Remember the olden days, when something written in print usually implied a certain level of topical expertise on the part of the author?  Before the days of hyper-internet-mania, one’s struggle to bring their work to the literary forefront was compounded by competition, unimpressed publishers, and the ever-present question, “Why would someone want to read it?” As readers, we could hold on tightly to the illusion that something published was something intelligent and worthwhile.

Welcome to the blogger era. An era in which anyone – soccer moms, gamers, foodies, the shady guy next door that you’re still not sure about – has the creative license to put up a blog site and blast their opinions, solicited or not, to the internet masses. 

Certainly there are intelligent and informative blogs in existence.  Just yesterday, I learned from a blogger in Toledo how to keep my bully squash plant from strangling its garden neighbors – useful advice from an intelligent woman well-versed in the areas of botany.   The advice was not, however, without opinions and bias, which seems to be a point lost on this modern world.  Blogs, while the may be helpful, are not indifferent and necessarily entirely factual – a key distinction from news and entertainment journalism.  

The blogging age has taken the usual morning-commuter-rail-conversation up a notch by providing just about anyone with their very own pedestal on which to stand and dispense their personal opinions as they see fit.  This is America – this is the 21^st century.  There is nothing wrong, fundamentally, with this new medium of editorial content – freedom of speech and the rights to one’s opinion are certainly not new ideals to us.  

What is lacking, however, are the fundamental basics of conveying said opinions.  

Blogging, in many ways, is not unlike an online argument.  A blogger makes his or her opinion known, as is inherent in a blog site, and the various readers of the inter-web make their comments known (at times far more insistently than others).  In order to maximize the effectiveness of one’s opinion, let us not forget some simple concepts that should remain fairly consistent over time. 

1. Keep it clean.  If you have to resort to trashy language or feel the need to drop random F-bombs in for good measure and added effectiveness, you’re pretty much doomed from the start.  No one wants to take advice from the schoolyard bully who’s going to resort to potty-mouthery.  You’ll simply end up sounding unintelligent, stubborn, closed-minded and foolish.  People might also laugh at you. I know I would.
2. Have something to say.   It’s really swell that you’re a huge fan of Akon, and that you want the world to know just how much you love his new album.  Unless you’re going to tell me something I don’t already know (assuming, of course, I happen to actually be an Akon fan, which I am not), such as what his plans are for future projects, who he is collaborating with, or other key bits of information, something like this would be better suited to your Facebook wall than a blog.
3. Play nice.  No one is going to agree with you 100% of the time, unless, of course, you have mastered mind control, in which case, we should hang out.  Otherwise, get used to the idea that whatever you post will more than likely receive negative feedback.  This is a key opportunity to display your intellectual prowess by responding intelligently and appropriately.  Akin to suggestion #1, you’re only going to vastly discredit yourself if you allow yourself to become wrapped up in a foul-mouthed comment tirade.  Rise above – it generally makes the other person appear silly anyway, thus achieving the same desired result.
4. Negative Nancy. None of us are truly happy (well, maybe a select few that are rather fortunate).  This fact, however, does not mean to imply that misery loves company.  Your day job sucks, you disagree with US foreign policy, or your new iPhone completely disappointed your overly-high expectations.  Don’t just complain about it.  If you’re moved to blog about something that angers, irritates, annoys, or otherwise just bugs you, provide solutions rather than simply complaining.  Everyone has a complaint or two – distinguish yourself by having a plan to minimize such complaints.  You just might help someone else who’s having a really hard time, too.
5. Know your subject.  This seems rather simplistic, but all too often, bloggers fall into a trap of trying to seem like a subject expert where they are not.  Even if you are blogging about an area that is somewhat new to you, by doing some simple research before sitting down to write your piece will help your credibility tremendously.  It’s also okay to admit that you aren’t an expert in the subject, and therefore, are citing other sources.  

As readers in this convoluted world of information overload, we must remain selective in what we choose to read or follow on the internet.  Blogging, at the end of the day, is still writing.  And if, as a writer, you expect the masses to stop and pay attention to you, it should be good writing.  Otherwise, why bother?

