Wednesday, December 23, 2009


World, Hi

The holiday season has me thinking of holy, otherworldly things and it reminded me...

I used to have two guardian angels. They were very little.

One sat on my left shoulder and I thought of her as "Eurotrash Girl". You can call her the "Id Girl". She led quite a hedonistic lifestyle and her job was to encourage me to follow her example. She smoked French cigarettes, had a raspy voice, and spoke in a Romanian-ish accent that was probably as real as Pamela Lee Anderson's....everything. Eurotrash girl never missed an opportunity to have a good time. She wore an old black leather biker jacket over her short black dress, and accessorized with black tights and biker boots, big hoop earrings and bright red lipstick. Her "Midnight in Paris" dyed hair was shoulder length and razored to give it a spiky just got out of bed look, not that she slept much. She believed that a.) eyeliner is a staple and one never leaves home without it and b.) a man who doesn't have tattoos will eventually bore you to death. Eurotrash Girl sported her own tattoo, a tiny pair of white wings, just at the base of her neck. She was always calling me her little popover, her sweet cherry cordial, her petite croissant. This constant reference to food items led me to believe that Eurotrash Girl wanted to pop me in her mouth and swallow me whole but given that I never saw her eat, I suppose they were terms of endearment.

The other angel sat on my right shoulder and I called her "Armani Girl" due to her meticulous appearance. I never saw her in the same outfit twice and I never saw her without pearls, even on dress down Fridays. Armani Girl could be critical. Her job, it appeared, was to encourage me to see myself as others saw me and to act accordingly. She called me Darling, but not in a very endearing way. "But Darling", she might say, "do you really imagine those potato chips won't migrate directly to your ass and stay there like spackle for all eternity?" Armani Girl found eating to be a crass habit that one could overcome if only one would try. Her honey blonde hair fell in a smooth, graceful wave to her shoulders and her always perfectly applied makeup was subtle enough that it looked natural but took two hours to apply. Armani girl also held to a couple firm beliefs: a.)There is no virtue in aging gracefully and b.)any man with a tattoo will someday let you down and is to be avoided at all cost. Armani Girl did not have any permanent markings on her body. Even her earrings were clip ons. Every Thursday morning she would disappear for two hours and come back with a fresh mani-pedi.

As you might imagine, Eurotrash Girl and Armani Girl did not get along. In fact, were it not for my head sitting on my neck directly between them, they would have done each other harm. Instead, they occupied themselves issuing directives in each of my poor harrassed ears and making snide comments about one another just loud enough for all of us to hear. They often fought amongst themselves as though I were not there.

A typical conversation might go like this:

Eurotrash Girl to me: "Take me to ze club, Lollipop, I vish to zee all ze exciting young men in zhere tight, tight, jeans. I vant to dance, dance ze night away and drink ze vodka collins and maybe ve vill meet zat cute guitar player who look like ze Sting for a little rendevous, ay Porkchop? Vat do you zay?"

Me to Eurotrash Girl: "Vat, I mean, What club? I don't go to clubs. I don't know any guitar players who look like Sting. I don't even like Vodka."

Eurotrash Girl to Me: "Ridiculous little Lollipop....everyone love ze ridiculous not to love ze vodka...Ve vill go to ze no name very special..ze guitar player, he give me ze secret code. You know vat? Ze guitar player has a secret tattoo, you vill love him. Ve vill dance and drink ze vodka and stay out all ze night. Vill be Fun. Let us go."

Armani Girl to Me: "Darling, do not let that unkempt little trollop lead you astray. We discussed this just this morning when we made our list, and Darling, tonight we are ironing and then we are watching 'Mad About You',although tomorrow you must tell everyone you watched the presidential debate, so we had better also schedule in time to read the morning headlines, which means early to bed and no time for accompanying faded tarts God knows where in search of lecherous, sweaty musicians."

Eurotrash Girl to Me: "Vat a bore. Vy do you put up wiz zat old slut, little Baklava? Don't you vant to have fun? Don't you vant to dance ze macarena vith ze Sting man? Vat is "Mad About You"? Is stupid, stupid show for stupid vomen who not know vere to find ze hot men. Zat Paul, he has no tattoos...zere is no future for Helen vith him...leave ze bat at home to pluck her eyebrows just a vittle bit thinner and come vith me,my spicy Chicken Ving. Vill be fun."

