thatnight.net

Fifteen years ago, on the days my grandfather was able to talk me into walking down the towering flight of stairs connecting the hilltop of Mount Oliver to the far corner of 18th and Carson to church, the one thought I always had circling in my mind did not have to do with seeing the other kids, or the pain of my dress shoes, or the upcoming two-part Sunday school quiz on when not to eat meat and how soon to marry a Ukrainian boy from the seminary.

It was always, I hope the pirogi ladies are making pirogies.

I figured that as long as I had a handkerchief in my hair and was serving pirogies in the church basement by the time I was 30, I would be set. Who needs college when you have Mr. Rogers?

(We didn’t have cable back then. I don’t have cable now. My regression back to childhood would be complete if I didn’t have to buy a digital converter box next month, which will undoubtedly turn me into an 80-year-old.)

I’ve been a bit down lately, and while it may have something to do with the fact that winter is in full swing, I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m over halfway to 30 and my inner 7-year-old is depressed with my lack of pirogi-making skills.

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Around the time of the election, as I thought back to the personal websites I’d been reading for years, I made a mental note to myself that the ones I really looked forward to reading had the most incredible staying power. It was as if their blogs were never a decision, but rather, something that just sort of happened, a passive presence more like a goldfish that won’t die, despite those days you wish you didn’t have to get out of bed and sprinkle a pinch of flakes into the bowl, but then you’re so glad you opted for an immortal fish instead of that everlasting Rottweiler.

Reading the PittGirl article in yesterday’s paper, especially the part that said, “Mike Woycheck, a local technology analyst who handled technical matters for the site, said he received an e-mail from PittGirl late Monday with a simple message: ‘Take ‘er down,’” I heard, in my mind, the scene in Titanic just before they strike the iceburg, when they attempt to stop the ship and the engines screech and machines buckle under pressure. Her website was one of those places I loved, and probably the first of such that I’ve seen shut down.

An anonymous writer, she declared in the past that if any threat was made to acknowledge her identity, the site would be cut away. Aside from her writing talent, one enviable trait was her ability to attract loyal readership both from those involved with blogs and media, and those who logged on only once in a while to check their email. For this reason, my biggest hope is that she finds another outlet to contribute to, as I’m sure her fans would be quick to follow.

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After a very long day and night of non-sleep and hours of diligent carpet cleaning, Bello is home from the emergency vet and satisfied with the state of his stomach on drugs. As am I. For a five pound animal, you’d be shocked at the metric tons of discharge that had been heaped upon the floor. And spread upon the walls.

In the middle of it all, when the sun finally came up and my worry skyrocketed as I had to force-feed him drops of water from a needleless syringe, Bello was wrapped in a blanket and we made the drive across town. He was immediately injected with fluids and tested for anything serious, and sent home with a bag of meds and instructions for a bland diet.

Our guess is that he picked up a bug from the new backyard, although I’m almost positive that a year of dealing with crap like this finally set him off.

I’d been saving those funds for his neutering later this month, and the way he smirked at me on the ride home suggested that yes, he had overheard me make that appointment over the phone, and all of that money I just spent for a diagnosis? Totally his plan all along.

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Two nights ago, as I sat in my new bedroom with Bello, I was thinking back to when I first started keeping a website. I thought about the people online I grew up with, one of whom is now pregnant, PREGNANT, and how back then, they didn’t have the name blogger. Instead, they were called Emma. And Rachel. And Leah.

I love that blogging has become mainstream, although I’m sometimes annoyed that there are those who try to regulate it. When I come across anything regarding the rules of blogging, as opposed to technique or technical aspects, I want to thrust my fist into the monitor, grasp for the webmaster’s neck, and gently inquire as to whether or not he KNOWS WHAT A BLOG IS.

So I tried to define my reasons for blogging, which was about as successful as trying to explain my website’s angle, the answer to which I stuttered through several times at PodCamp. Well, I’m a girl. Living, I guess? I mean, I know I’m living. But, I guess…Pittsburgh?

What was your question?

But yet I continue to think about it and make myself crazy. Because like most aspiring writers, I hate myself.

So I was watching the MSNBC website’s live stream on my TV, which was being received through my computer, because I don’t have, or plan on getting, cable. And I just wanted to mention that because I hooked it up all by myself.

Derrick was passed out after installing my curtains. (I should also mention that he had worked all day. He was not brought down by curtains.) They fit my room perfectly, and for a few minutes, I was transfixed by them, and the city skyline I could see beyond them. And Bello was watching me closely, momentarily ignoring his lack of a proper food dish, just in case I brought out that power drill again and set his world aflame.

Just then I heard a few shouts from outside, and turned to my TV to see Obama approaching a podium, nodding somberly in his victory while acknowleding his undertaking, and as I looked around my room and out into Pittsburgh, I thought that if I could take all of these little moments and collectively define them, I could adequately and confidently tell people who are just beginning to brave Wordpress.com what it is, exactly, that I’m doing.

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Tonight, at 7PM, as I sat in the passenger seat of a moving truck, the same place I’d been twelve hours earlier with what felt like having close to the same amount accomplished, I began making excuses in my head for not blogging today, the second day of NaBloPoMo. Granted, this was easier than, say, attempting to put an interesting spin on Nutella.

I mean, I haven’t exactly announced that I was participating. I’ve told one person, but it wouldn’t be especially difficult to discredit him, based on his past reputation with crazy.

That being said, while I’m continuing to prepare a string of sentences for all of the things I’d like to eventually mention but probably won’t get around to doing ever, I’d like your speculation on the following costume, seen Halloween evening.

Ungroomed Old English Sheep Dog?
Hurricane in the Checkout Lane?
Swiffer Duster?

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