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I cracked the dream code last night. 

I’ve been perplexed recently as to the cause behind a rash of strange, recurring dream themes that seem to focus on the past.  Each dream has a cameo by a former love interest and routinely consists of emotional battles, most of which leave me feeling hurt all over again upon waking.

Why?  Why do these matters of the heart which have long been put to rest keep popping up in my dream states, affecting me in the way that they do?

As I lay in bed last night, drifting off to induced slumber, I suddenly realized the purpose behind these streams of subconsciousness.  My dreams are trying to motivate me, to inspire me.

I’ve seemed to be hanging out at the rest stop located at the half-way mark of writing the book for quite some time.  I knew where I wanted to go, but I was plagued by hesitancy and refused to move forward.  While the book is an overall piece of fiction, it is, in some parts, heavily influenced by true life events.  Events which pertain to heartache and conflict stemming from my life – events which are surprisingly difficult to write about. 

The difficulty lies not in the fear of drumming up old emotions or pain, but more in the sense that I get hung up on remembering those emotions.  How does one write about a person who has wronged them as if they haven’t yet?  How do you convey the almost physical pain that comes with a broken heart, long after you’ve managed to overcome the pain? 

That’s where the dreams come in.

These dreams seem to plunge me right back into the excitement, the infatuation, the love, the hate…all of the facets of romantic conflict that I had trained myself, in waking state, to forget entirely.  I can feel Christopher wanting to be with me in these dreams, and I can feel him throw it all away again.  I can feel helpless.

 These dreams exist to remind me of why I am even writing this book to begin with.

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“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Craig asked, with a slightly foreign-sounding air of concern in his voice.  I was not going to tell him the real reason I hadn’t mentioned the depression until now.   Craig was never one for understanding, and he historically had very little tolerance for anything which upset the status quo of his daily life.

“I figured you had enough going on,” I muttered, recalling his sheer annoyance with our mother for having had one of her famous crying episodes the last time she visited him.  “Besides, it’s not like you can do anything about it.”

He let out a heavy sigh and sat quiet for a moment.  I wondered if there was a small twinge of guilt arising in him for overlooking – no, ignoring – the obvious circumstances that led to this no-brainer of a diagnosis.  I couldn’t really convince myself that that was the case.

“I wish you would have told me,” he lamented. “I don’t know what I could’ve done, but, still…”

I appreciated my brother’s attempt at sympathy, even though I knew all would be forgotten once I was back in Boston.  It wasn’t really his fault, I supposed.  After all, he wasn’t around during a lot of it, and when he was, everything had to be roses and peach parades in honor of Craig’s return home.  He was uninformed, impartial.  He had practically become a stranger.

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I had been smart enough to select a bar stool to the left of him, giving myself a good view of the lobby area of the restaurant. The positioning made it much easier to pretend I was paying attention rather than plotting my escape plan.

Two weeks earlier, I had found myself in an e-mail exchange with a WPI grad student who seemed pleasant enough – the photographic evidence pointed more towards neo-hippie than to pocket protectors. There had even been brief phone conversations, which had gone surprisingly smoothly, and then, ultimately…this.

I had almost ignored him completely upon his arrival at the agreed-upon destination, an almost-rundown lake side family restaurant with a small bar – until he recognized me from my photos. In this, my date had an unfair advantage, as the pictures I had sent to him were actually recent, unlike his own apparently. He carried with him a minimum of forty extra pounds, all of which being fat and pasty.

Okay, don’t panic, I thought. He just gained some weight.

I was surprised at how calmly I had handled the surprise introduction, though I was not at all embarrassed by my early denial of his identity. As we dove into the first (only) round of drinks, WPI openly told me about his interests, which included medieval role-playing games.

“So you like Dungeons and Dragons,” I stated, almost choking on my drink. This was going to get ugly…fast.

“Well, yeah, I guess,” he mumbled, caught slightly off-guard by the assumption. It was obvious he had hoped to avoid that stereotype.

“That’s really…fascinating,” I said, bored, but somehow managing to feign interest.

“Yeah, I don’t really play that as much anymore,” he said. “It’s not so easy to get into at my mom’s house.”