Here's where I get left out of the conversation:

Armani Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "Darling, you wouldn't know fun if it kidnapped you and dumped you in front of Elizabeth Arden's Red Door. You have the moral rectitude of a rabbit, the drinking habit of Hemingway, the mental stability of Van Gogh, and an annoyingly perverse habit of projecting your trashy character onto me. Why don't you run along now and if you do not stop smoking in here I am calling the building superintendant to have you thrown out...."

Me trying to interrupt: "uh, I don't think we have a building....."

Eurotrash Girl to Armani Girl: "oh shuuuut uppppp, you are boring me vith all your talk. You are old, you have frozen face of ice statue, yes? You need vodka and ze sex and maybe you become not so frozen. You come vith us, vill be fun, but you must change zat awful clothing."

Me again: "superintendant, and besides I don't think he can see......"

Armani Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "Listen to me, Darling, and try to stay focused. If the apocalypse was upon us, if the world was doomed, and the only way I could save myself was to go to some seedy little bar without the forethought or consideration to even post a sign outside the door and participate in your debauched little game of charades, I would take all of my Xanax at once, drink a bottle of Chardonnay, and sing hallelujah"

Eurotrash Girl: "Stay zen, I do not care, old bat"

Me to No one: "I'm going to bed"

Aramni Girl to Eurotrash Girl: "I win, Darling"

Eurotrash Girl: "Ve vill see, old bat"

I'm tired of writing now, so let me end this, and maybe I'll come back and finish it later. The truth is, Armani Girl usually did win but I liked Eurotrash Girl better and she, also, had her moments of victory. Eventually, I was exhausted from their battles and one fine day I had an epiphany: These two were not guides, not angelic entities sent from on high to nurture and protect me. These two were the demons of extremism; the demi-monde and the demi-mom. Once I had processed what I was living with, what I had done to myself, I took a walk, had a nice long shower, a cigarette and a glass of Kendall Jackson. Then I kicked those two demis right to the curb and I've been a slightly unkempt, fairly laid back, moderately morally conscious human ever since.

Happy Holidays, World. Hope your angels are many and your demons few.

Take care,


Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Stupid Things I Have Done

Hey World, it is Twoferone Day. Who knew?

So...stupid things I have done...yes...there are many.

Disclaimer: This is not a complete listing. It is late and 2010 is upon us. Entries are posted in random order and should not be perceived as a timeline of Chicken's life.

1. The inspiration for this blog and a cautionary tale: Last weekend I finally got around to cleaning out my pocketbook, purse, bag, fifth circle of hell, whatever...anyway. In the bag I came across three of those little key chain spray things that you can buy nowadays. Two were breath freshener. One was antibacterial spray. Guess which one I have been spraying in my mouth for the last two weeks?

2. One of my first waitressing jobs was at a (then) ultracool restaurant/bar called "Raoul's Roadside Attraction" (yes, named after the book and yes, the only reason I weaseled myself in there). Anyway, one of the owners of said bar, P, was this guy who wore pirate shirts, black leggings, and wore his hair long and curly long before Johnny Depp made it cool. In fact, P was so out of style for his era that he was, obviously, beyond style and thus, like his bar, ultracool. P was an original. P made me nervous. One morning I am going through the opening check list and P is sitting at the bar most likely making a drug purchase (but of course I am thinking ultracool boss is making ultracool business deal) and I am making coffee. The way I always make it. And in that annoying mosquito buzzing in your ear fashion that you only notice after 10 seconds or so, I realize I am being watched. P says, "Chicken, are you pouring HOT water into the coffee maker?". "Yes, P, I am" says I. "Why?" says P. "Because", I say, very matter of factly, "it takes less time for the coffee to get hot this way".

