Sweetie

Sometimes at work, I'm southern.

It happened on accident at first. I had helped a Texan find a Morgan Freeman movie and she spent enough time talking to me at the circulation desk that I subconsciously internalized her speech patterns. This has happened to me before. I once listened to the Harry Potter series on cassette tape and I spent a week talking like I was from Northamptonshire. But at that time I didn't work in customer service so the only real victims were the members of my family. I guess it's true that you always hurt the ones you love.

Anyway. After the Texan left, I took the next person in line and they owed $65.20 in overdue fines. I told her how much she owed but because of the Texan when I spoke it came out sixty-fahv and I noticed that instead of getting mad, which this lady had been about to do, her face softened and she smiled. “Oh, of course. Hey, where are you from?”

I don't think well on my feet (or my butt, as the case was) and I said “Mesa” before I could consider the atypical nature of my fahv. She looked puzzled so I blurted out that my father is from Texas. This is mostly true, but I could just as truthfully say that my father is from Westminster, California or Chicago because he grew up all over the place.

“Oh, I just love your accent,” the lady told me, and she handed me her Visa card. I was so nonplussed by her change of demeanor that I didn't swipe her card fast enough the first time and I had to try again.

One of the only advantages to working with the taxpaying public is that there are myriad opportunities to perform sociological experiments. This is probably an ethical gray area but I decided last year that as long as I don't attempt to perform any statistical analyses or publish in the journal of the American Psychiatric Association, I'm in the clear. So after the Texas incident, I decided that when I interacted with customers I was going to speak with an accent.

There were objections. Not by any supervisors, because I never tell them when I'm collecting data, but from coworkers who are used to me talking like a character on an American sitcom. Three customers in on a Saturday morning, Brittany said, “Jill, that's creepy and you need to stop.” I made note of her objections in the Excel file I use to track the results of experiments I perform on coworkers and switched from East Texas to West Louisiana. After lunch I segued into rural Virginia.

I can't speak to the validity of my research methods but after seven days I seemed to get a better response from customers as a Dallas native. I also noticed that the accent was working on me; I provided better customer service when I spoke with a drawl. I tabled the accent as a full-time experiment but drop fahvs at least twice a shift and when I need to de-escalate a dispute with an unhappy customer.

At a county-wide staff training session last month we were asked for ideas on how to handle an angry patron and apparently I am the only person in the Maricopa County Library District who feels that “Pretend to be Southern” is an acceptable means of calming someone down.

The only problem with the accent is that it increased incidences of being addressed as “Sweetie” by about 320%.* I don't know if it's the hair or the cleavage but about one in three male customers will be unable to stop himself from calling me by a cutesy nickname, usually “Hon.” But I get “Sweetie” from both genders equally (approximately one in five customers) and when I am Southern, it's Sweetie This and Sweetie That and all of a sudden my smile doesn't quite reach my eyes and I will shank a B.

I realize that I've got epic hair and I'm probably showing too much supraclavicular soft tissue but I am a professional, dammit, and I would like to be treated with a little respect. Sweetie always feels demeaning and last year, around the same time I started using caffeine as a substitute for sleep, I had had enough.

The first thing I tried was to stop being nice to people at the desk. This was both convenient and acceptable because the thing about working for the government is that people expect you to treat them poorly. I was never rude but I was deliberately unhelpful for probably a solid week. I was your stereotypical stern librarian, which I hypothesized would result in more respect. Unfortunately I grossly underestimated the number of men who have librarian fetishes. The week culminated in someone's great-grandfather asking, “Do you want me to pay the fine, or do you want to spank me?”

Although on the upside, that same week I intimidated a little Mexican guy into calling me “Sir.” But it takes a lot of effort to be a jerk consistently and I didn't have the energy for it. I asked the internet what I could do to command more respect from the taxpayers of Maricopa County. Most of those things involved effort, too, and the other thing about working for the government is that people expect you to be lazy. I don't want to disappoint them, which is why I spend most of my working hours watching cat videos on YouTube and playing really juvenile pranks on my coworkers.

The laziest thing I could think to do was just to start calling people Sweetie back, and I have gotten away with it every single time. Not only have I gotten away with it but people have asked for my name and then e-mailed the branch manager telling her about that nice Jill who provided exemplary service.

