The people under the stairs

I just finished “My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands” by Chelsea Handler, a book of hilarious short stories that frequently make me laugh out loud. 

“The Compound was the apartment building where Lydia lived with all of her degenerate neighbors. It was kind of a Melrose Place-type building minus the pool and six-figure incomes,” reads one line from the story titled “Rerun.”

I’ll soon be coming up on a year in my own place, and while I am also clearly missing the fat salary, we happen to have a bitchin’ pool worthy of any resort. I wish they’d re-create it indoors so I could go sit by it and read all year long. Despite whatever poor reviews the it may have gotten on online rental sites, my experience here has been pretty non-stressful: the maintenance guys have come to fix the washing machine when it leaked, and even paid two unsolicited visits to take care of the non-existent ant problem that I’m sure was pissing off whomever was actually calling the office for help with extermination. Renewing my lease for six months was met with a complimentary carpet cleaning. For the most part, living there has been pretty chill and uneventful, as the six units have generally respected the space and time of other inhabitants.

But that was before a few weeks ago, when two empty apartments in my building were filled with new tenants. And boy, are they ever shitty.

For starters, they collectively must’ve brought about eight cars with them, because the parking has gone from all-hours ample to nearly non-existent. And just a tip: when you drive a monstrous mid-90s super-duty and the only thing keeping it from being a total Clampett-mobile is a snowplow blade strapped to the grill (although we haven’t yet had a significant snowfall, so that could still be coming, upon which I will poke my own eyes out), it’s probably not the most courteous move to park it directly next to the front door. Just a thought.

Then there’s the noise. The dog—its bark has led me to envision it as the Beast from “The Sandlot”—that doesn’t know the appropriate time of day to STFU and maybe go to sleep…I don’t know, like 2 A.M., maybe? You don’t have to be on constant alert; this isn’t a junkyard.

The neighbor below me who, just a days into her stay, felt it necessary to announce to anything out of normal earshot that she was getting it. And BTW, it wasn’t convincing.

Last night I got home around 9:30 and a couple people were carrying on their unintelligible conversation in the hallway. Probably not the greatest transgression (is Tiger Woods going to make that term the next “wardrobe malfunction”?), but I was pissed about having to squeeze into the last parking space outside so I was already feeling a little spicy anyway.

But the absolute worst is the smell of cigarette smoke that comes up into my apartment through the vents from Look-at-Me-I’m-Getting-Laid-and-Want-Everyone-to-Know-It Girl’s apartment downstairs. It woke me up this morning. It hangs in the air and I’m worried it’s going to permeate everything I own. The good news is it only comes up when the furnace is on, so WHAT A RELIEF that we don’t live in a climate that requires me to turn it on frequently! Oh, wait a minute…

They’re turning my mini-Ritz into a skanky (and stinky!) Motel 6.

I’m an insurance agent’s daughter, so even though my dad’s not a State Farm guy, it won’t come as much of a surprise that I strongly believe in being a good neighbor, chiefly for the reason that I want them to be good neighbors to me in return.

At 411 Hill in Ann Arbor, we shared a driveway with the house next door, which for the first year happened to be populated by fellow marching band members. One Sunday morning the guy I was dating briefly parked on their side as he swung by to pick something up. The whole block was waking up after the previous night’s party and it was probably close to 80 and sunny; our doors were open, we were outside on the porch and sidewalk, it was obvious that we were home. One of the trumpet players from next door, the one who kept The Club locked onto his steering wheel, was soon outside pitching a big one about not being able to back out without even thinking about maybe handling it in a civilized and mature manner. We knew we were in the wrong, and wouldn’t have hesitated for a second to move the damn car. “Mike Ron, knock on the freaking door!” I wanted to scream. “BE A HUMAN BEING!”

I’m locked into this place until June at the earliest, and will probably go month-to-month for a few after that while I figure out where I’m going to end up next fall. So how should I handle the smoky neighbors? What kinds of crappy neighbors have you had in the past, and how have you dealt with them? Any little nuggets of advice you can toss my way will be more than appreciated; I’ll be up, inhaling the stank stench of second-hand smoke.

Harvard kids…they’re just like us!

…in that sometimes they too make bad decisions that are forever immortalized in electronic communication!

