Outting Folks

Folks are talking about folks who out anonymous bloggers. 

I have some experience with being outted. I’ve been outted against my will a few years ago, when someone figured out who I was and posted my name and address and work information in the comments here and all over the place.  I outted myself in a news story that appeared on the front page of The Tennessean, which I thought was going to be pretty definative, but then a couple of months after that, someone got mad at me and made noises like wouldn’t it be uncomfortable for me if folks knew who I really was, and I emailed them back and pointed out the article and that was the end of that.

Still, it’s a weird phenomenon, both to find yourself going in and out of anonymity and to find that people get so riled up about what goes on here on the internet that they’d try to threaten exposing you over it.

What Girls Can Do That Boys Can’t

Okay.  Put a chair on the floor near the wall.  Put your head against the wall.  Pick up the chair.  Now, without moving or lifting up your feet, stand up.

Now, answer me this.  Why can women do this and men can’t?

Cold, So Cold

I’m so sunburnt and I’m covered in horse snot and I have “Mahhhehehed” myself to scratchy-throated exhaustion and I had to throw a man at his children in order to protect myself from them and I am happy.

The horse came right up to me and did that deep breath horses do when they’re trying to see if you’re still the same girl they thought you were, and then he put his nose right in the crook of my neck and kind of nuzzled me and then–pbyrbhtybpt–horse snot all down my neck and my shoulder.  That tickled me so much, I can’t even tell you.

NM and her charming husband were there to witness it and to help me make my case for how awesome sheep would be.  They seemed less excited about a tiny burro.

And I introduced kids to Ninja Warrior and they loved it.  Which pleased me.

I wonder if we have some aloe around here.

In Which I Complain

Okay, so, I’ve been talking to everyone I see in person about buying a house, everyone except for a banker, because I just don’t want to go in and waste time if I can’t afford a mortgage.  And so I’m playing this fucked up game in my mind where I talk about getting a house and I dream about getting a house, but I go to the mortgage calculators online and they say that I can’t afford a house.

Never mind that every month I write a check that is a house payment.  Hell, it’s probably more than the payment on this place.

And I’ve been told by the Recovering Baptist and by others that this is a stupid fear to have–that you just have to sit down and talk to someone because what the mortgage calculators say and what a lender is going to say are two different things.

I know this is probably true.

But I’m terrified.  I’ve put it off on the Butcher.  For reasons convoluted and obviously untrue, it’s his fault that I haven’t talked to a lender.  See, he took my lips when he went to Illinois.  Or something.

The Professor and I went driving around yesterday looking at houses and we ended up having lunch at that new deli in Inglewood, which was right around the corner from a couple of places I looked at.  And the people were friendly and funky and the neighborhood felt cheery and established and I felt like I could imagine living there.

That made me happy and sad.

Anyway, this isn’t really getting me anywhere.  But that deli… Oh holy shit.  You must go and try their sandwiches.  They are fantastic.  Best French Dip in town.