The downside is that it's hard to break the Sweetie habit. A month after I started offering reciprocal Sweeties, my supervisor asked if I would shelve a cart of DVDs and I said, “Sure thing, Sweetie.” She didn't react, but when I called in sick the next day she did suggest that maybe I take the next day off too, because she was worried about me.

I compared her worry to the data from the rest of my experiment and I have decided that, in the interest of workplace harmony, the next time I call my supervisor Sweetie I need to do it with a southern accent.

*I got a B in research methods in college. I earned a C but fought my way up to a B using arguing skills I picked up in the logic class I took that semester.

#selfie

Two days after Christmas, my sister-in-law got into a car accident and as a result I had to join Instagram.

I never really felt like Instagram was for me. I'm not a hipster, for one (I loathe hipsters), and also I've never been struck by the overwhelming compulsion to photograph my food. In addition, I've always felt like people who know me remember what my face looks like without me posting a new picture of it every single day. So what would be the point of Instagram?

But I went shopping with my aunt and cousins after Christmas. I had never been shopping with my aunt and cousins before. I don’t know that, strictly speaking, I was invited. My sister-in-law was invited, and she invited me, and then someone hit her car on the freeway and it was just me and my aunt and cousins. 

It probably sounds a little cold and unfeeling that we shopped anyway, but my sister-in-law was fine, I swear. On the other hand, I was now shopping with three people I'd never before shopped with. I wasn’t sure how I felt about this, because I strongly suspected that I wasn’t interested in any of the stores they wanted to go to, but I had already driven 7 miles to the mall and I was in need of a snazzy dress.

I'd never shopped for a snazzy dress before. My clothes shopping excursions are rarely so specific. Perhaps they ought to be; I tend to wander the mall for hours because I need things like “shirts” and “pants" or, worst of all, "shoes." It's awful. Adjectives, particularly those akin to snazzy, don't often come up. When I am clothes shopping, I ask myself three questions about a garment:
1)      Can I put this in the washing machine?
2)      Am I comfortable?
3)      If a man sees me in this, will he want to “hit that”?

Snazziness has never factored in. But I was planning on attending a New Year’s Eve dance for which the dress code was "snazzy." I thought that perhaps my family and I could unite in the snazzy-dress cause, and unite we did. If we hadn’t been on the lookout for snazziness, we never would have gone into a store called Windsor.

If I were a 15-year-old with a spray tan, low morals, daddy issues, and 2% body fat, I would shop at Windsor. Everything there is glittery or ridiculous or both. I knew as soon as we went in that I wasn’t going to find a dress there, mostly because I am apparently three times the size of the average Windsor shopper. I found a sparkly skirt that would probably have fit on my leg. I considered buying two, one for each thigh, and then getting some sort of tunic to cover my backside, but in the end my thighs looked a little too big, so I gave up.

I looked around at some other things and found a bunch of shirts with classy, sophisticated phrases on them like “Hey Haters” and “YOLO.” But my favorite, my absolute favorite, said “#SELFIE.” I took a picture of it with my phone, because the moment needed documentation. Something about this shirt really spoke to me on a primal level, and by "primal level" I mean "my propensity to be giddily delighted by the ridiculous." But in the absence of anything snazzy that would actually cover the parts of me that I am required to cover by law, we left the store.

I did not find a snazzy dress that day, and eventually my family and I parted ways. As we said goodbye, I made a joke about the selfie shirt, and my cousin Katy said I should have tried it on and taken a selfie in it. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Probably because my phone was a Droid 2, which had just celebrated its third birthday by requiring five battery charges a day instead of four. Any time I turned on the screen, I lost 20% of the battery life. Taking a selfie would drain the battery.

I went back to Windsor and took the Selfie shirt to the fitting room. I was surprised at how much I liked it. I took a selfie – I took about 15 selfies, actually (taking my phone to 5% battery life), and in every single one I’m smiling like the joker, showing all 900 of my teeth.

If I hadn’t been smiling and laughing like a comic book villain, I might have had a clearer head. But I was, and I didn’t, and I decided I needed the selfie shirt in my life.

So I bought it. I feel certain that my sister-in-law could have prevented this; she would have gently reminded me that I am thirty years old and that most people don't understand my sense of humor. She could have stopped me from spending that 15 bucks. But she wasn't there, and so I bought it. I took it up to the register and the salesgirl asked if I’d found everything okay and all I could do was laugh, which probably only added to my resemblance to the Joker. (At one point I stopped laughing long enough to blurt out, “I’m thirty!”)