About a month ago, after being blown off—HARSHLY—via text (and this to the girl who once got dumped via email…is that the Holy Motherboard’s way of saying “get your ass offline”? And furthermore, where’s MY reality show?!), I was furiously trying to delete all traces of a boy from my phone so I wouldn’t be tempted to contact him anymore. But instead of deleting a message I’d sent him the previous weekend that had…shall we say…sparked his ire, I managed to RE-SEND it. You can’t make this stuff up. Call me, Vh1.

I came across blog IvyGate and this post via Twitter this morning (hat tip @romenesko and @dangillmor) that made me feel better about myself for a couple of reasons. Number one, it gives me hope for my career prospects as a writer, because I for sure thought I’d be blocked from every plumb journalism job on the planet by someone from the mighty Harvard Crimson (whose alums include two U.S. presidents, FDR and JFK; NBC honcho Jeff Zucker; well-known New York Times columnists Nicholas Kristof and Frank Rich; CNBC monkey Jim Cramer and the late Michael Crichton). Jennifer 8. Lee started at the NYT just a year and a half out of Harvard, for crying out loud! But reading this and knowing Crimson kids can be just as big of fuck-ups as the rest of us puts me slightly at ease.

Two, I love me any blog that focuses, preferably snarkily, on a specific demographic, like this one does on the Ivy League, or this one for law-school related gossip and smack-talk. Above the Law has always been one of my favorites because of its sharp writing, and editor Elie Mystal was great at getting back with me quickly last year for a story on blogs in the little-known Detroit Legal News.

On doing things alone: A case study

Today we turn to a guest post from my friend and obscenely-early-Saturday-morning-tailgate-parking-partner Jocelyn, who provides a real-life story to illustrate some of what was brought up in last week’s post about the anxiety that often surrounds doing things by yourself. And before we begin, a note on that particular post: I found writing it to be actually pretty difficult because I viewed it as a confession of my fear of doing things alone; not as your run-of-the-mill rant about how much being single sucks. And just a quick little story about THAT, so those of you out there who think my main motive in this venture is only to solicit “You’re good enough, smart enough, and doggone it, people like you” encouragement in the comments can understand just how far people’s perception of you as a lone she-wolf really extends: A couple years ago I was coaching a Girls on the Run team of elementary school kids in Hometown America, and one of my co-coaches was engaged and getting married pretty soon, so it wasn’t uncommon for us to talk about her wedding after practice when we were waiting for all the girls to be picked up. They naturally wanted to know if us other two coaches were engaged or had boyfriends, and when the same question came up again a few weeks later, one of the more lippy ones asked me, “Do you have a boyfriend? Oh, that’s right, you’re single and alone.” And THEN when I saw her again a few months later, the first thing she said to me was, “Got a man yet?” That’s right, America: I was single-shamed by an EIGHT-YEAR-OLD. So get off my back. This shit is real, son.

After much hemming and hawing, I decided to attend my company party—stag. I figured, between the approximately 35 people my age that I know, enough of them would be going that I could have a smashing time. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out.

Due to the inevitably long to-do list of primping tasks all women must do before going out, and the fact that I also had to stop and pick up some Toys for Tots, I was about 15 minutes late. For most social engagements this is pretty good timing, but if you wanted prime seating at the social table with singles, it was far too late. So instead I grabbed a chair at the long, rectangular table with three couples already at it. I mention the shape of the table because it made me even more aware of the fact that I was alone: instead of a round table (that was already filled with the few singles I knew), this rectangular table caused me to be the awkward odd number that would make subsequent couples sitting down to be offset down the table. Well, fortunately or unfortunately for me, instead of sitting next to me couples started filling in from the other end, leaving me one person within decent talking distance.

To make matters even more perfect-storm like, another girl was wearing MY EXACT SAME DRESS, complete with a black cardigan on top. Talk about making me more self-conscious!

As the night wore on and people started hitting the dance floor I happily watched as one girl who brought her female friend danced ridiculously to the sappy love songs, and as our resident gay male spun a number of women around with his stellar moves. I got up to do some of the line dances, which was plenty of humiliation considering my bosses, bosses’ bosses and bosses’ bosses’ bosses were there. It was somewhat lonely as all of the singles I knew well had paired off or found someone, but I tried striking up conversations with the couples I knew. Unfortunately, I think that others were even more uncomfortable with my solo status than I was.