“You live with your mom?” I asked, smiling and trying to hold back laughter. Granted, I had done my stint at the house of a parental unit, but let’s be real…I was a girl.

It was sometime around that point that I no longer heard the words that were coming out of his mouth. I had tuned out completely, wrapped up in thought on how best to get out of the situation. I wondered for a moment if I even cared about sparing this poor lad’s feelings. And then, suddenly, like a beacon in the night – I saw it.

The ladies’ room.

There it was – about six feet from the main entrance to the restaurant. It would be so easy to just…slip right out. As I examined the restroom’s proximity to freedom, I suddenly remembered one small detail that would, perhaps, foil my master plan. I had brought my coat, given the crisp April night air.

Don’t panic, I thought. You can figure this out.

I looked at WPI, who was still talking and apparently not noticing my straying gaze whatsoever, and smiled, before suddenly shivering.

“Do you think it’s cold in here?” I asked, rubbing my arms.

“No, at least, I don’t think so.”

“I am absolutely freezing,” I said, pulling my coat on. “Oh, that is SO much better.”

You are a god damned genius, I said to myself with a self-assured grin. All I had to do now was to wait for the right moment, the right break in the conversation. After about ten more minutes, I could no longer pretend to be in any way interested in anything this person had to say, and I was nearing the point of utter, brutal honesty.

“Would you excuse me?” I asked, politely and coyly. “I need to use the little girls’ room.”

“Oh, sure, no problem,” he said, standing as I rose from my seat. It was a shame that he was a gentleman.

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I wasn’t sure if it was right, but then again, I wasn’t certain it was wrong. I couldn’t be certain. I mean, it was research, right?

I’d spent a considerable amount of time underwater, routinely coming up empty-handed, but yet, I carried with me the hope of still finding that pearl, no matter how ridiculous I looked in the process. It had to be out there…and if I listened to my own common sense, and that of others, I’d end up settling for a shiny piece of sea glass instead.

There were no longer fresh scars from Damon…there weren’t even any that were almost healed, but still itched like hell. I couldn’t remember what it had been like to have him bruise my ego or my heart. In fact, when the dust settled and I stopped and looked around, there was no negativity in general, whether Damon-related or otherwise, and I stopped for a moment, in awe of the rarity of it all.

I sipped at my coffee, watching the snow fall through the window, and waiting for Rick to drive away. He left early, citing work-related necessities on behalf of his ride home, and was picked up at 10:00, a day and a half earlier than planned. I wondered for a moment if his plan would have worked, had he not been picked up in a different car. Part of me wanted to be angry with the lie, but the majority of me was just glad to see him leave, freeing up the rest of my weekend.

I settled down on the couch and wrapped a fleece blanket around myself as Taco curled up next to me. I fumbled momentarily to retrieve my cell phone from Taco’s armpit and called Samantha.

“Hey…what’s wrong?” She asked, sounding worried. She had expected me to be far too consumed with Rick’s visit to be calling.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “Rick left early.”

“Really? Why? In the snow?”

“Yep. Who cares why, really…I’m kinda glad he’s gone.” I complained.

“No good, huh?” She asked, knowingly.  She knew there was only one main reason I’d be so nonchalant.

“No good.”

“Ugh, so, um…when did you realize this, if you don’t mind me asking?” she asked.

“Day one.”

“Dear god, woman…you should fucking sainted.”

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There had been break-ups in the past.  A handful of attempts to part ways, some more lasting than others, but I had always gone back to the security of Micah.  The in-between times, though, when I was free to roam and do what I please – those were times filled with youthful debauchery and a flagrant disregard for the other sex.

Each time I grew stir-crazy in the relationship, I broke it off, sometimes even going as far as to offer the promise of a future reconciliation just to get myself out.  There were aspects of my personality that seemed muted when coupled with Micah.  I was no longer the individual – I was the girlfriend.  I had fine-tuned my new found talents for feminine prowess and manipulation, and was eager to put those talents to play within the general, single populous.

