really random ramblings

I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the whole blogging thing. My friend, who I shall refer to as Q, says she could never blog because she's too private a person. She doesn't even want me to mention her in this blog, thus the Q silliness. I'm not a private person at all, obviously, and never have been. But what is the point of public journaling? I'm not sure, but it carries with it some mysterious appeal for me. Maybe because writing for publication is what I do for a living ... it seems natural and, somehow, personally productive.

So I will continue, because (just like breathing) this is what I do -- and what we all do. We just keep on. Don't we?

My dad keeps on, despite having lost 20% of his body weight and having just endured yet another hospital procedure in which they installed a feeding tube in his stomach.

Q asked me today what I did with my wedding rings after I split from my husband. In the name of courage, catharsis, and facing our demons when we have the inclination and strength, I am going to say here in writing what happened. I carried my rings around with me in a little zipper compartment in my wallet for at least a year. I was afraid that if I took them out and put them somewhere "safe," I would lose them. I could not decide on a place. I lived in a rental house for 8 months, then moved again. Maybe there were other reasons. My wallet seemed like a good place. That wallet began looking very shabby and I somehow acquired a brand new wallet and switched to it. I have no recollection at all, but knowing myself I am quite certain I just chucked the old wallet. Into the garbage. Probably on top of coffee grinds and gunk from the sink drain.

One of the rings was made from my grandmother's wedding band (my very special grandmother who died when I was 10), plus a diamond of hers, plus a diamond of my ex-husband's grandmother, plus a third diamond he and I bought. The other ring was lined with diamond chips, also taken from my grandmother's ring. I probably don't need to say more. I haven't been able to think about it, never mind write anything.

Total change of subject. I am an editor for a website, and someone posted in the "men's room" forum a tip saying that Vick's Vapo Rub works well for jock itch (and also apparently for chafing under women's breasts, for women who have that problem -- mine aren't big enough). The title of his post: Vapo Nut Rub.

I was going to blog about plunging the office toilet yesterday and giving myself the silent Good Office Samaritan award. I also considered blogging about George, who I met in a bowling alley, had a very brief conversation with, and have now received two phone calls from. (He tracked me down and called me at work.) He asked if he can call monthly and see if I'm still "taken." I am not creeped out, just flattered.

And just for the record, I am a total SLAVE to praise. Flattery will get you everywhere. I need to be stroked like no one I know. (Q has the same disease, and we often wear the same clothes and say the same things, but I think my affliction is actually more serious than hers.)

Is this boring? Just checking.

TTFN -- the snow is coming ....