First, a drunken co-worker came up and put his arm around his wife and I and said “I’m sorry there are no eligible guys around here that don’t work with us. I mean, you’re a great girl and I-I-I’m just sorry. There are none! I’ve tried looking for you.” His wife nervously laughed and eyed him and me before saying “Honey…I think Jocelyn is perfectly capable of snagging someone herself. Why…why don’t you stop.” I awkwardly laughed—because what else was I supposed to do?—as a single (and attractive!) male co-worker looked on slightly amused. (Though I’m still unsure if it’s because of our co-workers drunkenness or his comments).

Finally, and by far the icing on my single-lady cake, there was a flashback to middle school. As I sat (now completely alone and awkwardly texting/watching the dance floor) at this huge table, the supervisor of the young-engineer program’s wife (only a year older than me) came over. She said “I’m sorry, but Craig [her husband] would not let up if I did not come over here. If Eddie [a single coworker] asked you to dance, would you say yes?” I just LAUGHED. I mean…I was literally at a loss for words. How could this happen at 23 years old?? I assured her I would—for what reason would I say no? Even if I wasn’t romantically inclined, a dance would be fun for everyone. She told me she tried explaining this to both Craig and Eddie, and that we are past the point where a girl would simply look a guy up and down, laugh and say no. But Eddie didn’t believe her and Craig was persistent.

HOW HUMILIATING.

And this is why I will never go to a work function alone again, unless I am assured that there will be other singles going. I can’t deal with that much humiliation on only two drink tickets.

On doing things alone

A few weeks ago while laying out pages I absently said something to Editor Brian about people close to me already trying to get their New Year’s Eve plans in order.

“Is that a difficult time…” he stared to ask. I instantly knew where he was going.

“Tobesingle?Yeahthanksforasking,” I blurted in one breath. I then went on to explain how much the whole holiday stretch, from Thanksgiving last week all the way through the end of December, totally blows when you’re on your own. Everything, from happiness-centered Christmas music to couple-focused jewelry and Lexus commercials to that outfit on the dummy at Eddie Bauer that would look so great on the man you DON’T HAVE only heightens your awareness and discomfort with your own singledom.

“Being single sucks balls,” I told my longtime friend Zach last week after dissecting grad school application materials over burritos at my all-time favorite college haunt, Panchero’s. “But that doesn’t mean I want a boyfriend, either.”

In a perfect world, I’d board a stable of guys just to hang out with on a platonic basis, to go to the movies or to lunch or to whatever and wherever with, without there being any relationship-esque expectations about a physical component or the automatic assumption that weekends will be spent together for the remaining lifespan of our relationship. Basically, all I want—however unrealistic it may be—is a platoon to have on call when I don’t want to do something alone.

And that’s exactly my problem: I don’t want to be seen doing anything solo for fear that I’ll be judged or pitied by strangers whose perception of me I shouldn’t give two squirts about. I’m not quite yet out of that stage where I still care immensely what others are thinking and saying about me. Even launching this blog was met with a wave of colossal panic that saw me frantically trying to figure out how to delete it before I’d posted a single thing for fear of who might see it and what they might think.

As many of my friends have paired off through marriage or cohabitation, I’m finding it increasingly harder to find partners in crime to—I wish I could some up with something more descriptive and insightful than just “do things with”—do things with.

I made at least one of my parents come sit with me at high school football games this fall when the flag line I coached was performing because I’m worried about becoming characterized as the what-is-she-still-doing-here-why-can’t-she-move-on girl in the eyes and minds of the snipey denizens of Hometown America. Last spring, when my seatmate cancelled on the Lisa Lampanelli show at the Detroit Opera House because of an illness and after being turned down by everyone I could think of texting, I elected to leave the tickets pinned to my bulletin board instead of straightening my spine, heading downtown and laughing anyway…of all the places I can think of being alone at, a comedy show has to be the worst. I missed special screenings of “Away We Go” and “Where the Wild Things Are” that featured Q & As with screenwriter Dave Eggers because I couldn’t think of anyone who would come along with me. And I can’t even count the number of movies I never saw in the theater because I didn’t have a date, either male or female.

