#250 or.. so who am I? (Third time's the charm?)

I must admit that knowing this is the 250th post is kind of daunting.  Of course, if I'd been writing daily since I started, I would have blown past this milestone a ways back.  But I do feel like there should be something momentous written on my 250th post.

And lately, I've been contemplating what might become a series of posts about "Who am I?"  Early on in the blog, I posited a random list of things about myself that I might have expounded upon in full posts at a later time.  I was single, grieving a relationship or two, living in a small town in the mid-West and trying to find an audience for my voice.  On my 25th post, I decided to go to Twitter, and see if I could get The Bloggess to look at my blog.

I was a, um, cynic of Twitter.  I kept my presence on Twitter quiet from those around me.  Surely there is nothing of value on Twitter, but maybe I might be able to find a few folks to come over and read my blog.  Maybe I might find an audience.

I had no idea.  There is no way that woman writing that blog and trickling on to Twitter in February 2012 - not really that long ago - would have had any idea what the future held for her.  Fifteen short months later, and here I am living in another country and married to the most wonderful woman I could never have imagined.

In December, when our relationship and our intentions had solidified enough to be willing to share in public, I had modified one of the items on my "list" - which was to cross off that I was single.  Now to look at the list, there are so many other items to cross off that are not presently true about myself.  For example, I can't watch too much Hulu now because Hulu won't stream in Canada.  :(  I clearly no longer live alone - I am living during my temporary visitor visa period with my wife, and of course, I hope and intend to make it a permanent thing.  This is the first year in four that I won't be coaching soccer, and while I will miss it, soccer was not my passion.  And I most definitely do not live in a small town anymore.

But the core of who I am is still the same.  It's just that some of my circumstances have changed.  I am a person who chooses not to take life too seriously, who loves genuinely and strongly, who gives people the benefit of the doubt and believes in the good of people.  Writing this description of myself feels more like trying to write an online dating profile, and it is impossible to capture who a person is in just a few sentences.  Frankly, I prefer medium length walks on the beach, not long ones.

And in the beginning, I felt detailing who I was didn't really make sense.  Because frankly, I hoped my stories would strike you as familiar.  I'd remind you of that person you know who lives down the street, or who you grew up with, or perhaps even remind you of yourself.  I think finding the commonality between people helps bring us together.  And so I planned to assimilate you.  Borg-style.

Because resistance is futile...

So who am I? Edited and Reposted

I wrote the following post as my third post back in February when I began this blog.  And I have used it as my referring link in my Twitter account

The problem I have is for those of you who have been reading recently, #4 isn't true anymore.  I've re-read the post, and otherwise, find it to be fairly good and on target.  At least for now.  At least until I manage to be with my love full time, then a few of those other items down there will change, too.  So, I've edited that.  And I'm reposting as new.  So I can have a new link to put on my Twitter account. 

I am pleased - I will briefly remark - in re-reading through it, how well this managed to capture what my blog has become, so I have also linked it up to a few key posts relative to several of these (until I grew bored - see 21. I have / am ADD).  If you haven't read it in awhile, re-read and remember... ;)

**************

Believe me, I have thought about saying, I am the Borg. I have assimilated and the purpose of this blog is to assimilate you.

But that isn't true.

Or is it?

As I made the epic decision to try to do another blog (this is not my first anonymous blog, but hopefully it will be the one I stick with and the one that goes viral), I made this list in my head of all the things about me I needed to tell you. And I dramatically decided at the end, I would end it with "I am you." But I'm not.

Or I hope I'm not.

It's fun to find like-minded folks, and I hope to attract a lot of like-minded folks. But I doubt that there is someone who is as unique as me and who likes EVERYTHING that I do. I could be wrong.

I'm probably wrong.

But the reality is if you become a fan of this blog you will like a portion of the things I like and not necessarily all. My challenge will be to still keep you interested even when I'm talking about a subject you really don't care about.

So who am I?

Okay. Before I give you the list, I'll have to admit a bit of my neuroses. First, I wrote a list that I will qualify and say is not comprehensive. Then, afraid that the order in which I wrote things might suggest a priority in how I identify myself, I took the list that I had written as a stream of consciousness and then used an Excel formula for random numbers to order the list. #3 on the list is Geek.

Some of this list may make sense to no-one but me. But each one is worthy of its own post. If you want to know more, find the post.

1. I have a geographically diverse background
2. I live under a rock.
3. I am a geek.
4. I am currently single.
5. Zen is Borg and I love the Dalai Lama
6. I like country music.
7. I am a mystery / legal thriller fan.
8. I watch way too much television.
9. I love deeply.
10. I am active in my church. (And this post provides a bit of an update)
11. I have a diverse working background.
12. I am a soccer coach.
13. I am a wee bit narsissitic - at least to the extent you need to be to write a blog.
14. I live alone.
15. I am a dyke.
16. I live in a small town.
17. I live in a poor part of town.
18. I watch a lot of Hulu.
19. I am an iPhone, Facebook and PC user, but I have owned a Mac, too.
20. I love the Superbowl for the commercials. (I imagine after the Superbowl has actually played since I've become a blogger, I'll have a post about this, too... Half tempted to just post some links to my favorite commercials!)
21. I have/am ADD.
22. I enjoy Texts From Last Night, Idiot Runner, The Bloggess, FlyLady, George Takei and advice columnists.
23. I love to line dance.
24. I am neither politically correct or incorrect. I just am. I do not belong to a political party, either. I am registered as an independent. (This wouldn't be complete without a link to this post, too)

This is by no means comprehensive, but gives you a brief introduction. Interested? Read on. Tell your friends. Leave me comments. Adore me. Assimillate.

Resistance is futile.

Priorities Change

DISCLOSURE:  The only thing I have going in on this post is the title.. I have no idea where this will go, so buckle up and enjoy the ride.


Sometimes in life, certain things will happen that will make you see things - perhaps everything - in a different light.  Suddenly make you realize that things you thought were important aren't, and perhaps make you value things you didn't realize were important, even more. 

If you're lucky, this change in perspective is something that reflects even more accurately the true you - the you that you have been becoming or trying to be.

It can be an amazing epiphany. 

Whether you've had or are having a life changing moment, the reality is that all the moments of your life have led you to this one.  And this moment will lead you to another one.  You can't help it - it's what happens.  It's life.  And you can let these moments just pass you by, or you can - in the spirit of the Dead Poets' Society - seize the day.  Carpe diem..

Enjoy where you're at.  Enjoy what has made you you.  Celebrate yourself. 

