Pooh-pooing

When I first started this, ahem, journal, I met up with some strange... (me: "oh, jeez, must I?" IT: "yes, you must, you must.")... BLOGfellows that helped me shed some of my mortal insecurities and from whom I will become insane to whom I will be eternally grateful.

At the onset of this journal, I was inflicted with, or rather recovering from, a gastrointestinal problem in which my bowels were not so much irritated, but were just downright furious.  This stretched into a week-long bout of sleep deprivation, eventually degrading into depravation where I accused a fellow journalist of  "telepathic plagiarism" since he seemed to be stealing my posting topics right out from under my nose.  He, too, was having trouble sleeping at the time.  I'll admit, I am a bit slow on the uptake, but, c'mon!  Those were my ideas!! 

Or so I thought...

Some time has passed since I joined this lunatic fringe online community, but have noticed that I wasn't imagining that a "telepathic plagiarism" conspiracy is unfolding in these, um...(IT: "yes, you must, you must.")...BLOGS (ugh).  I've noticed "themes" and "prompts" being played out here and there.  These were intentional in nature and I have participated in some.

What I am referring to the completely unintentional mindset that exists between, um, ...bloggers (yeah, yeah, I'm getting used to it) .  This past week's theme seems to be  "poo", "crap", "dropping off the kids", "coffee rumblings", and the like:  in otherwords, the inevitable bodily function that makes one charge to the crapper  visit the privy.  There were topics, pictures, bitches, and even a caption contest about it .  You name it, it was there and you probably stepped in it.   Hey, I even won an award for it! *cheesy grin*  The interesting thing here is that these posts and/or comments were completely unrelated or unconnected in anyway whatsoever.

It's like poetry in motion. (Poetry:  another 'telepathic theme' I noticed recently among bloggers  - myself included -  who aren't normally poetic. )

Go figure.

Yes, She Reads This Blog - Momisms (Part 1)

I've read in several blogs and comments where some people are reluctant to tell their friends, family and co-workers, etc. about their blog for various reasons. I would have to agree with some of those reasons. Having an online journal imparts writers the freedom to say whatever they want and, in some cases, gives them the anonymity they wish to enjoy should they ever malign write about their friends, family, etc.

But unlike some relatives, my mom enjoys reading my blog.  She also reads many of the others that I follow and thinks one person is "totally nuts" - but in a good way.   I even have her proofread some of my stuff for errors (usually grammatical) or for some other constructive criticism.

Sorry about your luck mom, you won't be proofreading this one.

My mother's "Momisms" include, but are not limited to, the comments, words, expressions, questions, mixed metaphors, etc. that escape her lips from time to time.  And since I'm in a sharing mood:

We were having some problems with our Internet provider and their e-mail services wherein we were not able to send or receive.  The IP tech said they would look into it and gave us an alternate DNS Server number that would circumvent the issue in the meantime.  I was experiencing the same problem just recently and was cursing aloud that I couldn't even get connected to the net.  She said, "Try using that other DNA number".   There are times I wish we didn't share the same DNA:  this was one of those times.

I don't know if it's her age or the fact she has too much shit in her ears, but she's going deaf.  I, on the other hand, can hear a Palmetto bug fart in the next room.  Occasionally I make stir-fry for dinner with either rice or Thai noodles, so I opted for the noodles the other night.  She complemented me on the dinner, for which I  thanked her, but I pointed out, "I think I overcooked the Thai noodles", to which she responded, "There are pine needles in this??".

The thermometer incident (no, it's not what you may think):  I finally went out and bought a digital thermometer.  Whoever invented those mercury-type ones should have one stuck in his eye.  "Yeah,  I'll bet you can read it NOW, asshole".  At any rate, I mentioned that I had bought a DIGITAL thermometer that day.  She asked, "What does it read out?".  WTF??  I had no idea what she was asking.  I thought about it for a few seconds and I was still confused.  Did she mean the temperature, the digits, the language, does it speak to you?  The only response I had was, "Um...Chinese?", or something to that effect.  Granted, she has been living here for about 15 years so I could blame it on a Bahamianism, but I don't know - I'm still scratching my head at that one.

I would be remiss if I didn't share one of my own flubs: We were talking about broccoli one night and the fact that she doesn't like how the florets 'feel' in certain dishes. I like broccoli and try to prepare dishes that would be to her liking, so she mentioned that there was a soup recipe that I might try sometime. I asked if it was a cold soup like "gestapo": what I meant was "gazpacho".  Apparently it IS in the DNA.

Going back to my opening paragraph, my mom, evidently, did not read those posts and comments about  'sharing' their blogs with relatives and the like:  She e-mailed a link to to my blog to (OMG!) my uncle,  and a couple of other people.  In the reference line of the e-mail she wrote, " RE:  (myrealname's)  BLO".


Apparently I "BLO".

My Journal

As you  may know (or not), I hate the term "blog".  Since the advent of 'texting' (another abhorrent term), the English language has been bastardized, chopped, hacked, and pureed into a form of sub educated drivel that most adolescents, and sadly some adults, use to communicate.  I know what 'bff' and 'cul8er' means, but really,  does it cost any more to send the actual words than their shorter forms?   (I wouldn't know because I use my cell phone to literally speak to people, and not to 'text' their e-mails or in-boxes or whatever.)   Mind you, I can live with, "WTF?".

Twits.

When I was younger (oh, so many moons ago), I wanted to be a writer, of sorts.  I think, however, I was mostly put-off by the attitude of one of my junior high English teachers.  She wasn't particularly interesting or nurturing in regards to what the purpose of an English curriculum was.  She merely barked at us, telling us to read this or that, write a book report (yeah, I bought the Cole's Notes) and, ironically, keep a daily journal.  She looked like the animated female version of Mr. Limpet, but with a tight perm, heavy lipstick and way bigger glasses.

As for the journal, well, we were supposed to write something - "anything" (she said).  Not being very inspired, I don't think I wrote more than one sentence per day and had to bite my tongue to avoid expressing my opinion of her (after all, she did review the journals every day).

I failed her class.

Later, I had a great English teacher who I believed inspired the "dorky" or "geeky" look, wearing his gingham polyester pants pulled up to just under his teats, wore glasses (of course) and had a pointy nose.  But he was really cool!  He was also my drama teacher (go figure).  I joined the spelling bee team (yeah, the "zed" thingy), we did some creative writing, touched on the Bard and we really had a blast in his class.  We didn't, however, keep daily journals.

I didn't further my education or resume my dalliances in writing due to my life's circumstances at the time.

At any rate, I have a little more time on my hands to pursue my yearning to write, thanks mostly to several persons I have discovered through blogging (ugh), but in particular my current followers (my "Three Musketeers") from whom I'm sure I will learn much, but  who will mostly have me ROTFLMAO (yeah, I like that one too).  This "Journal", as I will call it, is a lesson unto myself and an accreditation (her only redeeming quality, in my opinion)  to "Mrs. Limpet".

p.s.  does it bother anyone else that "bff"and "cul8r" are accepted by the spell-checker?  Oy vey.