The only thing that remained was to share this moment with my nearest and dearest. I considered Facebook, but as a general rule the only selfies I post on Facebook include puppets from work. I had no choice - I had to join Instagram.

I did manage to find a snazzy dress later, and my friends and I were photographed at the dance, and I thought, people should see this, and so I put it on Instagram, with the hashtag "snazzy dress." It got worse - on Saturday I took a picture of some fettuccini.

But don't you worry about me. I'm not turning into one of those people, I swear. I'm no hipster. Remember, I hated Instagram before it was cool.

It's My Fault(s)

This is the time of year when many people take stock of their lives and set goals for self-improvement. I've never excelled at the latter, but I am world-class at the former, and here's the proof: I keep a running list of my faults in a Google doc.

I was vaguely aware when I began the list that the endeavor I was about to undertake was perhaps not the most typical thing for a person to do in his or her spare time. But as my mother has so kindly pointed out, I'm not like other people. I considered adding that to my list but I wasn't sure how to phrase it - do I want to count not being like others as a fault, or should I consider mentioning that I keep track of the unkind things my mother says to me? I'm undecided, but I digress. I have a list of my faults, and I make reference to it on occasion, and one of my two blog readers - not you, Alaska - suggested that I ought to explain why I have such a list.

Several months ago in a fit of uncharacteristic self-esteem I said to my mother, "I don't understand why I'm still single." And I meant it.

Despite the fact that the only time a man has ever called me hot was in an emergency room (the nurse who took my vitals told me, "You're pretty hot, there," and I said, "Thank you"), I felt pretty good about myself.

Then my friend Jordan referred to me as a redhead.

There's nothing wrong with being a redhead, of course. It's fine if that's who you are. The thing is, I didn't know that's who I was. I always thought my hair was brown. My driver's license says my hair is brown - of course, it also says I weigh 140 pounds and I don't think that's been true since I was 13, but I digress (again). I usually describe my hair as brown. But here was this guy calling me a redhead. I don't mind being a ginger, I just want to be a self-aware ginger. I started to wonder, what else do others see in me that I don't see in myself?

So I began a journey of self-awareness and the first thing I did was sit down and write a list of my faults. I was going to start by listing my good points but it was a lot easier to think of faults. It became a pretty big list. I'm up to 178 as of last week. Some are more serious (135 - cowardice) and some are just sort of funny (170 - I follow Kanye West on Twitter). I don't recommend listing your faults as an exercise in self-awareness, by the way. First I felt like an awful person for having so many terrible faults. Then I felt like an awful person because I found so many of my faults hilarious (144 - I have used my cleavage for revenge). But on the upside, I have a humorous anecdote for social gatherings ("Yeah, I know I'm a bad driver. It's okay, it's on my list.")

I've just realized I use a lot of parentheses. Sorry about that. I guess I'm up to 179 now.

Anyway. I think that my original intent was to start knocking faults off my list once I had a thorough compilation, but every time I looked at my list again I thought of things that I hadn't written down yet. So the list continues to grow, and I haven't used a single thing on it as a springboard to self-improvement. The fact that I am okay with this state of affairs is on the list as well. Isn't self-awareness more important than self-improvement anyway?

Probably not, so let's pretend that was a rhetorical question.

So I have a list of my faults and I feel pretty good about it. This will be incredibly beneficial if I ever end up in a serious relationship (not likely, but men lower their standards every single day). Most people slowly discover things about their partners that drive them crazy and question how well they really know the person the married. But I can get all my crazy out right away. If my hypothetical pre-fiancé and I start discussing marriage, I can share my Google doc with him. I can say, "I just want to make sure you know what you're getting into. I understand that you think you love me, but please read this list and then tell me you still want to align our respective credit histories." I'd be doing us both a favor. 

But Jill, you may be thinking, is that really a good idea? Isn't it better to let these things come out later as you spend your lives together? Slowly and one at at time?

You may not be thinking that. What do I know? But I think my way is fair. I don't want a man to marry me under false pretenses. I have no regrets for regifting a religious wall calendar so I could drink milk out of the carton without Jesus watching me. That's the sort of thing you need to know about a person before you jointly enter into a binding legal and social contract. 