And if you're reading this right now and you don't feel like you can do that, well... first, *hugs*.  Second, do something to change that.  Change what's making you miserable.  Change what you value.  Really look at what is important, and focus on that - value that.  If it brings you unhappiness, if it turns you away from others, from experiencing the joy in life, then maybe - just maybe - it's not that important. 

The Dalai Lama says that the Art of Happiness is finding those things in life that bring you joy and maximizing them.  And "things" frankly is the wrong word, because I'll tell you people, things don't bring you happiness.  They might bring you comfort, or amusement, but things never, never bring happiness. 

My life has taken a significant change lately.  My perspective has a tremendously different shift.  And I am happy. 

May you all be so blessed. 

P.S. I turned 42 on Saturday.  And I have joked for nearly 30 years probably that 42 is the answer to everything from Doug Adams The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which I've never read. So as I approached this birthday, I kept feeling - down in my bones, perhaps, or just joking at the surface, who knows - but I kept telling folks that I was looking forward to 42 because it was the answer to everything.  And you know, when I turned 42 - the minute I was 42 - I, indeed, had the answer to everything.

It is amazing. 

The Holidays - Part Deux

One of the problems about Thanksgiving is that it isn't even over before people are preparing for Christmas.  Driving home from my Thanksgiving dinner, there was already Christmas music playing - even on the radio station I had been so excited in the morning which had been advertising that they would WAIT until this holiday was over before beginning the next one.  Mostly I listened to a book on CD, then, while driving home to avoid the songs about Mommy kissing Santa Claus.

Christmas.. well.. it has mixed memories for me.  I do remember being a kid and being excited to get up in the morning and see what was under the tree.  We were allowed to attack the stocking before the adults got up, but nothing else.  Not that we didn't manhandle the presents and try to figure them out. 

Stockings had a formula.  There was always an orange or an apple at the bottom plumping the toe of the stocking and weighting it down.  Then there were a lot of Hershey's kisses and other candy, because our upcoming breakfast of Grammy's cookies wasn't going to be enough sugar.  I never ate the fruit.  Never.  Not even a day or two later.  It always went back into the fridge, and who knows who ultimately ate it or if it were tossed.  I'm actually not a fan of Hershey's Kisses, either (I know it's sacrilege, don't tell "Santa"). 

But then there would be a small gift.  I don't know what they were when I was really young - I don't remember them - but in the last few years that we *did* celebrate Christmas, my mother had begun giving me, at least, old toys of hers.  I remember one year a particular 3D wood jigsaw, that I enjoyed taking apart and figuring out how to put back together again.  I always enjoyed those gifts.  Usually there would be a note with them explaining where they'd come from.  This was clearly AFTER we had stopped believing in Santa. 

We weren't allowed to wake the adults.  My parents were smart.  But they didn't sleep in too late, either.  Everyone was usually in the living room around the tree by 7:30 AM.  Sleepy parents, and if we were lucky, grandparents were there, too.  We opened one gift at a time, taking turns.  Mom, usually, would sit by the tree and select which presents went to whom, and my brother or I would be "Santa" delivering them from her lazily (I understand now) sitting by the tree to whomever they belonged. 

Breakfast would always be Grammy's cookies - she would bring tins of them that would last a few days.  As an older adult, receiving those tins either by mail, or to take home in person, were always the highlight of my Christmas, and I admit, what I miss most.  Others, sometimes, make cookies similar to hers, and each year I flock to them and savor them and think of her. 

We would be done with the frenzy within a few hours.  Who knows - it might have only been 30 minutes, but it seemed like hours - good hours - to me.  And then there was always the difficult moment of deciding what to play with first. 

Now, if my mother had been smart, and had the patience of a saint (she is smart, she is not patient), she would have made my brother and I sit down that afternoon and write Thank You notes.  She would have made THAT part of the tradition.  If I were ever to have kids (not very likely at this point), I would hope that I would instill that discipline in my children.  Because I'll tell you now.  I suck at it.  Big time.  And I feel bad. But anyway, that could be another post. 

I have no bad memories of Christmas as a child.  I hope I threw no tantrums because I didn't get what I wanted or I couldn't play with something or I wanted what my brother had, but I have no memory that I did.  I hope I was appreciative of everything - even the clothes we would traditionally receive from my father's cousin.  I have no soiled memories of those Christmases. 

When I was thirteen, though, my memory of Christmas, itself, has been blocked out.  It was very cold, and my grandparents car couldn't start to drive home just a few hours away, so they spent an extra night.  Eventually, the day after, they were able to warm up the car battery or whatever it was that needed warming and they were on their way. My brother and I were downstairs in the basements - in our rooms - playing with our gifts, when my father came downstairs and told us to come upstairs because he needed to tell us something.  Actually, I don't remember what he said or even that he had come downstairs, I only remember walking in the room and seeing my mother sitting on the couch crying with tears streaming down her face. 

The grandparents who had just left an hour or so before were her parents, so my mind immediately shot to the worst scenario - they had been in an accident.  What else would make my mother cry so? 

----- I just have to say the obvious here.  One of the worst things, ever, for a kid, is seeing your mom cry.  That day, and several others that followed during my adolescence where she cried are the worst memories of my childhood - I always felt so helpless.  -----

They sat us down - again, I presume my father did, and did all the talking, frankly, but I can't remember through the numbness.  And he told us he was leaving - that they were separating. 

I remember, at the time, feeling this great rush of relief.  Oh, that's it? Grammy and Grandpa are okay?  I hope I didn't say out loud "Oh that's it?"  I think both my brother and I knew how serious things were by how serious they were.  I hope I was respectful, and quiet, and didn't say anything too stupid.  I can't remember. 

And then we were sent downstairs to play, while my Dad packed a bag.  Within an hour or so, he was gone. 

(Wow - this is totally not where I thought I was going this morning with this post, but I guess I needed to)

------

Frankly, at first, I had no idea what to think of it all with my parents separating.  They never fought - several of my friends' parents fought and so when one set separated, it wasn't surprising; and another set, surprisingly is still together thirty years later.  I just viewed it at first like my father had gone away on a business trip and he would be back.  It wasn't until six months later that it struck me that he wouldn't just be back, and that he couldn't just come back as if nothing had happened.  And dealing with my parents' separation took me the rest of my adolescence to deal with and only as an adult do I understand my father's actions. 

-------

When Christmas rolled around the following year, my parents had been "dating" or trying to date and we had seen him somewhat regularly.  My brother had left for college that fall, and so it had mostly been my mother and I together.  My brother, of course, returned home for Christmas break, and we were all together to decorate the tree a week or so before Christmas.  We actually had a fresh tree for the second year in a row bought by my father sitting in the stand. Several boxes of lights and ornaments from the attic were all on the living room floor waiting assembly.  My brother and I were waiting in the living room and my mother and father were upstairs.  My father, it was planned, was going to spend the night on Christmas eve with us so he would be there when we woke up on Christmas morning.  I assumed, naively, that my parents were upstairs making out or something, since there had been several visits with him where at a certain point I was told to go downstairs so they could have time together.  My mother had been working hard to woo my father back, cooking meals she never otherwise cooked, and I knew they had been (at a minimum) kissing upstairs on several occasions (I don't want to know what else, I still don't need to know what else). 