3. My favorite cousin's name is CCool. When we were growing up, I spent nearly every weekend at her house. Why? Because her parents were kind enough to practice the then favored child rearing strategy of benign neglect. So CCool and I are on the sun porch of family home, which happens to be 20 feet or so above the ground. Maybe I exaggerate. I don't know. I was 8 for God's sake. It was high, though, and built over the driveway. The concrete driveway. CCool and I are sitting there in the middle of summer vacation and we are BORED!!! CCool has the very bright idea of playing parachute. We lug some couch cushions down to the driveway because, hey, we are not dumb. Concrete landing pads may be fine for people with actual parachutes, but that would not be us. Then we go back up to the sun porch and hoist ourselves onto the railing. Man, it was high. CCool says, "okay, go ahead". I say, "Why do I have to go first?". CCool says "because it is more fun to go first and you are company. But don't worry, I will be right behind you, stick a needle in my eye and hope to die". Well. That's serious stuff. And off I go. I am lying slightly to the left of the couch cushions nursing my broken ankle when CCool says, "okay, here I come...."

And I say, "Don't do it CCool"

4.) I did not make CCool stick a needle in her eye.

5.) After jumping around all night on one foot pretending I was playing a game of seeing if I could hop around all night on one foot, I was eventually found out. And when asked by formerly benign neglectful parents but now fairly pissed off CCool Aunt and Uncle, "Who the hell's bright idea was this?" I said..."mine. my idea".

6.) I used to play trumpet. It was one of the ways I defined myself in my youth, being a little too nerdy to know that being a girl trumpet player was not really where it's at in eighth grade. Around about November or so, the cool radio station that my older brother listened to after school every day held a talent contest. Based on the Gong Show, Contestants would call in and if they were the 10th or 8th or whatever caller, they would have the opportunity to display their talent on air and the listening public would have a chance to vote on whether or not this person would be eligible to compete in the grand final LIVE talent show, hosted by radio talents 'whoever' and 'whatshisname', or gonged back into anonymity. Inspired by the comedic renderings of three goofballs in my class who gave it a try and made the grade, I decided to have a go.

7.) I called and called and called, trumpet in hand, and finally got my chance. And I also got through to the finals and did not get the gong. Which has, frankly, always been somewhat of a mystery to me. Was no one listening to radio that day?

8.) I considered this a great victory and I went. To the finals. And having been a late bloomer and still more admiring (secretly) of the Tom T. Hall and Charlie Pride 8-track tapes my father listened to rather than Casey Kasem's top 40, I played 'I Walk the Line' on trumpet for three hundred 13-22 year olds. LIVE. In my Sunday School dress.

9.) My oldest child was always precocious and, maybe because I was young and immature when I had her, always seemed to me wise beyond her years. S was a great little companion. Great conversationalist, brilliant at memory games, very athletic, and never one to do worrisome things like get into cabinets, go outside alone, put things in her mouth...I say this in defense of what comes next. Normally, S was a very good traveler but when we were transferred to Connecticut (right around the time she turned a year old) and driving home often on the weekends, she eventually got tired of the four hour trip and had no problem sharing her dissatisfaction with her parents. Here we are, on 89 during rush hour on a Friday night, and S has been screaming her head off for pretty much the past hour. We stop at McDonald's. We get French Fries. S likes them. All is good for 10 minutes. Then it starts again. Nerves are fraying. S's father, who is driving, says, "Can't you DO something????" And because I am not the type of mother who would EVER endanger her child by taking her out of her car seat in a moving vehicle in order to comfort her, I give S a container of pennies to play with. above...rembember? She NEVER does that. Except now S is mega-pissed. All is quiet in the back seat. Husband sighs. Chicken Sighs. awfully quiet...I look back to see how the penny playing is going. And there is S sitting in her car seat, glaring at me, with both cheeks stuffed full of pennies.

10. Between the years of 17 and 21, I traveled around a lot in New England and lived in a few different places. One of them was North Conway, NH. I lived there for about a year, made a lot of friends, and when I moved again, I often went back to visit. When I moved to North Conway, I had been living in Portland, ME. When I left No. Conway, I moved home to central Maine. So I knew how to get to North Conway from Portland. When I moved home, I still thought I knew how to get to North Conway. You take Route 4 to 95, drive towards Portland, get off in Gorham and take 116 to North Conway. It was a long drive, like four hours, but no sweat, it was worth it because I loved my friends. Until they dug out a map after listening to me whine about the long drive and showed me how, effectively, I was driving from point A to point B to point C when I could have just skipped point B and made it in 1.5 hours. To say that I am geographically challenged would be an understatement. Someday I will write a post about places I wanted to go and couldn't find.

