Start over 2014

*I had thought when I was on vacation from work for three weeks at Christmas that I would post, post, post.  I didn’t.  I couldn’t get it together.  So I’m starting over with a little help.

 

Today’s assignment: write and publish a “who I am and why I’m here” post.

Who I am? 

My name is Deanna, but you can just call me Dee. I’m 45, almost 46 years old. I currently live in a very small town down the road from a much larger metropolis in which I work in a ‘burb of in a state in the smack dab middle of the country.  Yes, I’ve seen some buffalo. In zoos, on the menu in some restaurants.  Surprisingly enough, we do not have a lot of Indians or real cowboys in the Northeast quandrant of this particularly rectangularly shaped colony.

I grew up and went to college in said state.  In the southeast corner where things were warmer, greener, slower, etc.

I come from parents who have been married over 50 years. Not altogether happily.

And just like that, mention their name and the phone rings. I blame interruptions for failing at my blogging experiment.

Two days later….When asked to describe myself I usually mention my significant others as if my entire identity hinges upon their existence.  I guess in essence, maybe they do.

With almost no prompting, I will tell people I’m a twin.  I guess it’s the fact that I’m not unique that makes me unique. You get it? That and a birth date of 2/4/68.  Ta dah! Uniqueness.

And I’m married and have been for just over 23 years.  I would not have thought that was possible having envisioned a trailer full of cats and failed relationships.  How so since I never really liked cats and had very few real relationships.  Not much of a dater, the only other relationship could barely be called that at less than a year.

And I have kids. Children, now at adult ages.  When I mention that I do not like children I usually get the stink eye.  I said I do not like children, not that I do not like children unless they are battered, deep fried and served with zesty ranch dressing.  I like mine.  I chose them. They were orchestrated events. No surprises.  I have no real patience for toddlers and the youths under high school age.  I guess it’s more that I have nothing in common with them and don’t know how to interact.  Love babies. When they are not squirming, red and screaming.  Babies are precious, but don’t tell anyone I said that. Don’t want to damage my evil white witch persona.

Why are you blogging, rather than keeping a personal journal?

Because people told me to.  They said I was funny and should blog.  Maybe that was to keep me from the paragraphs long facebook overposts.  I kept a written journal as a teenager and it’s bloody awful.  Who wants to cramp up their hands scratching angsty diatribes?  I had a myspace blog which eventually degenerated into angry self loathing rants.  I’m hoping with a possible audience of strangers that I can keep that level of self involved narcissism to a minimum.

What topics do you think you’ll write about?

See above paragraph.  Me, Myself and I.  Don’t they say “write what you know”?  Well, I don’t know shit from shinola but I can turn an artful phrase on occasion. So I’ll be spouting ridiculousness whenever it strikes me.

Who would you love to connect with via your blog?

I hadn’t thought this was a reach out and touch someone experiment.  More of a keep your hands to yourself, choose your own adventure. Maybe I just want some validation. Not that I’m some great writer.  I think that ship has cast off from the dock, circled the harbor and is now listing and leaking in a pirate cove growing mold.  That I’m funny.  And not just in a Joe Pesci Goodfellas kinda funny.

If you blog successfully throughout 2014, what would you hope to have accomplished?

Just the accomplishment of making something, of having consistently created.  I do like to make stuff.  Anyone who’s had the dubious pleasure of an unraveling, uneven scarf gifting will know I like to bring forth and fabricate. I can’t read a pattern.  Knitting is beyond me. I get angry.  You should never hand me sharpened sticks.  I crochet like my mom taught me.  Freestyle.  Free Range. Meaning often not quite square, pulled apart and remade. I make (or rather string together) bracelets and necklaces with my friend who is a true artiste.  A hippy Libra from the Southwest.  She thinks I am an artist too.

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