So while my brother and I, increasingly impatiently, were waiting downstairs, my mother and father were upstairs.  But they weren't kissing, it seems.  Apparently, there had been some confusion, some miscommunication, and my father wasn't planning on spending Christmas eve with us, but instead with his girlfriend.  He would come by on Christmas day, but he wouldn't wake up with us in the morning.  He was clarifying this with my mother upstairs.  Eventually, my father came downstairs, and I don't know exactly what he said - I can't imagine he admitted all those details to us - but my mother was upstairs crying, and my father didn't stay for us to trim the tree.

I don't know if my brother and I just trimmed the tree ourselves - or if we had already started while they were talking - but I don't remember my mother coming back downstairs to decorate, and so I assume that we did.  I don't remember Christmas, frankly, at all.  Although I'm sure it happened, and gifts were given, and that my father did come by. 

By the next year, though, my father and his girlfriend had moved in together.  My mother and I didn't bother with a tree.  Pretty much that was the end of Christmas for us.  Two years in a row of bad luck - to put it lightly - was enough for her.  And, frankly, I can't blame her.  I was fifteen, and my brother was practically on his own - I'm not certain if he even came to stay with us during his Christmas break, or whether he stayed with other friends.  He hadn't lived with us over the summer so I'm not sure he did for that Christmas, either.  And by the following year, he had already dropped out of college (taken a year off, which is now 28 years off, soo-o-o I don't think he's going back) and was living on his own. 

-------

I'm an adult now.  I understand my father's reasons for leaving, and I can even have compassion for the timing.  His girlfriend is now his wife of 20+ years, and I know, now, that he had been developing feelings for her - although had not acted directly on them - before he left my mother.  I see how she is a more compatible partner for him, and I am happy for him.  I can honestly say that I don't "hate" Christmas.  But I'm not particularly fond of it either.  I do enjoy spending it with other families.  Three years ago, I was living with a family with two kids, 10 and 7 at the time, and being there to experience their joy on Christmas morning was one of the best Christmases of my life.  And I wish I could have spent more with them.  My ex-wife and I always wanted to spend Christmas with the grandkids when we were together, but they were across the country, and usually her son was spending it with his in-laws, so we were never invited. 

Christmas, to me, is for the kids.  Last year I got into a disagreement with my then-best friend over whether Christmas was just a kids' holiday - she was in the spirit, I apparently was less so.  But as an adult, those were the moments that would melt my heart around Christmas - seeing the kids' enjoyment. 

Today, I am content to spend the day alone, although I often will share the meal with friends, too.  Last year, for exmaple, I had Christmas dinner with my priest and his partner after services that morning.  I do not begrudge those for whom the day is special.  But I do not look forward to 29 more days of Christmas music, either. 

This was not the post I set out to write - but I guess I needed to set up the background for this season and this year. 

Stay tuned for The Holidays - Part Trois. 

Old iPods

I have an old clunky 20 GB white iPod that contains most of the music I owned before.  I don't even know if I still have the computer with the iTunes with the library of all the CDs I had once owned and burned.  I thought it was on an external hard drive, but I'm not exactly certain where that hard drive is.

But that is an aside.

I took a trip across country in 2007, and the old clunky 20 GB white iPod died.  Pfft.  Done.  Couldn't be revived.  And it was horrible at the time because I was driving long days - going from friend to friend.  My father replaced it at Christmas that year with a first generation iPod Touch (with LESS memory) which has mostly been replaced by my iPhone.

All of the above is mostly verbal vomit dancing around the real topic of this post.

At some point, after Dad bought me the iTouch, I was surprised to discover the white iPod worked.  Still to this day no idea why.  But now I have this little (relatively heavy) archive of music I used to listen to. 

When I took off on that cross country trip, it was after having had a marriage counseling appointment that my wife had not come to.  The third such appointment for couples counseling that I attended singly.  In the eight years we had been together, I had learned (poorly) that when my spouse was in this angry place that the best thing to do was to give her space.  I sucked at it.  I wanted to fix things.  I wanted her to feel better.. and I wanted to do whatever I could to help her feel better.  But I couldn't.  The only way for her to feel better was to leave her be.  And that was hard.

I was at a transition point in my life.  About to embark on a new job in a new career that I was scared about, but excited about, too.  At that moment in time, though, I had no employment obligations and this new career was likely to be all-time-consuming with little to no opportunity for future vacation and I had never driven across country, and really wanted to do so.  The lease to the car was about to expire, and since I had stopped the 100 mile daily commute two years earlier, we had plenty of miles pre-paid to spare. 

So I got home from counseling, packed up the trunk, and took off across the country.  It was a wonderful trip in so many ways, but bittersweet given the circumstances that partly inspired it. 

I had a lot of time on the road to think.  I needed it, too.  And I have to say that my faith in God grew much stronger on this trip.  Against all odds, frankly.  I remember driving through mountain passes and asking - out loud - what am I supposed to do?

I created this road trip play list my second day in when I was at the hotel at night in New Mexico.  In addition to good songs to keep me awake while I drove, I filled it half with love songs and half with "she done me wrong" songs to try and figure out which songs were calling to me more.  Seriously.  And the love songs were the ones that continued to call to my heart.  I loved her.  More deeply than I could have ever imagined.  Even though she was crazy and driving me crazy and pushing me away.

I loved her.  And that was the underlying message I received, at some level, was to just love her.  To open my heart wider and love her. 

I spent a year and a half doing that, my heart open as wide as it could be, and so when I walked away - when I finally had to walk away, I was done.   I was done grieving the relationship that once was.  And so, now, when I think back about my ex - and when I have over the last three years, mostly what I feel is numb.  Sometimes, I have even wondered whether I really did love her.  I had put everything that belonged to her, everything that I had given her that she had literally and figuratively thrown back into my face, and put it into a steel box in my heart that was well protected and from which I was well protected. 

When I think about what I was grieving the last three and a half years, it wasn't her.  It was my life.  It was everything I gave up and left behind.  And I never quite knew what to make of it - I kind of thought I should be missing *her* more and aching for *her* more, but I accepted that I didn't because I had already grieved her.  And I do believe it.  But every once in awhile it made me wonder if maybe I hadn't loved her like I thought I did.

