairly good example of Dooce.com and what Heather does there. It captures her conversational tone and sense of humor. It gives us an idea as to her wit and what the rest of her blog might be like. It's her talking about her family and the quirks and weirdnesses therein. I can get behind that. The people we live with for long stretches of our lives provide endless material. She's figured out a way to use that material. And she's been doing it in such an appealing way that she's currently supporting her husband and their daughter with her website, and getting tons of great press. Again: Yay Dooce.
This selection makes me think of all the interesting names I've come across - my own being the THE MOST COMMON NAME of my generation. So common in fact, that I went to high school wih a girl that had the exact same name: first, middle and last. Awesome. But this got me thinking about Olympia and the downward spiral Carol (childhood friend & Sawyer roomie of the past) and I detected years ago. Now, it doesn't apply to everyone so don't get your panties all in wad. We call it The Olympia Progression:
1. Move to Olympia. Embrace immediate dissapointment that it is no where near as cool as the songs made it out to be (damn you Rancid). Sink deeper when you realize Courtney Love was right about something: when I went to school/ in Olympia/ everyone's the same/ we look the same/we dress the same/ we even talk the same...
2. Get ugly. This can be attributed to the effects of SAD and the fact that this area is a black hole of skirts over pants, a huge Goodwill and the desire to be different, just like everyone else.
3. Become an alcoholic. You've got to cope with the disappointment and ugliness somehow.
4. Have a bunch of bad sex. On account of the drinking and lowered self-esteem.
5. Change your name. Cause you don't even recognize yourself anymore. Between the depression, the ugly, the organic micro-brews that fuck with your intestines and subsequent bad sex - you're lost. Convince yourself that this state is some sort of revelation in self-awareness. Steal something from an Eastern religion you know little-to-nothing about and call it a day.
6. Choose you own ending: A) Experience a breakdown of some kind wherein you momentarily see through the bullshit and run as fast as you can from this place, with your actual name which you never changed legally in the first place. B) Get stuck. Deny the existence of the outside world, further embracing the flawed Utopia that is The Olympia Bubble. Suck more and more as the years piss away while you wait in vain for the next Nirvana.
All things considered, I'm deeply satisfied with my name. It's common, but it's mine and I like it. Besides, I know I totally lucked out - my mom was a bit hippy-ish in her day. If the mood had struck her right, I might have ended up Buttercup Rainbow, Saffron Peace or Daffodil Moonbeam. I'll stick with Jennifer Ann. Thank you very much.
So, yeah. I like this entry and I'm excited for Heather that it got picked up for that anthology. I guess I wish they had selected something longer, or at least more, well her.
Allow me to illustrate my point by going here, here or here because you need to know about the tweeking of an invisible nipple. You know you do. Don't lie. You're fooling no one.
I love her earliest archives like a hobo loves forties. They lead up to the event she is most frequently interviewed about. And are chock full of hilarity (see copious references to Justin Timberlake naked, lists about the Asian Database Administrator and Pussy-ass cocksmacks).
You know, I was in a shitty mood when I started writing this. Tried to go out earlier, got a coffee downtown, dropped my Netflix (Mallrats & Happenstance - which was French and good) in the mail and promptly came home. The whole time I was out there a little voice in my head (crazy? me?) was yelling RETREAT!RETREAT!. This happens every now and again. I find it best to ablige the yelling, lest something fucked up happen to me. Especially since I know my ex is getting married today, probably in town, and that's just weird. Figure I'd rather not cross paths with them, so it's best to not tempt fate. My point is - I was feeling like shit when I started, but reading about pussy-ass cocksmacks and horrible Prada-buying bosses really cheered me up. Dooce wins it again.
Now, don't make me tell you twice - read her old stuff. It's comedic gold.
jen said so December 10, 2005 01:58 PM