thatnight.net

I’ve always been somewhat domestic, but over the past few months, since the boyfriend and I got our own place, I’ve been less able to hide it. I’ve been nesting.

I hate that term, and cringe when referring to myself as doing so, but it’s something I can’t escape from. I recognize this but don’t understand it, this impulse that has me acting ten years older than I am, needing to buy curtains and antiques to decorate our home for the practically nonexistent visitors.

What am I expecting? A dinner party? What am I going to do, invite over my professors and serve snail? I doubt Martha Stewart spent her 21st birthday crocheting afghans for her potholders.

Though now that I think about it, I’m probably wrong.

And what was I thinking when I chose flowers for my first masthead on the new layout? Pots of flowers?! And they’re fake! Pots of fake flowers!

In any event, I took some socks this morning and made a sock dog to sit on my rocking chair, partly because I saw one in some magazine and it looked cute, mostly because the feminist inside of me is getting her ass kicked by a Stepford wife.

Come to think of it, owning a rocking chair probably accounts for at least half the problem.

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So it seems to me that in the blogosphere, there are two primary kinds of “life-oriented” blogs – i.e. ones that focus more on one’s personal life and less on a single subject, such as science or politics or Macs.

There are the sites of late-teen to twenty-somethings. They have layouts that are commonly far more exquisite than most. They are usually students, or recently graduated, and are witty and articulate and have better grammar, taste, and intellect than their MySpace counterparts (sorry, MySpace bloggers, I’m pompous and extremely conceited, and I don’t like you).

And then there are the women who have more simple layouts, usually surrounded on one or two sides by BlogHer or Google Ads. They have settled into a career or are SAHM’s. If the latter, they’re often new mothers who share the moments of motherhood blatantly, carefully, and humorously. Many have been featured in popular publications.

Both groups are self-supporting on many levels, and rarely do they intermix.

These seem to be the majority of the more popular blogs, which could also be broken down into several smaller groups. Of course you have the minorities, who are just as talented, just under-represented – the male bloggers, the travelers, those in transition from one group to another.

I could be completely wrong. What kinds of blogs are you reading?

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You know how when you’re dissatisfied with a layout, you’re less inclined to update the blog? Kind of like, if you start a project, and it sucks, you don’t feel like finishing it, or if a class sucks, you don’t feel like putting in any extra effort, or if a person sucks, you’d rather kick them in the teeth and shut them down than buy them a flower?

I’ve never been one for frilly themes, even though the ones I’m jealous of are usually quite frilly. I decided on something clean and simple, in which I can easily, and regularly, update the masthead.

When I was finally satisfied, and checked it out on IE, it looked about as orderly as a clearance rack – everything was everywhere it wasn’t supposed to be.

So I finally got everything verified. The only browser that continues to be crap is IE for Mac, but if you’re only using IE for Mac, you deserve a screen full of crap.

If anyone sees any bugs, please let me know!

Here’s a picture of me on a museum wall:

Museumr!

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If you’ve visited recently, you’ve probably noticed that I’ve been switching things around. I’m usually not dedicated enough to actually take down the site and do a complete redesign, so I’ve been adjusting here and there. I wanted to keep a layout that would allow me to update my masthead at least semi-frequently, since I was feeling more artsy than…write-sy.

My mom woke me up a few hours ago to ask if I would like to take my little sister to a concert tonight. She bought the tickets a few weeks ago and thought I’d be excited. Groggily, I responded, “yeah, I guess, who is it?” When she told me, I flew out of bed and immediately began trying on clothes. Because the guy we’ll be seeing? He brought sexy back.

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I claim I love doing it, although I’ve only ever finished one.

My favorite design was purchased from Pleasant Hill, a living museum of the old Shaker village in Kentucky. It really was incredibly beautiful there. The Shakers resembled the Amish, except that they believed in strict celibacy. The public buildings had two doors in the front, one for each sex. Needless to say, the beautiful preservations are now Shakerless.

Also unlike the Amish, they kept up with technology, which would be interesting to witness if they hadn’t died out a century ago.

Of course, I was extremely interested, as I am with any lifestyle which differs radically from my own, especially one that’s a couple hundred years old. Everything was simple and plain and wonderful, which I still somewhat envy, as I sit here in front of my MacBook, next to my Nikon D50, watching Law and Order: SVU on digital cable and drinking juice with artificial something or other.

But anyway, I have a hard time finding patterns, as they’re all of cats and dragons and Jesus. And as much as I would love completing a giant, cloth rendition of majestic eagles preparing to take their perch high above the valley, I prefer to imagine myself as an old-school colonist with nothing better to do than a modern girl who’s bored and extremely tacky.

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I dropped my little sister off at her first middle school dance tonight, and it made me realize not only how I (sort of) miss those nights of awkward bobbing and slow dancing with five feet of space in between, but also how completely insecure I was when I was her age.

She had lacrosse practice earlier in the day, and she didn’t touch her hair from the moment she left the gym to the second she walked into the dance. As a matter of fact, she didn’t primp at all. I even brought her along to buy a microwave with me and Derrick before it was time to drop her off, and as it got closer to dance time, I asked her how much time she would need to get ready. She shrugged and replied, “fifteen minutes?”

Fifteen minutes?! If I had an older sister who brought me to Target the night of a dance, my first dance, and I had to stand there as she and her boyfriend decided on what kind of microwave would be best, since one is $60, and this one is $80, and look there’s a button on this one for a baby bottle, and shouldn’t we get some candles, one for the living room and the bedroom, and which scent would be best in which room – because oriental voyage? That’s a smell I’d like to share with my guests – I would be much inclined to take the cord from the fancy new lamp and wrap it, tightly, around sister’s neck.

Actually, I would probably lean slightly more towards obnoxious, pacing in front of the cart, checking the time on my cell phone and rolling my eyes in extreme irritation, trying to decide what would be worse, being 20 minutes late, or not straightening the wavy piece of hair in the back, because my entire social life for the next four years will totally depend on this dance.

I would have easily wanted three hours to get ready. And that? That finally gives me hope that maybe there is one trait that I won’t mind a daughter of mine sharing with her aunt.

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My middle name, Josephine, was my grandmother’s first name. I found out only recently that this wasn’t her real name, but a name she had given herself when she turned 18.

It turns out her father, my great grandfather, was so completely obsessed with Shakespeare, that he named his only child after one of the most well-known tragic characters. Even when his wife gave birth to a girl, he was unmoved. He named her Hamlet.

I explored my grandfather’s house earlier today, and found an old bus pass, the only proof I have of my grandmother’s real identity. I also learned that “te” was added to the end to, I guess, make it more feminine. Because, you know, that makes it so much better.

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…and the sun finally came out.

The lacrosse season has begun again, my favorite time of year, and I’m hoping that my coaching ability has somewhat improved since 2006.

I was such a wreck at our first game last season. We were set to play the first-ranked team in our division, undefeated after four games. The opposing team’s coach, at least ten years older than me, stood dignified down the field, poised, casually checking her clipboard and offering advice to her players via telepathy.

She probably seemed even more majestic when compared to me, an unsteady amateur, screaming my voice hoarse, covered in mud after dropping to my knees and rolling around with anxiety, maniacally pulling out chunks of my own hair. We ended in a tie.

I actually doubt I’ll be any different this year.

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