Ok, so Greta, my across-the-hall neighbor, and I went to Target tonight so she could pick up her new bedding for when she moves into the house she's buying. (It's lovely, a gold and sage striped theme.) As we're loading stuff into her truck, I notice what had to be a brand spankin' new Chevy Cavalier in that "Caribbean blue" color that only Chevy makes, right? And hanging underneath the bumper? A blue ball sac. No, seriously -- it was made of leather, I think (no, I did NOT touch it), and it was vaguely vein-y and just hanging there like a scrotum. It was even lopsided, for Chrissakes. I'm still trying to figure out the irony, here, but ... yeah. There's someone running around Northwest Indiana with a ball sac hanging from his or her bumper. I mean, I might get the joke if it were hanging out of the trunk or something. But underneath the bumper? I'm ... confused.
Oh, whatEVER.

So the guy and I talked solar attic fans for a few minutes, and then I ask him his name and position with the store.

"You don't recognize my voice?"
(vaguely recognzing) "You know, actually, I do, but I don't know how. Can you give me a hint where I might know you from?"
"Your youth."
(chuckles)"Oh, Jesus. Who is this?"
"It's ..."

Holy sheep shit, it's the guy with whom I had my first "real" date back the week after I turned 16 (the before-16 dates consisting of clandestine makeout sessions with my 21 year-old Air Force boyfriend in his Mustang, but that's another story for another time). Wow.

He and I were set up through my best friend at the time; they went to school together after she moved. He played bass but was into jazz fusion and classic rock, which made him sophisticated and subversive in my 16 year-old mind. Of course, he was a transparent 17 year-old hormone who broke up with me when I wouldn't put out, but we ended up nailing each other (or attempting to) a couple years later during the summer before my freshman year of college, aka the official start of my late descent into teenage debauchery. He's the first person I ever got high with. And I remember the day, too -- it was in June of 1988 during the hottest summer days ever. It was also the first time I ever drank Ouzo.

He had eye cancer when he was, like, 8, and of course was fitted with a glass eye. I remember telling my crazy friend Mer about it (she was living in Ohio at the time), and the first thing she said was, "Ew! What if it falls down your shirt!?!?!"
Oh, whatEVER.

Anyway, there are myriad reasons as to why I've decided to blog: One is that my closest friends have heard my stories ad nauseum and so I need new victims -- I mean, a new audience with whom to share my soap opera. (On the flipside of that, they may have forgotten how charming my delivery is, so why not give it all to them again in print, right!?!? Heh.) The more important reason, though, is that I'm looking to rediscover what other voice I have besides "GA reporter." Unless you're a columnist, newspaper writing allows for little in the way of personality, and I've become wistful for the days when I could let whatever came out of my head out on the paper for all the public to see. Actually, that's not exactly it -- maybe "refine" my voice is what I'm looking for, because I feel like when I write something, it's like totally predictable how I'm going to set it up, and it ain't as smooth as I'd like.

And let's be honest, here: I'm an attention whore. It's incredibly cool to see my byline all over the place; I wouldn't do it if it weren't.
Oh, whatEVER.