Okay that's enough fun for y'all at my expense. Sleep tight and remember, it's not the destination but the journey that counts.

Take care,

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

The Gospel According to GG

World. Hi.

Today I got the following email and speaks for itself:

To: Chicken
From: GG

Subject: Overheard from Chicken's last confession:

Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. It has been 13 days since my last blog update. My cadre of followers (small, but intensely loyal within the confines of their hummingbird-like attention spans) needs to hear from me, yet I am silent as the grave. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Somewhere in New England, and all the way down the street to where my Portuguese neighbors have one of those Our Lady on a Half-Shell lawn ornaments, and I pray to the blindingly aquamarine Virgin to inspire me, I got nothin'. Bupkis. So I'm asking you, Father, to intervene for me and ask the Baby Jesus(Perhaps as a birthday wish when he's blowing out his candles next week? Just a thought.) to bring me inspiration, that I might blog again. I DO believe in miracles. (And I DO I DO I DO believe in spooks, too, as it happens. The Cowardly Lion and I are TIGHT like that.)
Thank you for your time,

Ahhh. Poetry to my ears. And of course I responded.

To: GG
From: Chicken
Re: I am Saved

You know what I am going to do with this, right? Oh, Yes I am, GG. It is too funny for the world not to read. And lo this long day I have been inspired by thy funniness and now must preach the gospel of GG. I am called upon by Santa, the Faeries, Nora Ephron, and perhaps even the Baby Jesus (who I am thinking has one enormous sense of humor but who also, come to think of it, may be a tad mentally conflicted, and who could blame him..."here Baby Jesus, have some Frankencense and Myrrh, listen to my drums, you are King"...wait for it.... "you SUCK Baby Jesus, now carry this cross and hold still while we nail you to it. This is going to hurt a bit") to spread thy teachings amongst the humorless masses to further my own narcissistic need for attention through laughter because I am a Lucky Lucky Chicken to have been saved by the cheeky humor of GG. And I will implore my readers, "Come Closer, my Friends. Do not be afraid, for thou art in the house of GG. The water is warm and fine and might be wine cause chickens, as we all know, are not generally fond of water. Be annointed. Go in Laughter. Amen."

WARNING TO ALL READERS: There will be fall out.
Take cover.
Chicken, over and out (And hiding.)

Wednesday, December 2, 2009


I can't sleep, World...

Do you have trouble sleeping?  What do you do when a dream suddenly wakes you up, or a snoring spouse, or a restless, congested three-year-old, or God forbid, a strange noise? 

Strange noises are definitely the worst, so if that's what woke you up you are probably a lot more concerned with strange noise than moi, and who could blame you?  Go investigate the noise.  Probably just a loose shutter and not a guy with a schimitar standing in your kitchen looking for directions.  We'll wait here.  What is a schimitar, by the way? 

But let's say it is not that, not anything alarming, you are just awake and you can't sleep.  What do you do? 

I immediately start running through the day.  All the stuff that needs to be done.  Not surprisingly, this usually agitates me, or as we like to say in Rhode Island, "gives me agita".  Running through your schedule (I like to pronounce it in the Scottish way whenever possible....say it with me...."shedule".  Ha, I love saying that. I especially love listening to Madonna say it)  Oops, digression police on their way.  So anyway....running through the shedule (snicker), BAD idea.  And I usually realize this about the time I get down my list to making the day's lunches.  In my mind, I make lunches for everybody in the house and save us bundles of money and make us all more healthy; in reality, I make one lunch and that is because it is not very PC to send your toddler to daycare without food, so really making the lunches shouldn't be such a bad thought but it is entirely overwhelming and I realize that thinking about all the stuff I have to do is not going to help me sleep.  So I move on....

Next comes dreams.  I try to remember what I was dreaming about.  Really?  That.....?  Whereupon I become tangled in a very messy analytical web and usually start worrying that perhaps I need therapy.  Dreams, at least mine, are probably best off in the unconscious.  Let's not bring them to the forefront.

So at this point, I'm staring at the clock saying, "If I fall asleep RIGHT now, I can still get 3 hours sleep".  This exercise is repeated about every five minutes for another half hour.  Next?

