*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.