Under the Radar: A Blog About Stuff

Only your mama really reads your blog.

And if you’re lucky, one or two of your friends and maybe somebody in your family who secretly wonders what the hell you mean when they ask, “So how’s it going,” and you of little words are like, “Cool.”

My blog tells of no secret love-chile with Mr.  Man.  And I’m not nor have I ever been a Man.  That excess testosterone thing is just a genetic or character fluke; I’ve never figured out which.  There is no scathing commentary of world news here, no deep diatribes on contemporary or even ancient literature, nothing real writer-ly like either.  Just a bunch of stuff.

Now sometimes I tell stuff.  Like I suffer from dysthymia.  And I’ve known it since the Year of Yuck.  And sometimes people catch stuff like that and they’re all “Whoa,” and then they realize they have no idea what I’m talking about.  And they Google or not.  And they read something else.

Sometimes I also like to paint my toenails.  But not nearly as often as I eat green apples, photograph myself—usually unsmiling—and browse Apartment Therapy wistfully dreaming of the day when I return to the domestic bliss of burning frankincense and lounging on the my couch in bootie shorts and a wife beater.

Why did I feel the need to reveal all this?  Because I can’t find my freaking box of paint and brushes in storage and I stopped journaling years ago—sometime around the Year of Yuck actually.  And spinning this morning didn’t work.

Yup, yup that is what this blog is about: stuff.  You like stuff?  I like stuff.  And above is stuff.

Other stuff I felt like writing that you may feel free to also ignore:
1.  I should probably act my age but most of the time I don’t feel like it—my age and acting like it, that is.

2.  I need a new tattoo in my life.

3.  There are people with jobs they should not have.

4.  I had acne on my face a couple of weeks ago—just in time for a real (not me and my unsmiling pictures) photo shoot.  Now I have nowhere special to go and ta-da: acne’s gone.

5.  I have not taken my coat off since I came home—over an hour ago.  And my fingers still feel like icicles.