Counting Sheep?  Does that really work for anyone?  You could try counting something more interesting, I suppose.   Water Buffalo?  Leprechauns?

It is time to bring out the heavy guns.  I try not to do this often, because then it would become another ritual that would keep me awake rather than soothe me back to sleep.  It's a delicious little fantasy but a little bit goes a long way.  When I can't sleep I......I'm not sure I can tell you.  It's a bit embarrassing.

What?  You really want to know?  Okay.  When I can't sleep I......pretend I'm a rockstar.  That's right.  It's my favorite bedtime story.  Chicken as Rockstar.  And there is a method to this type of's not all, oooh I'm a rockstar and I only drink water from the Swiss, this is serious. I have to decide what KIND of rockstar I am.  Am I a girl or a boy rockstar?  Am I a megastar like Bruce Springsteen or am I more of a quiet person, like, oh, Yusef (singer formerly known as Cat Stevens).  I am never Prince, however.  Ever.  Why?  Because I love my fans.  I do not think they are sniveling, grasping worms intent on draining my genius.  I'm here for my fans.  Anyway....

OMG, Now the fun part...What am I wearing?  Do I want to wear all flowy, chiffony stuff tonight like Stevie Nicks, or do I want to keep it simple.  This is my favorite onstage costume:  Jeans, t-shirt, barefeet, lots of hippy jewelry, and a guitar (although sometimes I grab a violin because I saw this woman at a Josh Groban concert playing one and she was amazing and I was all like, mannn, I'm so going to be her in my next rockstar fantasy). Oh, and my hair is long and thick and wavy.  And it is NOT extensions, people.  Geesh, don't let that get out in the tabloids.    I know you are probably dying to know what I am going to sing, right?  Okay, well, it has to go with the rest of the theme.  I mean, you can't get up on stage looking like Gene Simmons and then sing "Peace Train", right?     So tonight, I'm going with the standard favorite, bare feet, jeans, tresses, and rocking the t-shirt (not because I had enhancements, God no, that's the way he made me) and I will sing "Three Little Birds" by Bob Marley.  Just to get people in the right mood.  And then everyone in the audience will be swaying and clicking their bic lighters, and, OH, suddenly we are on an outdoor stage and there's a sea of faces in the night, and we've been here for like THREE DAYS, MON.  I love EVERYBODY!!!  Do you hear me out there?  EVERYBODY.  WE. ARE. MAKING. HISTORY.  And yet...we are stardust...

Wow, far OUT.  Obviously I've gone back to sleep and am having a VERY pleasant dream, so ssshhhhh.

Hope you have pleasant dreams, too.  And if you are interested, here's a funny little site I came across in the gloom....

Take care

Thursday, November 26, 2009

I have a Secret..

World.  Hi.

1.)  Happy Thanksgiving

2.) Writing a blog is a little harder than I need to censor yourself, particularly if you are the type that writes in a stream of consciousness sort of have to walk away, come back, read again, and then erase all the stuff you shouldn't have written in the first place that, frankly, you weren't even really aware you wrote in the first place.  (hah-I will never tell!  Mostly because by tomorrow I will not remember) 

For instance, no talk about work.  A whole lotta bad can come from that.  No talking about family except in the most general way because....Stalkers. Scary. This is G.G.'s influence on me.

3.)  So how are you all doing?  Stuffed?  Funny word within the context, isn't it?

Tonight as we drove home from the TG celebrations I was thinking about "The Secret".  I know, I know...but this Secret stuff has been very pervasive in our culture.  I mean, wouldn't it be wonderful if positive thoughts got you where you wanted to go? I do think they encourage you to do the work you need to do to get there, so I am somewhat of a believer in that respect.  Not to go all woo hoo on you or anything.  But I was thinking a few negative thoughts and that is where the scary Secret shit begins.  Because according to "The Secret" negative thoughts are just as powerful as positive thoughts.  So we are driving along and I am thinking my slightly negative thoughts and then I think to myself:  " not think these bad things because you might make them come true."  And then, because SELF has to overthink every little thing, SELF says, "Well what IF your thoughts are all intuitive.  What IF your negative thoughts and positive thoughts are all just your intuitive, neglected, sixth sense abilities arising from the sitcom muddled, overworked, stressed out brain that your consciousness calls home to kick you in the butt and say "WAKE UP.  This is what is happening so you better come up with a mighty good plan or you better just roll along with your bad self", depending on the message.  Maybe it is all about the Non-Secret. All about what you have known all along...