We had experienced a six-month hiatus early on, just as I was finishing school (and moving into my own apartment).  I took a job running a mall portrait studio, and decided that I needed some space to acclimate myself to the post-collegiate world surrounding me.  Micah understood, and while by no means happy with my decision, took a step back to let me sew whatever oats I seemed to be holding onto.

My weekend tradition of hitting Lansdowne St. was soon resumed as Catherine and I began frequenting our favorite 80’s-themed club night again.  It had been a matter of ritual in college – Boston on Friday nights, and local bars on Saturday night.  This ritual had been sidelined by Micah’s jealous nature, as I was coerced into patronizing the north shore bars he was used to (and had cohorts available to report in on my behavior if needed).

The kick-off came one warm, May Friday night, and Catherine and I headed into our favorite stomping ground in the Fenway.  It was the one club that we could both agree on – she adored clubbing, and I conceded that since no one could look sexy while dancing to 80’s pop music, I would willingly club myself unconscious (leaving myself an  appealing option should the night truly become unbearable).  And, since she was always willing to drive, most evenings worked out in my favor.

We quickly consumed our first round of over-priced mini-cocktails while scanning the crowd, which was surprisingly pleasing for such an early hour.  Wall of Vodoo’s ‘Mexican Radio’ was blasted through the speakers as various pleather-clad club regulars slinked about the dance floor.

“I’m heading to the bar,” Catherine shouted.

“What?” I yelled, unable to make out a word she said.  She pointed to her empty drink, then to mine.

“Me…bar…more!” She mouthed, and I nodded, turning back towards the crowd.  I spotted a small group of about three or four guys walking into the room and was assessing the situation, when my gaze met that of an incredibly good-looking, younger-looking guy trailing behind them.  I looked away, knowing I had been caught in the act, and wished I wasn’t holding an empty drink as I fidgeted with my straw.  After a few seconds, I boldly looked back towards the door, but the group had disappeared into the crowd.  I let out a small sigh of relief that I hadn’t completely embarrassed myself.

I turned towards the bar to look for Catherine, who was now returning with two more Pixie-cup-sized drinks.  She rolled her eyes as she handed a cup to me.
“Remind me again why we come here?” She asked, exasperated.

“This was always your idea,” I gently reminded her. “Don’t blame me for the ridiculous willingness with which we throw money at these city bartenders.”

“Um, yeah….” Catherine slowly muttered, a sly smile forming across her face.  I looked at her, puzzled, and she tipped her head a couple of times before suddenly disappearing.

I turned to look behind me and there, standing right next to me, was my little staring-contest opponent, smiling.  I hadn’t been able to notice before, given the distance, but I had never seen eyes quite like his, at least not on a human.  His eyes were large and piercing blue, and looked almost Husky-like.  I couldn’t keep myself from staring into them.

“Um…hey,” I mumbled, nervously.  I had been caught off-guard, and fumbled for whatever coyish behavior I could muster.

“Hey,” he yelled, trying to be heard over the music.  He muttered something inaudible, and I just smiled and shook my head, pointing to the speaker.  He simply took my hand and led me onto the dance floor.  I was really hoping I would not come to remember that moment – the two of us, dancing to Dream Academy.  I really hated that song.

……………….

“So where are you guys headed now?” Huskyeyes asked, as the house lights came up around us in the club.

“Home,” Catherine snapped, still unsure of whether or not we should continue our evening with our new friends.  Huskyeyes had two friends with him, but two cars – and proposed that he and one friend follow us back up to the north shore.  I looked at her pleadingly, having gone to great lengths throughout the evening to stress to her the hotness of Huskyeyes, and the wonders this would do for her best friend who’s just gone through a breakup.

“Well, my place,” I clarified.  I was calling trump.  Catherine was crashing at my house anyway, and Pete (my roommate) would be home by the time we got there.  I also did not want to have to point out that I was the sober one, and in charge of driving us home.   “You can follow us.”

Catherine sighed, before finally conceding (and realizing that it was the better-looking of the two companions who’d be accompanying my new friend).   We got into Catherine’s car, and I drove the two guys a couple of blocks away to get their car.