After a while I started to get sick of missing out on things I really wanted to do because I left myself at the mercy of others’ schedules and pop-culture tastes. I popped my own doing-things-by-myself cherry a couple weekends ago at the matinée performance of “Hair,” put on by the fantastic MUSKET troupe at the University of Michigan, and while I was armed with a book to busy myself with during the downtime before the show and during intermission, it wasn’t an all-out horrible experience. But when I cried during the finale—as I’ve been known to do during musicals, movies, plays, fake weddings on CSI:NY—I suspect that just as many tears were for the fact that I was there alone as were for the spectacular performances that made me feel like it was me crumpling to the floor clutching a folded American flag when Claude was shot in Vietnam.

Inspired by this YouTube vid, and by the Post Secret project in general, I almost just bought a ticket to see Frank Warren at the Michigan Theater on Friday. I searched Ticketmaster for just one best-available seat (main floor center, in case you were curious—you can typically find a better single seat than you can two or more together) and everything. But I couldn’t pull the trigger within the allotted two minutes during which the site would keep it on hold for me.

That’s on a Friday night, and “Hair” was on a Sunday afternoon. I have yet to tackle the beast of going to a movie alone, even though that should in theory be the easiest thing to do by yourself, since you’re expected to sit in the dark and not talk for two hours. And when I do, it will most likely be during the day and not at night.

Even if doing things alone isn’t a natural fear, which I totally think it is, I’m certain the only way of changing it is for society at large to stop looking at being single at any event as a pitiable offense. Trust me, I know how unlikely it is for that to actually happen, and it’s also an easy cop-out because changing the perception of millions is so damn impossible. So I guess I start by not paying much attention to who’s by themselves and who isn’t, including me, the next time I go somewhere alone.

Did you miss me?!?

I’m back, bitches! So I know I committed the cardinal sin of blogging when I up and let this thing flatline for the better part of two months, but to that I say NO MORE! Tune in frequently for your latest fix, and if I start to quiet down a little bit, which you know is rare when I’m in person, give me a nice little kick in the ass to jump-start the party again! HOLLA!!

No Freaking, No Grinding

BALLS! I wanted to comment while “Justin Bieber” was still a trending topic on Twitter. I had the Today show on this morning while this 13-year-old/15-year-old/whatever-year-old kid was performing, and the Plaza was MADNESS! Tween girls’ heads were exploding, and I was loving every second of it!

Here’s the extent of what I know about Justin Bieber: I’ve seen clips of his (I think only) video playing on top of scrolling credits between shows on MTV, and I think he introduced Taylor Swift at the VMAs alongside some Twilight star or something, whereupon he offered the sage observation, “Give it up for Taylor Swift you guys, she deserved that award,” while incessantly shaking his bad bowl cut out of his eyes. So, essentially nothing.

But these girls! They were FREAKING OUT! Due to it being Columbus Day, many of them didn’t have school and some arrived as early as 2 a.m. So loud was their shrieking that the weathergirl filling in for Al Roker had to SHOUT to be heard above their din. This kid has yet to release his first album and yet there was a massive throng of tweens screaming, “I’d do anything for Justin!” through their braces, which were so numerous that people’s eyesight could’ve very well been in danger had it been a sunny morning.

One of the reasons I took such delight in the mayhem is because it took me back to my days as a foaming-at-the-mouth ‘N Sync fanatic; my reactions to their music videos and televised performances were much the same as those of the kids in New York this morning, only mine usually happened in the living room at my best friend Fran’s house in quintessential suburban Hometown America.

But the bigger reason, and the one that will further cement my social status as a total grandma, is because I absolutely love seeing teenagers enjoying experiences like camping out all night in freezing temperatures to see their favorite pre-pubescent singer in concert. It’s something of a comfort to see kids really enjoying being, well, just kids.

And what screams “all-American teenager” more than a high-school dance? A chance to get all hoed out and come break it down with friends! But last week, administrators at Hometown High School cried “Not so fast!” and cracked down on the dirty dancing. Here’s a memo that was posted to the school’s Web site:

DANCE EXPECTATIONS HOMECOMING 2009
In order to address concerns about inappropriate dancing brought to the SHS administration by various students, parents, and members of the Saline community, the SHS administration and other members of the community will expect the following:
• Students who are dancing with a partner will dance facing one another. (Grinding your partner from behind will not be allowed).
• Students who are dancing with a partner will dance with both feet on the floor in a safe manner.
• “Moshing” in the “pit” is not allowed, and no students are permitted to climb on and/or jump off of the stage.
• Students are encouraged to dance with their shoes on for hygiene purposes and to prevent foot injuries.
In the event students are observed dancing in an unsafe or inappropriate manner, SHS administration will instruct the DJ to momentarily stop the music until such inappropriate behaviors have ceased. Repeated violations of the above mentioned expectations may result in specific students being removed from the dance.