I get that maybe my worst-foot-forward approach could keep me single for a long time. But I'm okay with that. Don't worry, you guys - eternity isn't going to be lonely.

I Ate the Baby Jesus Last

It's Christmas - well, yesterday was Christmas, but whatever - and that makes this the perfect time to explain the title of my blog, which will also be the title of the memoir that I'm going to write if anything ever happens to me that's interesting enough that I should write a memoir. Probably after I marry Prince Carl Philip of Sweden.

Several Christmases ago I received my monthly visit from my home teachers. I expected that they would have some sort of spiritual message to share with me, because that's what they're supposed to do. But after we talked for a few minutes about school and work and things like that, the tables were turned.

One of my home teachers, Richard, said something about how it was important in this busy world to keep Christ as the focus of our Christmas. My words, not his, because if you had ever met Richard you would know that he is not a particularly eloquent person, bless his heart. Anyway. I thought that he would elaborate but then he asked me if I had ever made any special effort to focus on Jesus at Christmas.

I hate questions like that. Part of is because I am really terrible at explaining spiritual experiences. Part of it is because I'm the first to admit that I'm not a very good Christian. I never give money to panhandlers, I swear at bad drivers, and I laugh when I see teenagers fall off their skateboards. I'm not a bad person but I honestly couldn't think of anything specific I'd ever done to keep Christ in Christmas, aside from never having believed in Santa.

I mentioned that last part but Richard was a dog with a bone. "There has to be something you've done, Jill," he said with more than a hint of condescension. I thought his tone was pretty nervy for a man who had seen and enjoyed all three High School Musical movies but I didn't say so. Instead I grasped at the collective seven hours of my adolescence that I haven't suppressed and I started to tell a story. I wasn't sure where I was going with it but then I never am. I usually just start talking and hope that by the time I stop talking I will have gone somewhere.

This is the story that I told Richard.

"When I was a kid, my aunt Sue - she's dead now, but when she was alive, she made my family this white ceramic nativity. She died in a car accident - my aunt, that is, and I remember being told that she'd been asleep in the car, and for like seven years after that I was afraid to fall asleep in the car because I didn't want to die. My aunt looked a little like the Disney version of Snow White. Not that that's important, but she did."

(For some reason I felt the need to mention all of this as part of my Christmas story. Also I don't remember who told me that my aunt was asleep, and I'm not even sure that she was. But I was afraid to sleep in the car until I was about 16.)

"Anyway. It was a really beautiful nativity set and very breakable but my parents trusted me with it because by the time the fourth child comes along they just don't care anymore. And every year I would carefully set up this nativity, and arrange all the pieces just so, and I did them in a particular order, always putting the baby Jesus in last because it seemed like the thing to do.

"One Christmas when I was maybe 15 or 16 - I don't think I was sleeping in the car yet - President Worthen, our stake president, came by the house with a treat for Christmas. President Worthen taught Spanish at the high school, and I didn't like him as a Spanish teacher but as a stake president I guess he was an okay guy. I was going to college soon enough, I hoped, so I kind of didn't care. I did wish I had taken French instead, though."

(I said all this too, because once I start talking I tend to just keep going until someone shuts me up.)

"Anyway. President Worthen and his wife had dropped off this tray that contained a white chocolate nativity, and it looked exactly like the nativity my aunt Sue made! He must have had the same molds or something - 'Except our set has an angel,' I said to my dad, who had answered the door, and he just sort of smirked and I realized he had eaten the chocolate angel between the front door and the kitchen, because that's the kind of guy my dad was.

"I guess my parents weren't big on white chocolate because I remember eating the nativity by myself, and I did it strategically. I thought, I should do this like I do with the ceramic one, and so I ate the pieces in a specific order on certain days, spacing it out, and I saved the holy family for last, for Christmas eve. I wanted to do it right, so I ate the baby Jesus last.

"I really feel like I kept Christ in Christmas that year. And also in my belly."

And that was the last time Richard ever asked me a leading question.

The nativity set my aunt made is mine now, and every year when I set it up, I remember the white chocolate year, and I remember how proud of myself I was for nibbling at the straw before eating the baby, and I think, that's probably one of those things that God made a special note of. When he's reviewing my life with me, I will remind Him that I ate the baby Jesus last, and He will thank me for it before sending me to my cozy little shack in West Hell.