Last night, for some reason (God?) I pulled out my old iPod and recharged it.  This morning, for some reason (God?), I decided to bring it into my contract place to listen to while I worked.  And I knew that the best of my music was pulled together in this Road Trip play list, so I selected it and hit play.

It started with simple old country with Alabama belting out "High Cotton", (Old times there are not forgotten..) and moved onto other songs that pulled at the strings of my memory.  I smiled listening to "At the Zoo" by Simon and Garfunkel, started moving to "Move It" by Baja, remembered romantic evenings from college listening to old Tracy Chapman and Indigo Girls.  It was an amusing musical trip down memory lane.  I was figuratively patting myself on my back for having such great music.  There were some tear-jerkers that I resisted being pulled too deeply into - "Bad Goodbye" with Clint and Wynonna, for example - mostly because they had applied to other relationships, too.

I was just zipping along and enjoying the day's soundtrack - my life's soundtrack - until The Promise by Tracy Chapman came on.

Oh, that song... Five minutes and 28 seconds of heart-tug for me.  I think I may have even purchased the CD with that song on it while on the road trip, but I won't swear to it.  But I played that song on repeat for hours.  Particularly when I was away from my spouse, hoping that she would wait for me...

"If you wait for me.... then I'll come for you....although I've travelled far.  I always hold a place for you in my heart..."

Over and over.. "If you think of me... if you miss me once in awhile, then I'll return to you..."  I wanted so badly for her to tell me she missed me, for her to want me to return to her while I was on that trip. 

"Remembering, your touch, your kiss, your warm embrace... I'll find my way back to you... if you'll be waiting..."

Over and over, hours and hours.. the song just encompassed everything that I wanted when I was on that trip.  Everything that I was willing to give to her.... "in a place where I can feel the beating of your heart...." 

"Together again.. it would feel so good to be in your arms.  Where all my journeys end.  If you can make a promise.  If it's one that you can keep.  I vow to come for you. If you wait for me.  And say you'll hold a place for me in your heart."

And with those opening strums of the guitar, the bow across the violin, I was reminded today how very deeply I loved her.  How very much I wanted her to have a place for me in her heart. 

Generally, these days, if you ask me about the woman I left behind, I speak about it all with much distance.  I have grieved the loss of her and I have long since learned to live my life without her in it.  It is easy for me - for you - to dismiss the importance she once held for me because I don't feel it now  - I can't feel it now.  But today, I was reminded.  I once loved her very deeply - and all I wanted was for her to make room for me and want me to return to her.  And back then, I was willing to wait for her, too...

A rose named Borg...

Original Title (so you can understand the original theme I was writing from): 
Rocks, Hard Places, Awkwardness and a Game Called Jenga

I've just had another individual from Twitter politely note, "I just realized I don't know your real name".  When I politely ignored that particular comment, she less passively (after politely waiting for one or two more exchanges) directly asked, "So... not gonna tell me your real name?"

There is only one person I've met on Twitter who knows my real name.  My full real name.  One other person knows my first name.  That's it. (So, yes, you two, you should feel REALLY special, but you can do so quietly)

And that is not an easy decision.  And by next week, that circle may increase. 

The first one who I gave it to had shared some quite intimate details about herself by e-mail earlier in the day, and that evening we were chatting by g-chat, and twenty minutes into the conversation she stated, finally, near the end of the conversation: "You have to tell me your name. I can't call you the borg blog!"

Um, yes you can?  And her argument, as go all the arguments I get, is "who am I going to tell?"

If she were to disclose herself (which I am asking her not to), she'd tell you that all she got for a long time was just my first name.  In fact, the last name slipped really only because I sent her an e-mail from the wrong account.  (Dratted iPhone and human error). 

This is not easy for me.  I do not like living in closets.  I do not like hiding who I am.  I have no desire to be the tiny "wizard" hiding behind some great contraption of fire and smoke appearing to be bigger than who I am.  I HATE closets (except the big walk-in kinds where I can keep my clothes that I've never actually had the joy of having...).

I have written several blog entries already about anonymity.  I don't know if I've tagged them all, but you'll see several of them if you click on the label over there on the right.  This is something I've struggled with.  And still struggle with.

At some level, in my last anonymity post, I acknowledged that I could not keep my two worlds separate forever.  But that each time one side touches the other side, it's like taking out a piece in a game of Jenga.  The first pieces are easy, and bring no significant threat to the structure.  Really, only the dog wagging its tail will knock it down. As a side note, playing Jenga with a yellow lab puppy, by the way, is very hard to do!  But there does come a time where you've taken out so many pieces it makes the structure very precarious, and even the slight vibrations from the plane taking off nearby or the train rumbling by (I've lived both near airports and train tracks) will knock it down while you aren't even looking.

Part of the reason for this blog, I've admitted openly, is as a way for me to heal from the loss of some important people in my life.  People I've loved dearly.  People I still love dearly.  While really I am writing in here only about me, I'm not.  And I live in a small enough town that you would know who (crap, what was the name I gave him, oh, yeah) Tom was, and you'd know who tulip girl was, and you'd know who a lot of people were if you knew who I was.  And while Robin Sparkles doesn't live here in town, and is an old friend from college, it wouldn't necessarily take long to identify her.  (It is true, though, that I don't feel a compelling need to protect Tom, but I also don't need someone telling him I'm writing about him and have him track down this blog, either! *smile!*)

And the reality is that one of my points from the beginning, and I still maintain today, is that we all could be you.  Or someone you know just down the street.  Who we are - name wise - is unimportant to understanding and enjoying (I hope) our story.  And maybe you can take insight you learn from reading here to apply to that person down the street whom I remind you of.  That reading about my struggles and my successes and reading my thoughts and ramblings might just help bring us all together as one loving society and community (Okay, there's that big ass guy full of smoke and mirrors, but....).  That knowing who I am as an individual shouldn't affect your ability to relate to what I'm writing.

But last week, it got even more complicated and troublesome keeping these worlds separate.  Because last week my tweeps did something that a lot of people in my real life have never done.  Heard my call for "help" and came and supported me EVEN if they thought I was nuts to think I needed help, and/or thought I was being really irrational and over-reacting.  EVEN when they didn't agree with me, they still supported me.  Simply because I asked for it.  And until they did it, I didn't realize how absent that had been, for the most part, in my life. 

It was a real WOW moment.  A real you-guys-are-really-special and where-have-you-been-all-my-life kind of moment!! And yet, I won't / can't / don't even tell them my name?

And this is the moment where I change the title of this post.  I gave you the original title above so you can see the framework I started with, and understand where I am or was going.  But somewhere along the line most of you have decided that I smell just as sweet, even if my name is Borg, instead of ________.  And that's pretty darn special.  And I'm pretty darn lucky!!