Excuse me, is this 1984? Was Kevin Bacon just elected Homecoming King?

First of all, color me mortified that a school administrator strung together the phrase “grinding your partner from behind.” Second, what does it even matter how kids are dancing at a function that’s thrown by and for THEMSELVES, not “parents and members of the Saline community”? Hey, Olds, if you want to bust out a nice, socially appropriate foxtrot, they have dances every month down at the Tri-County Sportsmen’s League. And yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time…I’m getting off your lawn!

A quick tour through pop-culture history shows us that people have more fun when dancing is not only allowed:

but also when Puritanical dancing standards are relaxed:

Here’s the thing, high school administrators: your walls, on school nights and weekends alike, create an inherently safe environment. It’s drug- and alcohol-free by law (and in recent years you’ve thrown out plenty of kids for violating said law on just such occasions) and has ample adult supervision, especially at one of the only two or three dances you host every year. Suggestive dancing isn’t going to make it any less safe.

I hate to be the burster of bubbles, America, but HIGH SCHOOL KIDS ARE BANGING. Maybe not all of them, and while I don’t endorse it (if I’m not getting any, I sure as hell don’t think it’s fair that a 16-year-old is!), I can accept it. If the kids really want to bang, they will a) probably not come to the dance in the first place and, instead, bang; or, b) bang later, which is probably what most of them are doing anyway. And if you toss them out of a high school function for dancing as if they were banging, guess what? They’re probably going to take that extra time they suddenly have on their hands and go bang.

The point here is this: when you try to police conduct, especially that of teenagers, it’s going to backfire on you. How fun can a school dance possibly be if you constantly have the save-room-for-Jesus police getting all up in your grill? Not much, and at some point the kids are going to stop coming. And they’re likely to get into a lot more trouble outside the warm cocoon you’ve created to isolate them from all the evils of the outside world (like banging).

And if the New Kids condone it, it’s gotta be good, right?! (This is also hilarious):

Pres-STONE!

This riveting headline, undoubtedly penned by a headline-crafting prodigy over at the Huffington Post, “Penelope Cruz Shows Off New Ring, Wears Layers,” reminds me of one of the many quotable lines from a movie that ranks high on my best-of-all-time list:

The bonus Velma line is a special Monday-morning treat, straight from my heart to yours. And is Jason Segel the watermelon guy?

Note to self…

I have a digital recorder that I use for work. Usually when I set it on the table it freaks people out and they look at it as if at any second it’ll shoot thousands of tiny little spears into their eyes or something. It’s irritating to always be whipping it out (that’s what she said), but it’s either that or risking missing some money quotes while furiously scribbling on my legal pad, which I find freaks people out equally as much. (“Don’t write that,” “You’re not writing that down, are you?”)

Lately I’ve taken to using the recorder while driving to capture my momentary spurts of creativity, as the car has replaced the shower as my top location for idea-generation. If I don’t write something down as soon as it pops into my head, it vanishes just as soon as it arrived and boomerangs back a few weeks later, when the cycle repeats all over again. Tonight I was using it at a stoplight and noticed a couple things: one, I’m sure I look like a total idiot. Sensing the car in the lane next to me creeping forward to further gawk at exactly what the hell I was doing, I lowered it a little bit and hoped that if I held it below the level of my car windows, it may not be so conspicuous to my neighbors. Secondly, the average length of the recordings of my own voice is two-and-a-half minutes, which to me seems pretty short until I consider that it’s 180 solid seconds of nothing but free-association, rapid fire talking. Tate Forcier could march the Michigan offense 100 yards downfield and into the endzone and I’d still have a good 30 seconds left to fill.

Last November, a rock was thrown through the passenger-side window of my car outside the Centaur Bar downtown and my recorder, iPod full of New Kids on the Block music, and the notes for everything personal and professional I’d been working on at the time were whisked off into the cold Detroit night and probably straight into a dumpster once the sticky fingers realized there was no laptop to be had in my black bag.