So ... yeah.

Don't ask me to tell you any Christmas stories unless you're prepared to lose respect for me. And if you want to bring me a Christmas treat, remember that I like white chocolate.

Can I Microwave Fingerling Potatoes?

Every time I eat scrambled eggs I think about how I can never get married.

This is something of a problem because I eat scrambled eggs at least four times each week, and because I would like to someday be married.

At least, I think I do. Sometimes I don't know about this whole marriage thing. In some ways I can picture it and it seems like what I want. I want to be in love with a good man (who loves me back) and be myself around him and have children with him. I genuinely want all that. I can imagine long, deep conversations, and also long and shallow ones that involve a lot of movie quotes. I can imagine falling asleep together in front of the TV, and I can imagine holding hands while watching the sun set.

But there are these other wifely things that I can't even begin to imagine, and this is where the eggs come in. I am a simple creature. As mentioned, I eat scrambled eggs for dinner probably four times each week. The other nights, I don't have scrambled eggs because I'm not eating dinner. I forget to eat ALL THE TIME. This seems like a problem for a wife. Like, there is someone else who lives in your house and would appreciate you making them dinner. And not scrambled eggs four times a week.

You guys, I don't cook. I don't know how to cook and it doesn't bother me because I live alone and I like scrambled eggs. But what happens if I'm lucky enough to meet an amazing man who for some reason thinks I'm pretty amazing too? How do I explain to him that I hope desperately that he likes scrambled eggs? What if he doesn't? What do we do? I'll have to buy groceries, too. I know how to do that, to the extent that my refrigerator currently contains Dr Pepper, mozzarella cheese, strawberry yogurt, four apples, two dozen eggs, and 27 water bottles. If I am someone's wife my refrigerator will have to have actual food in it, and it might not be food that I actually like. How can I justify spending good money on food I don't even like? I keep reminding myself that I will at least be having what I will euphemistically refer to as "relations" on a regular basis, which I hope will take the sting out of having to buy bacon and Sriracha.

My mother told me that I can learn to cook when I get married and that I will in fact want to cook for my husband. Apparently marriage involves some sort of personality change that I've not been warned about. Why would I want to learn how to cook for a husband? Isn't it enough that I'm going to be picking up his dirty socks and ironing his shirts and putting the toilet seat back down and pretending to care about his favorite football team?

I don't even love myself enough to cook for real. I never buy potatoes because do you know how long it takes to cook potatoes? I almost made progress a few weeks ago. I saw these tiny potatoes in the produce department and I thought, hey, tiny potatoes can probably go in the microwave. So I bought them. The bag called them fingerling potatoes. As soon as I got them home I turned to Google to figure out what to do with them.

I found a promising recipe right away but then when I read past the ingredients list, the first instruction I saw said, "Preheat oven ..." Preheat oven? Was this a joke? Broil? I don't care if I can broil them. Can I put them in the microwave? That's all I really want to know.

Every recipe I found was absolutely preposterous. EVOO? Pan sear? Who the hell are you people? These are tiny potatoes. The whole reason I bought them is because I thought they would cook faster than large potatoes. Who honestly wants to spend 45 minutes cooking tiny potatoes?

I changed my search to "Can I microwave fingerling potatoes" and I managed to stump the internet. People seemed aghast that anyone would want to microwave a potato. The consensus seemed to be that it was better to use the oven. So I gave up and put the potatoes in a cupboard where they promptly began growing eyes and feelers and I think they've got a proper civilization going in there, next to my cupcake pan. I'm letting them evolve for now but if I learn they're practicing fascism, they're going in the trash.

Maybe this whole marriage thing isn't for me. But that's okay. I don't need love to keep me warm. I have scrambled eggs for that.

For a good time

The advantage of having a blog that no one knows about is that you can just not update for a while without people asking you why you aren't updating.

I wouldn't mind people asking why I'm not updating. It has to be better than the similar-sounding question I have gotten a lot lately, which is, "Why aren't you dating?"

If you think I'm going to write a few paragraphs about why I'm single and leave it at that, then please allow me to introduce myself, because clearly we have never met. In fact, I suspect large swaths of this blog will be wasted by my listing, at length and in great detail, the many reasons I am going to die alone in a house full of cats.