Have patience with me, then, my friends.  Because so many of you have become my friends.  This is not personal to you - it is my fears, my concerns, and my need and desire to protect others whom I care about, too.  I know that you can respect me on this.  I've seen how you support me, despite my name.  And I appreciate you all. 

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If you're new to this somewhat one-sided conversation I keep having about this, I suggest you can read the following posts to catch up on some of my thoughts (if you've read everything I've written, you can skip this and go to the bottom of the entry, post your comment and collect your prize):

I addressed the topic on my very first day of writing this blog in a post called Assimilation.

There I wrote:

 Our experiences while seeming unique to ourselves are also universal.

... 

When one becomes assimilated into the Collective, they become one with another, and all of their memories are now part of the collective. There is no unique "I" in Borg. There is just Borg.

So while you think you may know me, you probably don't. Or rather you may know me, because my experiences are similar to yours or those you do know. But you do not know my identity.

Three months later, I addressed the topic directly again in my post Clark Kent .. This is when I began to realize I might want Lois Lane to know that I was both Clark Kent and Superman so she'd know she was in love with me (well, maybe not quite that...).  And what would I do at that point?  Mostly I was looking for the Anonymous Anonymous support group.  I was sure that Flash, Wonder Woman, Superman, Batman and all the other caped (and not so caped) crusaders might be dealing with some of the same issues I was just starting to deal with.. (and this was before I ever even knew anything about Blogher and then began to wonder how could I ever go?)

The blog post titled simply Anonymity really does state some of the reasons above (protecting others, and also a little left over self-protection) and I think it was when I typed that post that I began to decide this recurring theme / topic needed to have a label of its own.  I also described briefly a very unpleasant encounter I had with one twit (because frankly she was a twit) who got really upset and really rude when I gave her a generic answer in response to a direct question about where I lived.  Frankly, given her response - and she was one of the first people to ask me anything so particular (which I realize is not that particular at all) - it reinforced my rationale to remain somewhat anonymous.  This person, frankly, even now long after I've blocked her, still scares me.  I'm glad she only has a narrow geographic region in which to ponder where she might find me. 

I also talked briefly about the sensitivity I had about my identity / location after leaving an abusive relationship.  There are, unfortunately, people who I have been close to in my life who don't have any idea where I am.  For some of them, I wish I could change that.  For some, eventually over time, I will.  But for many, unfortunately, I just had to disappear.  Facebook has managed to keep me in touch with many I might otherwise have lost touch with, but my in real life close friends (only one of which is on here from that period) will tell you it was still months - if not a year - before I revealed specifically where I was in even that closed environment of hand-picked friends.  While MOSTLY I am over that, I admit my steadfast responses are cultivated / learned from that experience.  As I wrote in Anonymity, murder-suicide was most certainly an option on the table at the end that many - including myself - were afraid could happen.  I think enough time has passed that it is very minusculely likely to happen, but when you experience that possibility and that kind of fear, trust me, you learn to be a little protective. 

(Wow, that took me back to such a lovely dark place - are any of you still here? ;) )

I wrote Anonymity Revisited after I told an in real life friend - not a local friend, of course! - about the blog since it and Twitter is becoming such a big part of my life - at least big parts that I am excited and enthused about.  The world didn't fall apart when I told her.  Although it did give her a bit more information about something she'd known a little bit about.  And she didn't (to the best of my knowledge) rush off and plaster it all over Facebook.  And she hasn't disowned me as a friend.  Again, an early Jenga piece.

And then a month ago, I finally came up with the Jenga analogy after I felt safe enough to share this blog with a memory-impaired local friend (she will agree with me, if she ever does find the blog again, that "memory-impaired" is a fair term to use to describe her lately).  It was somewhat safe because she's likely already forgotten about the blog, or if she remembers it, has no memory of how to find it or what it was called.  It was also somewhat safe because the things that I write on here about local people would not be news to her, would not reveal any new "secrets" and she has already demonstrated, as such, that I can trust her not to hurt the people I love with the information that she knows. 

--------- (did you skip above? Start reading again here....)

I have fallen in love with the Jenga analogy.  It fits this perfectly. Because that one friend asking, "Who am I going to tell? What harm will it do?" is correct that telling just her alone will not cause my life or this separation to come crumbling down.  It won't.  But telling a lot of people, even one piece at a time, will make it harder to keep this construct up. 

Basically, I've come to the conclusion that the wall will naturally come down as soon as I become as popular as Jenny The Bloggess - one of my "heroes".  But until then, and until I have a book deal and a way to support myself through the publishing of this blog and my ramblings, I hope you won't mind if I try to preserve this delicate balance for as long as I can.  Because I admit, if and when that happens, if and when the Jenga pieces all start crumbling down, I'm going to have to think long and hard about possibly pulling some of my more 'exposing' posts, even though, of course, they've all been out there.  And I don't want to censor or edit myself. 

As I said, I don't like hiding.  All while writing this really, really long post about why I'm hiding.

Yeah, look over there, one of the labels, too, is "inconsistency" - what can't see it? It's right there wedged between "I'm human" and "insanity" (at least at the moment I type this! I'm sure over time I'll find some other 'i' label to add...)

For those of you who made it all the way to the end of this post - wow! Thank you.  And congratulate yourselves - or give me an opportunity to congratulate you for reading this really long somewhat winding post - by posting a comment here, too.  I promise to comment back and thank you, and add you to my list of REALLY loyal supporters! ;)

And in the meantime, I hope you accept this rose is named Borg... I swear I smell as sweet (I *did* take a shower this morning!) as whatever my "real life" name does. 

Anonymity

I have decided to add this as a label over there on the side, because I have a feeling this will be an ongoing discussion for me, and it is one I have already, often, had on the side (just not THIS side) with others.  It is an issue I find myself struggling with, and I have already discussed briefly this struggle in my post Clark Kent.

Having fallen in love with Twitter, I am now finding many new bloggers.  And I find that we blog for many different reasons.  Some of my new friends are Mommy bloggers.  Some are selling products.  Some are rambling and sharing their life like me.  Some have focus.  Some don't.  There is a wide variety of purposes to blog.

For me, in case you haven't already figured it out, I have some issues to work out, and this is cheaper than therapy.  Kidding. Sorta.  But in order to feel "free" to be perfectly honest and open about some of the things I might want to write about, I felt "safer" creating this blog anonymously. 

Despite what you might think, the reasons for remaining anonymous while working through this stuff wasn't about protecting me.  As I've written before, I don't really know how to live in a closet.  There's very little that you could ask me directly that I wouldn't give you an honest and full answer to (probably more than you might even want to know - for example, I wrote a four-page e-mail to a friend this afternoon in response to her 140 character tweet!). 