After quickly navigating my way back on to the highway, I remembered I had someone following me and looked frantically behind me to make sure they were keeping up.  I could see the SUV weaving in and out of lanes, trying to get behind us.

By the time we arrived back at the apartment, Catherine had forgotten all of her inhibitions about bringing our ‘guests’ back with us.  She wildly flirted with the Companion, who seemed to be more than adequately entertained, and we made our way upstairs.

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I stepped off the jet way into the crowded arrival gate at O’Hare, pausing for a moment to catch my bearings. I had come to the conclusion that I much preferred to travel in the morning, as most of my fellow passengers en route to Chicago were business travelers, saving me from having to deal with crying children and over-talkative seat-mates. I spent the whole of the two-hour flight replaying the last week over and over in my mind.

It had only been eight days since The Face and I reconnected, and while almost every evening with this time frame had been spent on the phone (for hours, at times), I was still nervous that this would ultimately be categorized as one of the stupider decisions I’d made. I hadn’t seen him in well over a year, yet, here I was, only a couple of hours away from meeting his entire family.

He had accepted my reasoning for walking away from him when we were both in Boston, however weak it may have been. I had given up on trying to come up with an eloquent and poignant reason for abandoning this potential suitor, having simply admitted that when it came down to it, I just didn’t know why I left.

“It might have been the way you always warned me,” I had offered.

“Warned you about what?”

“That your job could suddenly pick you up and move you anywhere,” I reasoned. “It sounded like an excuse to not get too close.”

“Abby, that’s so far from true,” he had confessed. “I wanted to be sure that if we did this, you’d be on board with me. That you go anywhere with me.”

I brushed off my overly-cautious, pessimistic recollection of my past with The Face and decided to enter into this adventure with an open mind (and open heart). After a few minutes of struggling to find my way through the airport to the baggage claim area, I stood by the baggage ramps, scanning the area for The Face. I wondered if I’d even be able to pick him out with ease.

Realizing I had overshot our meeting place, I turned around to head back a bit. Just as I turned around, my eyes locked with his intent stare, as he stood head and shoulders above the crowd. My heart melted in an instant, and I dropped my bags and took off running into his open arms.

He wrapped his arms around me, lifting me up off my feet in a tight embrace. As we kissed, passionately, for a moment, various passers-by each let out a tiny little ‘awww’. I felt as though I was in a dream…a movie scene…and I wanted it to never end.

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“Hold on,” I muttered at the sound of the knocking, still half asleep, as I stumbled out of bed and tried to find something with which to cover myself.  I threw on the closest thing I had to a house coat and peeked my head out of the bedroom door to find Tim standing outside, grinning.

“How was your night?”

“Good…I think,“ I mumbled.  “Why?”

“Well, I just spent ten minutes trying to figure out who is passed out in our kitchen sink,” Tim laughed.

“Oh, shit….that’s probably Christine.”

“That was my first assumption,” Tim said.  “Don’t get me wrong, it’s no big deal, I just had to see for myself the shape you must be in if there were people sleeping in our plumbing. I’m off to work.”

“Awesome,” I said, sarcastically. “Have a fantastic day.”

I turned around to fall back into bed and noticed a motionless lump under the covers.  Suddenly I remembered clearly the events of the prior evening.  Strange, good-looking, younger guys had come back to the apartment with me and Christine – strange in the ‘don’t talk to strangers’ sense, though that wasn’t any more reassuring.  Something about sharing an apartment with Tim, an Air Force pilot, had made us rather bold and reckless when it came to visitors.  We had a built-in bouncer.

I wasn’t sure what to do – whether it was wiser to just go back to sleep, or to relocate to another room and let StrangeMan sleep it off.  Christine’s little stranger was passed out on the couch, which put a damper on my relocation strategy.  I soon realized that I had an upper hand in the situation and decided to take a shower and get dressed, putting me in a much better position to confront wake-up time.

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“Ahh, you are officially my hero,” I proclaimed, gently taking the mug of coffee from Brian’s hands.  I was having serious issues keeping my eyes open.

“Oh, it’s only now official?”