Is it really anyone's business why I'm not dating? I mean, I know that I'm 30 and a size 8 and so my prospects at this point are probably limited to abusive alcoholics, closeted gays, and men with rampant pornography problems. I just don't understand why people who normally respect my boundaries get all gossipy when it comes to my nonexistent love life. I know plenty of married people and I don't think it would ever occur to me to ask any one of them how their marriage is going, or why they're still married. It's none of my freaking business. Also, as a general rule once single friends get married they become more or less dead to me. It's nothing personal, I just can't stand their married smugness.

But as long as we're on the topic, here's a story to help explain why I never go out on dates.

A few weeks ago I was talking to my bishop about how frustrating it is that Mormon men find me unappealing. I mean, look at me. I'm adorable! But apparently I am also slightly terrifying. I know this now. I used to be less self-aware but a few months ago a friend and I were talking and she was making eyes at a man she's interested in.

"He's not going to come over here while I'm talking to you," she said. "I think he's afraid of you."

At first I wasn't sure why he'd be afraid of me. Then I remembered the one conversation I'd had with him, at a church activity. He had struck up a conversation with me and then, like twenty minutes later, I realized he looked really horrified and he said he had to go do homework and he left really fast without saying goodbye to anyone. I may have told him one too many scary library stories. Although in my defense, he kept on asking me all these leading questions, like, "How's work going?"

In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have opened with a story involving the police.

I digress.

I was telling my bishop how I'm probably going to have to flirt to convert if I want to get married in the temple, and he didn't believe me. He is convinced that there is a Mormon man out there for me, and that I will find him.

And then the bishop gave me one of the worst pieces of advice anyone has ever given me. He said to me, and I quote, "Just be yourself."

I'm sure he meant well. For most people "Be yourself" is good advice. But I think that if I'm ever going to convince a man to enter into a binding legal contract with me and tie together our respective credit scores, I'm going to have to be someone else for at least a little while. Preferably someone normal.

A few weeks ago a guy in my ward messaged me on Facebook to ask for my phone number. He wasn't interested in me, he was just trying to keep me from posting dating memes on the ward Facebook page.* I wasn't sure what to do. No one has ever asked for my phone number before. Was I supposed to just give it to him?

So I typed out my phone number, but I felt like I should say something, you know? I'm not good at brevity. I'm always more comfortable when I'm being clever. I thought, Bishop told me to be myself. So I added, "May I ask what you plan on doing with this information? Because I've already posted it in several public bathrooms and apparently no one is interested in a good time."

I was very proud of myself for being so clever.

The guy didn't know what to say. He managed an "LOL" and then didn't type anything for a few minutes.

"You are being terrifying again," I snapped at myself. "You be nice!"

And I tried, I really did, but then the guy asked what I like to do for fun.

I thought of the things that normal people like to do, but I don't enjoy any of them. I wasn't sure what to say. What do I like to do for fun? Oh, gosh, who AM I?

Be yourself, said my shoulder devil.

"I enjoy correcting people and reading books about the military," I typed.

Suffice it to say, the young man has not called me, and I don't think he ever will. 

So if you have been wondering why I am neither updating nor dating, here's why: I'm much too busy being myself. I'm having a good time. And if you want to have a good time, too, call me.




*I know this to be true because I said, between memes, that I was going to keep posting them until I got asked out.

You Are Now Reading My Blog

So, I have a blog. If your first reaction to that was

then you are a sarcastic little jerk and I like you already.

I have a blog other than this one, and I’ve been using it to subject innocent people to the contents of my brain since 2009. But the other blog (the happiest sad, if you’re interested) has a fairly narrow focus. I like writing about adoption, but sometimes I want to write about other things too. My first idea was to just start writing about all the stupid things that I think about on my adoption blog but then I thought, haven’t I punished my readers enough? Because there are only so many times you can reference “Wings of the Luftwaffe” on an adoption blog before you start to collect irritated e-mail from readers who don’t understand why you seem hell-bent on alienating the handful of people on earth who don’t find you obnoxious.

So, hey, it’s a blog!

And at first it was, like, five blogs, because I was going to have a couple of different anonymous niche blogs where I could write scathing things with relative impunity. But I’m not very good at being mysterious and I kept making references to things that would enable a reader to identify me. Like my name and where I live and the other blog I have. So I gave up and here is this blog and you are reading it. Thank you for reading it. If you decide to read it again later there might be different things up and that’s cool, right?