But my "issues" are about living among and with other human beings.  It is about our relationship to each other.  Which is why I enjoy the irony of the name of this blog, even though it wasn't necessarily intentional.  And so it isn't so much that I am afraid to expose myself, as it is that I am afraid of hurting others who are important and matter to me.  Others who may not prefer to be exposed, who may not want their business identifiably linked to them. 

As I mentioned before, I live in a small town.  One woman I work with, whom I kid that she's "connected", honestly believes that she knows everyone in town, and while I've quizzed her on occasion and found that she doesn't, she knows quite a few.  Including me, for example.  Today, I went to a drive thru for a restaurant I never go to on my own to pick up lunch for a friend.  I was in a bit of a Friday daze, and wasn't paying good attention, making the taking and filling of my order a little harder for her.  I apologized when I got to the window for my distractedness, and she told me it was okay, and that she knew me from soccer.  It was like we were old friends. 

So if you know who I am or you know where I live, you will likely know who I'm writing about.  And while I can make those decisions for myself, it is not fair of me to make those for others. 

When I started the blog, I also made up some good bullshit reasons in who I am about why I wanted to remain anonymous, and in my post Assimilation about how I really am just like you, and that knowing my exact identity might end up being distracting.  It all sounded nice and good when I wrote them (and they are.. but...)

Lastly, frankly, protecting my identity and my whereabouts has become a sensitivity for me since leaving an abusive relationship.  At this point, I know if she wanted to find me, she could.  And after three years, given that she hasn't shown up at my door ready to do me bodily harm (murder-suicide was on many people's minds), I feel fairly safe that she won't.  But for a long time there, I wasn't certain that she wouldn't.  I hoped I had moved far enough away to prevent that scenario, but I didn't feel safe.  I restricted amongst my close friends even where I lived, let alone sharing a phone number or an address.  I had a P.O. Box when I finally needed to have some means for people to reach me, and for a long time even the people at the church only had that address to reach me.  When you have a period in your life where you live with or otherwise share your life with an unstable person, and you have reached the point where the only way to set the boundary is to abandon just about everything (except a storage unit full of stuff that you DID manage to take with you) and move across the country so that she can't try and undermine you and your efforts to take care of yourself, you become protective.  (Someone on Twitter once told me that this was bullshit when I wouldn't be more specific about where I live and that I was lying about the ex-spouse who was also an ex-cop.  Needless to say I have since blocked that person!)
 
I once read a book about how they figured out who "anonymous" was who wrote the book Primary Colors about Clinton and his affairs, and how all of us have very distinctive writing styles and can be identified - with effort I presume - by how we write.  So, at some level, to presume anonymity on the web is, well, presumptuous. I do take care not to use some distinctive identifying written mannerisms while writing here or on Twitter.  Usually I am successful. But I am sure some expert could figure out who I was.

And recently I had a momentary fright on another friend's blog, since not only do we have this distinctive signature in how we write, but we also have a distinctive electronic signature that we leave.  So, I do recognize that if someone really wanted to know who I was and where I am, they could find me and figure it out.  Hopefully, though, no-one decides to look behind the curtain to see who is really the Wizard of Oz, er The Borg Blog. 

This will be a continuing discussion for me it seems.  And, sensitive to other's identity, you CAN comment on here as "Anonymous".  Or, if you want your discussion to be just between us, you can e-mail me directly at theborgblog@gmail.com.

Same song, different drummer...

In my twitter experience last weekend, at one point, the person told me:  "All women lie and this story you relayed to me I've been told almost word for word before."

I had a lot of responses to that statement.  I admit one was feeling shocked and dumbfounded about being called a liar.  But the other, frankly, was sadness.  That so many other people had a similar story. 

I had tried to explain to her that I was protective of my location because my ex-wife is an ex-cop.  And towards the end, frankly, she became more and more volatile, and she did still own a gun.  While I had strong doubts that she would travel many states to find me, or bring her gun with her, I also had never expected her to do many of the things she had done in the last few months.  And in the end, murder-suicide was definitely on the table as a possibility.

My memory is kind to me - it makes me forget all of these horrible things I experienced.  It softens my memories.  But something will happen, or a conversation will take a particular turn, and then my memory does come back.  I prefer to keep the past in the past and move forward.

I didn't give her all of these details.  Mostly I just said, ex is an ex-cop with a gun, and I don't want her to know where I am.  There weren't that many words that I gave her to distinguish me from whoever also told her the same story. 

My response, I'll admit, reflected some of the snippiness I was feeling as a result of being called a liar, and accused of playing mind games.  But there was a genuine sadness involved as well:  "Well, aren't you blessed that you've never been in such a situation, and so many of us have?"

This morning I was tripping down memory lane and re-reading some of my earlier entries.  Trying to see if I was developing a consistent style, a consistent theme.  I've now written 70+ entries - how much have I told you and how much still do I have to share that I wanted to tell you?  Quite a lot is the answer to both parts of that question.

And if I had practiced patience and waited to respond, perhaps I could have shared with my "friend" one of my earlier posts:  Assimilation, where I discuss how my story is the same as everyone else's.  So she shouldn't be so surprised when mine sounds word for word of someone else she knows.  That's kinda been one of my points all along.  I just forgot it at that moment..

We are all one - there are no new stories.  Basically, it's just the same song, with a different drummer.  Resistance is futile. 

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Clark Kent

I wonder if there is a "superheroes" anonymous support group for Superman, Flash, Wonderwoman, Batman, and all the caped (and not-so-caped) crusaders?  I mean is there a support group for those who do one thing with part of their life as one identity, and then go about their regular lives in another identity.

I am very much myself.  I don't know how to be anyone but myself.  I'm not a pretender. I don't play games.   I've never really been in a closet, never had to pretend to be anything other than me.  I'm just me.  For better or worse.  I hope for better.

So, I find myself getting to know people as this "alter ego".  Which as I type my entries, I'm me, in my head, but I am hiding behind this secret identity.  And I have begun twitting, as you know, in this alternate identity, but I do not twit in real life.  Which doesn't make sense, exactly.

So I am starting to make connections as me.  Well, as the Borg Blog, which IS me, but isn't.

At some point, I may want to meet some of you in real life, or to have you know ME, as I am. 

I wonder if Jenny ever tried to hide behind The Bloggess, or if she gave up her identity early. 

I have some of my favorite bloggers following me here on Twitter.  I'm excited, because I enjoy their blogs.  But one of my blogger followers also knows Clark Kent.  We're actually starting to get a little conversation going, and a part of me wants to scream out to her that she is already following me as Superman, er, Borg Blog.  But I'm trying to keep the identities separate.  And it isn't as if she's shared HER real name with me.

