Jesus is my toolbar

I guess this would be one way to surf for Jesus.
Got phish? What's in YOUR history?

Have it Canned

On my new résumé I included my blog name. I am certain that future employers will be so struck by my insights that they will immediately create a new position within the company structure that allows me to blog all the day long. They will congratulate themselves on recognizing my talent and ask themselves why they didn't think of screening applicants through the blog system sooner.

"The creamed corn of the crop," they will exclaim. "And, she is all ours."

Listen, blogland is tough. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.

Dear Future Employer:

You don't know me, but I would like to direct you to my "blawg" to learn a little bit more about me. Things like: my daily elimination, creeps who have wronged me, how I really feel about authority, and how inflated my opinion of myself really is.

That is C-A-N-N-E-D-C-O-R-N-A-G-A-I-N because if you can't have it fresh---you oughta have it canned.

Therapy

To all the therapists I've loved before who now belong on someone else's couch...

Several years ago I found myself in the unfortunate position of searching for a therapist. I made a list of questions, set up appointments and conducted interviews like nobody's business. Because if there is any business that needs interviewing, it is nobody's.

The first one was a man. He listened carefully to my questions and my basic information. When I told him I had a compulsion to eat glass and dance on lawn mower blades, he asked, "Do you think that is harmful?"

Well, yeah. Next.

The second was a woman. Older. Gray hair. Experience with life and lawnmowers. Yet, we stumbled around like dentures in the dark. At the end of our hour she sort of looked at me and said,

" What shall we do? How shall we leave this?"

It reminded me of a date gone wrong. Very wrong.

I answered, "I will call you."

And we both knew that I wouldn't be calling her. Ever.

You never want to hear your therapist say:

10. I would like to share my personal experiences with you. Get comfortable.
9. It took me a long time to save box tops for this license.
8. Could we cut this short today? I want to watch General Hospital.
7. Do you ever dream about me?
6. May I borrow your cell phone? I am over my minutes this month.
5. Here's a little haiku I wrote...
4. I am feeling a bit depressed this week. Do you think we could talk about me?
3. Luke, I am your father.
2. Does this hangnail look infected?
1. Buddy me. My screen name is ShrinkWrapHottie.

The Horse Sense

I have realized that my journal entries may read more like laundry lists than the words of a literary laureate. I don't suppose that anyone will take the time to tell me this. No one cares about my blog, you know.

Wait, no one cares about YOUR blog. YOUR blog.

True to myself, I shall list the blog types (not to be confused with the blood types):

There are those bloggers who are too witty for their own good. I need to ask someone to 'splain them to me. Someone who is patient to sound out the big words and draw pictures for the parts I can't understand.

Then there are those bloggers who can't choose the perfect word, so they use them all for good measure. You know the one in search of the perfect, idyllic, concise, precise, exact, special combination of words.

I would be remiss not to mention the GROSS bloggers. The bodily function folks. I don't even try to decipher them. I can't. I am too busy bleaching my eyeballs.

My favorites are the bloggers who can take a very ordinary event, put it in pigtails and call it a party. I like it when someone tears a hole in the corner of their world just big enough for me to recognize a bit of myself on the other side. I am just narcissistic enough to enjoy the PING.

I am my least favorite type of blogger though. I am a list maker. A test taker. A code breaker, and I like mine poached with flies. It is the horse sense of it all.

Dr. Blog

Dear Dr. Blog:

A small part of me wants to join the bloggers who swim in the deep end of the alphabet pool. I want to practice my backstroke with the hardcore, post every 3.9 minutes bloggers who maintain multiple blog sites and spreadsheets to track their responses.

I do want to splash my consonants and vowels around like nobody's business. I really do. I want to cavort and canoodle with the full power of the English language. I want my words to say a little about a lot and a lot about very little.

I want to be a Blog Queen. I want to drive the pink verbmobile. Gyrate my gerunds. Dangle my modifiers. Reveal my past participles. And, proposition with my prepositions. A contender, darnit, I want to be a contender.

Instead I sit in front of my little flat screen. I type and backspace. Backspace and type. And, then I close the whole entry without posting. I just can't seem to commit.

Can you help me figure out why I am squeamish about brave blogging?