Whoa, that was so not where I thought I was going....

Okay, so blogging. Some people have expressed an interest in the idea of blogging and it is new to them, too.  To those people....there are some things I didn't tell you last week.  I didn't want to scare you away. Just kidding.  Didn't want to scare me away.

So let us review:

1. Set up your blog.  This is easy-just google "Start a blog"
2. Get all your friends to read it.  Could be easy or hard. That depends, I guess, on your past history.  If you are kind and support worthy causes, I am guessing you will have no problem.   If you pick your nose at the dinner table and don't respect peoples' personal space, you may want to google "socialization skills" rather than how to start a blog.
3. Get other blogs to link to your blog so that the Google robots will come and deem you worthy. 

(by the way, I had a dream about the robots the other night.  They were really not like robots.  They were more like....lice.  Gross, I know.  But these little mechanical looking bugs were climbing all OVER my blog and I was saying to them, "please like it please like it please like it".  Never thought I'd be so dependent on lice)

Okay, so number three, get other blogs to link...but since that is difficult (especially if you are trying to link to Big Blogger Guy's site who is much too successful and busy to link to your site but is not too busy to offer expert advice as to how you can be a successful him) there are sites that you can go onto and log your blog.  Google is one, Blogorama is another.  If you google it, you will find a whole list.  It is labor intensive but it helps to be registered on as many sites as possible.

So number 4.) Log your blog.

Number 5 is using key words.  I am still a little unclear on this, but I think the gist is that if you use words that are commonly in the news or searched for, then you increase the chance that your blog will be picked up.  So I am thinking that means that if I type, oh, for instance, "Aha Moment"....that I will either show up on someone's search or Oprah's lawyers will be calling me.  So type newsworthy words. This probably explains Perez Hilton.

Got it? We're good?  Good.  I need Pie. 

Hope the only secret in your world is a good one.  But if it is your first instinct.

By the way, on You Tube tonight I found Melissa Etheridge's incredible rendition of "Take It".  If you need some inspiration, her, bald, singing a song that sets a "F*ck You "Secret" and all bad Mates" tone might be just the sort of "amen sister" moment you are looking for.

Take care.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Hello...Google??? Anybody out there?

So let me lay out the situation for you.....

Middle-aged woman, far too old to be described as naive so we will have to call her woefully underinformed, gets bored on a Saturday morning and decides to start a blog because she's been meaning to do that for a long, long time.

She googles. "Starting a Blog" and lo and beyond it is not that difficult.  Who knew?  Not MAUW, that is for sure.  "Should have done this a long time ago", giggles middle-aged underinformed woman who at this point is still quite pleased with herself and not at all aware that it is NOT THAT EASY.

The MAUW writes her first post and it is not that funny, frankly, but hey, it's the first one and The Funny will follow.  Most likely The Funny will follow a bottle of Kendall Jackson.  But where were the MAUW has posted her first not that funny post and she is pleased.  She reads it fifty times to see if there are any spelling errors and to check for previously undetected funnies.  Nope, still not that funny but spelling is accurate.  Okay, ready????  Here we go.....and.... POST.  OMG OMG OMG I'm a BLOGGER!!!

The first thing MAUW does is email her long-time buddy and co-conspiritor, Green Girl, who could easily be the world's most awesome blogger, more amusing than even Miss Doxie who I'm sure all will agree is currently possibly the world's funniest blogger, but GG has a thing about privacy.  You gotta be a personal friend of GG to be the recipient of her heady prose.  Sorry world.  GG will not be gathering cookies on her PC for the sake of your amusement.  But I digress.  MAUW emailed GG and I said, "hey I wrote a blog, will you be my first follower?"  MAUW still waiting but GG has important things going on in her world that take precedence.  And MAUW can't tell you what because, hello, PRIVACY issue.

So GG aside, no one in the www knows about her blog.  But, thinks MAUW, that is just a matter of time because now that she is a blogger anyone typing "New England" into the search box will be alerted to her site and will read it and be happy and start following her, right??  And wasn't MAUW so smart to think of using a title that probably a lot of people search for?  Particularly during foliage season?  MAUW thinks she is so clever but she is not so clever because when she leaves her blog and then tries to find it on Google it does.....not......WAIT!  IS THAT isn't here....oh no why isn't it there???