I don't know how those superheroes did it.  I imagine the money from the movies helps them cope...

Eventually, I imagine, I'll end up disclosing my secret identity.  Particularly if I want a book deal like The Bloggess... Until then, just enjoy this caped crusader and be friendly to those around you.  One of them could be me.

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The Bloggess and Taxidermied Animals

So, in case you didn't get it when I stated I read the Bloggess and think "that could be me" but qualified that this didn't include her taxidermied animal postings, and scratched your head, well here's one example:

http://thebloggess.com/2012/02/weasel-algebra/

This is the part where I know I am NOT The Bloggess.  God bless her, but I don't do a lot of playing with stuffed animals. 

21. I have / am ADD

I bring this up to you not only to tell you another little factlet about myself, but also to warn you that I am already getting bored talking only about myself. 

Which really actually minimizes the issue of my ADD. 

And my ADD is a big issue. 

If I were able to manually make those tags various sizes, I'd make the ADD tag pretty big.  I know I can manipulate it, but I won't. 

I was not diagnosed as a kid.  And this was for many reasons.  First, it wasn't the catch-all diagnosis for energetic kids that it seems to be used for today.  I do think that the way we operate as a society actually creates ADD, or at least ADD symptoms, in folks.  But that's a whole other entry for another day. Second, I was smart enough to pass.  While it clearly, particularly in hindsight, hampered me from "reaching [my] full potential" as so many teachers might have written, I was doing well enough that they didn't waste a lot of time getting me there. 

I don't mean to say my teachers or parents didn't care.  Fighting ADD - either yourself or in others - is like rolling a boulder up hill.  If you don't continually apply your efforts, that boulder gets heavy and starts rolling back down hill.  It is a continuous ongoing process. 

Or that's my understanding of it based on my experience.  Right now I feel like I'm sitting at the bottom of the hill leaning up against that boulder and trying to figure out whether it's worth pushing anymore. 

Except I like the view higher up.  I like it when I reach my potential. I get frustrated by these invisible walls I keep hitting up against. 

Ironically, I was diagnosed as ADD not through an academic or a professional setting or situation, but through a relationship.  So this "disorder" not only holds me back academically, or professionally, but even raises its ugly, ugly head in my intimate relationships.  Lovely.

So, here I sit by the boulder at the bottom of the hill trying to figure out what to do.  I'm single (see #4).  And I contemplate the traditional definition of insanity.  Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. 

I do welcome feedback on this area.  And I'm sure I'll talk about it much more and make that tag on the side bigger and bigger over time.  I have tried a variety of methods to attack this, and it may simply be I haven't found the right combination.  Again, make comments below publicly, or feel free to send them privately by e-mail to theborgblog@gmail.com.


ADDENDUM - JULY 20, 2012

As of today, this blog post has had the most views of any of my posts, and yet no feedback, whatsoever.  Please take a moment and leave me a comment to tell me what you were looking for when you came here.  This and my other ADD posts seem to have an independent popularity, and yet, I don't know who this audience is, why you are coming, and what you are looking for - and even more, if I'm serving it.  Having ADD is hard - and knowing you are not alone is important.  Please, comment below and reassure me that I'm not alone.  Thank you!


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24. I am neither politically correct or incorrect. I just am.

Well, after a post about church, I might as well get politics out of the way and hit two of the bigger taboos.

I have belonged to communities where political correctness is very important.  I have lived in communities where it's not.  I have known people for whom it seems being politically incorrect is a lifestyle choice. 

"Politically correct" has become quite a loaded term.  First it has such an arrogance to it that some throng can define what is "correct" and what is not "correct".  Second, what IS politically correct (surprisingly!) is often in flux.  And this is not only over time, but by block or neighborhood.  Or who you are. 

I, for example, can use the word "dyke" because I self-identify myself as one.  (See #15)  And frankly, personally, I don't care who else uses the term (although I might care HOW they use it), but I know there are many people who are politely sensitive who are afraid to use the word.  I respect their concern, but for me, personally, I am not offended if they use the term.  However, there are other "women who love women" who might be offended by the term. 

Basically, in our insular sensitivities, we have set up a minefield.  Good luck being politically correct.  It's a lot of work.  God bless you (oh, wait, that might not be politically correct, but here in the mid-West, it's a widely used expression that is acceptable...).

I was once with a woman who worked very hard to be politically correct.  I loved her dearly.  But watching her try to be politically sensitive - because, frankly, her intentions were to be sensitive, she didn't have the high-haughty motivation to need to be "correct" - was tiring.  And that was just watching her. 

I know she meant well.  And I haven't seen her in nearly twenty years.  I hope that she is not burnt out, but I can't imagine that she's not.  I love her dearly for her attempts.

But not everyone she was trying to be sensitive did.  Which was also sad to see.

I have been in actively politically correct communities.  Several of them.  And boy are the folks in them quick to judge you all while trying to be appropriate - which to me would seem to be non-judgmental.  But then, I'm a strange nut.  There was a certain hypocrisy often present in these communities.  Not everyone, but certainly many.  Being politically correct was a badge of honor - and again, given how much work goes into being that way, I guess they earned it.

But I think that for many, they lose the forest while looking at the trees. 

I accept the fact that in my life I'm going to offend someone.  It is impossible not to.  And frankly, if you get offended, it could just be you. Not me.  I accept that, too.  What I mean is not to shift the blame to you, but to recognize that I may have no control over whether I offend you.  I can spend a lot of energy trying not to, and still be unsuccessful. 

My goal, however, is to try and be sensitive and treat you as a human being.  Complete with flaws.  Someone who has similar qualities to me and different ones.  Similar experiences and different experiences.  I don't pretend that I know what it is to be you.  At least not without talking with You.  I can make certain assumptions, but I also recognize and respect that those are assumptions. 

I will make mistakes.  It will happen.

But I also try not to take myself too seriously, or let you take yourself too seriously. 

At the end of the day, either you'll like me for me - and all my flaws - or you won't. 

And frankly, if you base your whole opinion on me and whether I'm a person worthy of your companionship and friendship on whether I use, for example, the word 'dyke', or 'lesbian' or 'homsexual' or 'butch' or whatever politically correct or incorrect term, then frankly, I don't find you worthy of my companionship and friendship.

I am not out to offend you.  But I probably will.  It's life.  I'm human.  Get used to it. 