“I bet there’s some homeless guy sitting on the street down there using it,” my friend Joe said. “Note to self…”

My late recorder, may it rewind in peace, contained interviews waiting to be transcribed for projects that had been in the works for weeks, even months. Aside from the violation I felt, and my resentment at having to drive back to Ann Arbor minus one window (“Gonna be a cold drive home,” was my ever-compassionate and concerned father’s reaction to my panicked phone call), what pissed me off most was the loss of so much damn WORK, notebooks and folders full of it, none of which could be recreated in exactly the same form, and it all wound up in the trash somewhere. Something so valuable to me was worthless to the next person. Go figure.

Explaining the Twoutburst

I’ve recently developed a (not necessarily bad) habit of taking my outbursts to Twitter, where the 140-character limit—you know how I can talk—prohibits me from fully explaining the reasons for and position behind said rant. Today was no exception.

So I fell asleep with the TV on last night (another bad habit), and when I woke up at 4:30 I found myself staring at “The Insider.” This means a couple things: first, that I must have absolutely zonked out last night, as one minute I was watching fave local sportscaster extraordinaire Bernie Smilovitz wrap up the Tigers loss (I think I even remember the clock saying 11:34), but totally missed Conan’s monologue that would’ve come mere moments later. I’m a little sleep deprived, but whatevs, that’s life. Don’t even get me going on then rallying at 5:00 to get to Saline for morning marching band rehearsal only to find the building without power and school canceled. That pleasant little element of the morning was also included in a Wednesday-morning Twoutburst, but I think that one is a little more self-explanatory.

Anyway, I’m watching “The Insider” at 4:30 in the morning through half-consciousness, and the anchor whatever-her-name-is is talking about Tyler Perry this week opening up about his childhood of abuse, and given that, it makes more sense why he signed on alongside Oprah to produce the film “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire,” opening in limited release November 6. Check out the trailer:

Needless to say, a bit of a departure from “Madea Goes to Jail.”

The movie was also mentioned in the “Insider” segment, but only under the guise that Tyler and Ops are producing it and it stars Mariah Carey with—gasp!—NO MAKEUP! And when I got into the office this morning, I tweeted as much.

That seems to be all that popular TV media outlets can focus on with this movie. Not some of the myriad issues it manages to roll into one horrifying package: rape, incest, domestic violence, teen pregnancy, poverty, illiteracy. Or the all-star supporting cast that includes Mo’Nique (in a dramatic about-face from how we normally see her), Lenny Kravitz, Sherri Shepherd and Mariah. Or the accolades it snapped up at Sundance. Or that its release date was pushed back from earlier in the fall, ostensibly to make it an Oscar contender. “The Insider” and E! and the “Today” show last Friday during Mimi’s performance on the Plaza fail to even mention that Mariah’s acting in this flick appears to be totally fierce and a complete 180 from her infamous “Glitter” days.

Of course I know that Mariah probably won’t leave the house without with a personal makeup artist and five cases of heavy artillery and ammo in tow. And sure it’s dramatic to see her stripped bare like she is in this film, or at least the trailer. And yeah, it’s interesting to hear that director Lee Daniels encouraged her to come to the set that way, forcing her to delve deeper into character. That’s all part of the method of acting, and I’m fine with that being included in the discussion of the film.

What I have a problem with is that, from what I’ve seen in the mainstream (and I totally hate that word, but what I’m getting at here is “not the blogs that I love so dearly and haunt throughout the day”), that’s been the ENTIRE discussion. Stars without makeup, stop the presses!

Wouldn’t it be awesome if, instead of a surface, literally cosmetic topic, we could instead talk about this film as a festival darling, having two entertainment titans behind it, or—pink elephant alert!—that it depicts a teenager living a life that looks absolutely HORRIFYING? Does it get any more chilling than this line: “Please don’t love me. Love ain’t done nothing for me.”? We have an unprecedented number of media outlets through which this kind of discussion can be initiated. So why can we only focus on the simple fact that one of our beloved divas—and don’t get me wrong, I loves me some Mariah—who happens to be PLAYING a PART, looks ugly? Doesn’t this movie look like it’s worth more than that?

If you’ve seen stuff floating around out there that proves me wrong, by all means, please point me in its direction. Nobody likes a know-it-all.

This is maybe going to be a hot mess…

…at least at first. I’m about 90 years late to the blog party. But I promise to master, as quickly as possible, the art of making this readable, fun, and maybe even somewhat useful. No promises on that front, though.

So thanks in advance for your patience. And for stopping by.