Okay, a little set back.  Apparently it is NOT a matter of setting up a little blog, having a commonly searched title, writing a post, and waiting for the World to write back.  Apparently MAUW has to prove her worth or something in order for people to be able to access her site.  Apparently right now MAUW's blog is like a secret little club on a side street in Chicago that displays no signage and requires a secret knock to access.  Okay that is a little creepy, who wants to enter an unmarked door and traverse a rickety old staircase into a dampened cellar where God knows what all goes could be like that Tom Cruise/Nicole Kidman movie only in a dampened cellar and not a secluded mansion.  Sorry.  Where were we?  Mansion, movie, cellar, stairs, unmarked door, secret knock, that's right we are trying to figure out how to get MAUW some readers..

Google worked once so let's try again.  MAUW goes back to Google and she types in, "How do I get my blog to show on Google".  She is not the first person to have asked that question.  Apparently the underinformed are legion.  There are roughly 3.653 million sites dealing with this very issue. That is encouraging.  MAUW chooses the first suggestion beause it's first so it must be the best, right? She settles in and starts reading.  If you have a blog, Google sends little robots to your site and they check it to see if it is worth their attention.  If you have no readers and you are not linked to any other blogs then you are not very important.  This is SO JUNIOR HIGH like when MAUW's peers were all wearing straight leg jeans from Barefoot Trader and MAUW only had bell bottoms from K-mart and no one would talk to her.  Digressing...  So what MAUW needs is some readers.  (By the way have I said thanks for being here?  No?  Thanks) First step, tell all  friends to go read blog.  Second step, get other bloggers to link to your blog but  Do NOT go to other people's blogs and ask them to link to your blog.  That is not considered very polite in blogworld.  That is what the blogger expert man said.  Do NOT do that.  But then he said it is okay to go on SOME blogs and do that if you are polite.  People go to the expert man's blog all the time and make this request.  But he does not link to their blogs.  Because he is Big Blogger Guy and he does not have time to coddle and nurture the Underinformed.  Say what?  Do not do this, but you can do it sometimes, just be polite, in fact you can do it on my blog but I will not respond because am very busy BBG. 

Glad we cleared that up.  MAUW is all set now.  She needs some readers (again, thanks) and she needs links.  Then and only then will the Google robots grace her site and pronounce it worthy, whereupon the masses hoping to book a bed and breakfast in Vermont or New Hampshire or Maine will trip over it and read it and be wildly (mildly?) amused and tell their friends and MAUW's power will grow and grow and that little unmarked door will be the Atlantis in Dubai of the WWW.  That's Right!  MAUW has plans, BBG, so watch your back. And if it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you just maybe be nice and give a tiny little link to a woman old enough to be your mother?  I'll be your best friend....

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Why I started a Blog

Well, not because I have anything important or earth shattering to share like, say, Perez Hilton.  Not because I truly believe in my heart of hearts that I am channeling Hemingway. I do not think I am particularly narcissistic (although I have friends who may disagree, probably gleefully, on this very site).  Not because I am exceedingly bright or excruciatingly deep.  I'm not very political, either, so if you are looking for that sort of commentary then you are best off moving along.

Which still begs the question......then why?

And the answer is....why not?  Consider this my e-letter to the world.  Sort of like Emily Dickinson's letter to the world, only not so morose.  If I set things up right, you can write back, which would be the big difference between me and poor morose Emily.  It is your feedback I crave and so richly deserve.  Okay, maybe not deserve, but crave I do.  Your thoughts, your wry wit, your caustic one liners.  I want them all.  It would probably be overly dramatic to say that your responses are my life's blood.  But I digress. 

So, this is my offer to you, the World.  I'll share with you the drama, the intrigue, the comedy of my little existence in the interstellar gloom and you can do just as you like.  Read or not read, comment or not comment.  Whatever.  Because I'm not really much into the team leader role.  I'm just a traveler with the odd story to tell about a chicken I know, or a gypsy I encountered, or a ship I passed in the night....

Chicken out