Much shorter diatribe is political party.  Each has its value.  Each has its flaws.  I do not vote simply along party lines.  Life is not that simple.  We're in the middle of a presidential election as I type this.  Republicans are thrashing each other and providing the fodder the Democrats can use later once they pick their candidate.  This does not seem like a particularly effective system, but it's the one we got.  It's a crazy world.  Well, a crazy U.S.  I'm sure the expression applies globally, but I'll stick with what I've started.

So, that's me in a political nutshell.  I'm sure more will become obvious over time. 

10. I am active in my church

It's a simple statement: I am active in my church.  And yet, writing it or trying to figure out how to write it, I realize that it is really quite complex.  And less so because of what it means to me, although that is a part, but more so because of what I think it might mean to a random anonymous audience. 

I would be curious to hear from others who might make that statement as to why they are active in their church.  You can comment below publicly or privately send me an e-mail - I think there should be a link, but if not, it's theborgblog@gmail.com.

I like the formatting feature on the right where it lists the labels used on the blog, and makes the labels used more often bigger than those used less often.  It helps you see what your priorities are, or at least your most talked about (and tagged, because administratively, you gotta tag 'em) subjects. 

I would have a lot of "tags" as to why I go to church, and the biggest of those "tags" would be community.  I participate in my church to find and participate in my community. 

When a person is in school, they are surrounded by people and it is easy to make friends.  The older you get, I have found, the harder it is to meet people and make friends, and develop long lasting relationships.  Not impossible, but harder.  Church is a place to meet people and make friends for me.

Relationship with God.  Frankly, I don't need a church to have a relationship with God.  He and I have it regardless of where I am at.  I have belonged to a church - not my current one - where I have found a perfect spot to sit and feel His presence, but a church is not a requirement for me to commune with God. 

A good sermon.  I really like a thought-provoking sermon.  I want the preacher to make me think about my life today in a new or different way.  Or reaffirm choices I am making, or nudge me in a direction if I am wondering.  I like an engaging and thought-provoking sermon.

My "religious beliefs" are not necessarily traditional.  I am not a bible thumper.  Nor do I feel the need to impose my views on others.  I'll share them with folks and have a conversation, but while I have a strong faith in my relationship with God, I have no pretense or belief that I can tell you about your relationship.  That's your business. 

But the primary reason I go to church is for the people, for the community.  I have made good friends in church, and I enjoy seeing people each week.  I can be socially awkward - inviting people to do things is not always easy - but here I know we'll see each other regularly - I don't have to work that hard to see you. 

So I am active in my church.

8. I watch way too much television

Which is pretty impressive considering that there isn't even a functioning television in my home. 

I can be a little bit compulsive. 

I have a love/hate relationship with Hulu.

I have a love/hate relationship with Netflix.

I think DVR and the ability to "pause" is one of the best inventions. Ever. 

If we could vote, I would encourage cable stations to pick up more of the cast-offs of the network stations.  I have found a lot of good series that only have one season that I think could have made it had the network not cut bait so quickly.  In today's wide manner of watching shows, there needs to be better ways to evaluate whether to continue a show's viability.  Perhaps the forum it is in may not be the most appropriate, but television execs should not throw the baby out with the bathwater. 

While I cannot say I have been immune to reality television, I am not a big fan.  But I loved the first couple of seasons of the original MTV Road Warrior and I really wanted to be on it.  And, I admit that I have watched more than one season of Survivor.  But it's been awhile. 

I would welcome recommendations.  Preferably ones I can watch on my computer.  ;)

13. I am a wee bit narcissistic

I think you have to be in order to write a blog.  You have to think that you are just SO-O-O wonderful that everyone would want to read what you have to say.  That Everyone would think you are interesting. 

I'd like to think that a certain amount is healthy. (I can't keep retyping the word, or else I'll keep misspelling it - too many 's's...)

I'd like to think that the amount I have is healthy.

Time will tell.

Or you will.

3. I am a geek

Okay. So, not only did I brain-barf the list above (and keep coming up with others that I want to add, but I have a separate place I am tracking those), and then randomize it, I, THEN, randomized the list again to provide the order that I'd write the posts.

'Nuff said

So, who am I?

Believe me, I have thought about saying, I am the Borg.  I have assimilated and the purpose of this blog is to assimilate you. 

But that isn't true.

Or is it?

As I made the epic decision to try to do another blog (this is not my first anonymous blog, but hopefully it will be the one I stick with and the one that goes viral), I made this list in my head of all the things about me I needed to tell you.  And I dramatically decided at the end, I would end it with "I am you."  But I'm not.

Or I hope I'm not. 

It's fun to find like-minded folks, and I hope to attract a lot of like-minded folks.  But I doubt that there is someone who is as unique as me and who likes EVERYTHING that I do.  I could be wrong.

I'm probably wrong. 

But the reality is if you become a fan of this blog you will like a portion of the things I like and not necessarily all.  My challenge will be to still keep you interested even when I'm talking about a subject you really don't care about. 

So who am I?

Okay.  Before I give you the list, I'll have to admit a bit of my neuroses.  First, I wrote a list that I will qualify and say is not comprehensive.  Then, afraid that the order in which I wrote things might suggest a priority in how I identify myself, I took the list that I had written as a stream of consciousness and then used an Excel formula for random numbers to order the list.  #3 on the list is Geek.

Some of this list may make sense to no-one but me.  But each one is worthy of its own post.  If you want to know more, find the post. 

1.  I have a geographically diverse background
2.  I live under a rock.
3.  I am a geek.
4.  I am currently single.
5.  Zen is Borg and I love the Dalai Lama
6.  I like country music.
7.  I am a mystery / legal thriller fan.
8.  I watch way too much television.
9.  I love deeply.
10.  I am active in my church.
11.  I have a diverse working background. 
12.  I am a soccer coach.
13.  I am a wee bit narsissitic - at least to the extent you need to be to write a blog.
14.  I live alone.
15.  I am a dyke.
16.  I live in a small town.
17.  I live in a poor part of town.
18.  I watch a lot of Hulu. 
19.  I am an iPhone, Facebook and PC user, but I have owned a Mac, too.
20.  I love the Superbowl for the commercials.
21.  I have/am ADD.
22.  I enjoy Texts From Last Night, Idiot Runner, The Bloggess, FlyLady, George Takei and advice columnists.
23.  I love to line dance.
24.  I am neither politically correct or incorrect.  I just am.  I do not belong to a political party, either.  I am registered as an independent.

This is by no means comprehensive, but gives you a brief introduction.  Interested? Read on.  Tell your friends.  Leave me comments.  Adore me.  Assimillate. 

Resistance is futile.

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If you like this, stick around and read other entries.  Hit a few on the right that are favorites, or go to the home page of the blog, and read from beginning to end.  Take a moment to send me some feedback.  Thanks for coming.  Please come back soon.