“Yeah,” I smirked, cradling my new cup of happiness, “before now it was just our little secret. Now I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

Brian sat back down on the couch next to Jeff, who was entranced by Brian’s subscription to a 24-hour classic cartoon network.  The three of us sat, happily buzzed, transfixed on a timeless Tom & Jerry episode featuring a drunken Tom being forced to stay awake after an all-nighter.

“I wish someone would put Beavis and Butthead back on,” Brian muttered.

“It’s already on,” I said, quietly.  “MTV2 runs it sometimes.”

“But it’s not the good ones,” Jeff interjected.  “All they play now are the lame ones where Beavis can’t say ‘fire’ anymore.”

“Didn’t some idiot kid burn his trailer down or something and the show got blamed?” I asked.

“The answer’s in the question,” Brian stated.  “Idiot, trailer…like it was going to take a television show to push that kid over the edge.  It’s bullshit.”

As Jeff and Brian commiserated on the death of good cartoons, I remained fixated on the television, and more importantly, fixated on how cartoons used to be.  In the ninety seconds it took my own Beavis and Butthead to realize they were arguing the same point, I had counted five acts of gratuitous violence on Tom & Jerry.

“He’s got a point,” I said.  “I mean, think about it…in this cartoon alone you have a boozehound housecat, a mouse setting off explosives, and the drugging of the household human.”

“Yeah,” Jeff shouted, suddenly getting some life back in him.  “Then there was the time Tom chased Jerry around the house with a sawed-off shotgun.”

“Or the time Tom drugged the dog and Jerry resorted to putting a bomb under him to wake him up.”

“Jerry threw an iron at Tom’s head and was always putting mouse traps in his face,” Brian added.

“Call me crazy,” I argued, “but none of us grew up thinking that was normal, right?  I mean, aside from Jeff.”

“I only threw the iron once.”

“And that didn’t even have anything to do with Tom & Jerry,” Brian said.

“Right, so….” I started.  Brian let out an exasperated sigh.

“Here we go, Abby’s lesson on life.”

“Shut it.  Anyway, our parents raised us, not televisions.  Sure, we watched a shitload of it, but we had the benefit of having parents who taught us the subtle differences between reality and animation.”

“I distinctly remember my mother telling me that unlike Tom, if I cut the cat’s tail off with an ax, our cat couldn’t simply tape it back on and get on with its day,” recalled Jeff.

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“Abby, look, I always made it clear I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” The Coworker muttered.

“What?” I asked, confused.  “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I’m just saying, you get all worked up over things…”

“Damon, let’s take a step back,” I said.  “And count the many ways in which I’m way smarter than you and marvel at the ease in which you back yourself into a corner.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone as he took it all in.  I wasn’t sure how we got on the topic of his lack of desire to commit to a relationship, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easy, not that time.

“What are you talking about?” The Coworker asked, annoyed.

“Well, as much as I do love debating these issues with you,” I said, sarcastically, “your argument is pretty weak.”

“How so? I always told you that.”

“Damon, I was angry with you because once again, I wasted my Sunday waiting on you to let me know what was up.  At some point during the day, you obviously made a decision as to how your night would be spent, and the root issue here is that you never bothered to convey that decision to me.”

“My night got carried away, what can I say?” he muttered, stumbling for words.

“Whatever dude,” I quipped angrily. “I’m getting tired of waiting for you to grow up and stop hiding behind your little shield of ‘not wanting a relationship’.  We’re talking basic interpersonal skills here.”

I hung up the phone without another word – not angrily, but I had just grown so tired of having the same conversation over and over again each time this happened.  I had gone as far, in the past, as to insinuate that this thing we had was simply a glorified booty call for both of us, to which he passionately feigned offense, outraged that I could hold him in such low regard.  Arguing with him was worse than going through the wrong door and ending up on the Rotor, that spinning-floor-dropping-stick-you-to-the-wall amusement park ride.  All I was left with usually was a sense of dizziness and nausea.

Just as I went to put the phone down, it rang again.  Without checking the caller ID, I angrily answered.

“Damon, listen, I’m not doing this now,” I yelled.

“Huh?”

“What?”

“Abby?”

“David?” I asked, horrified.  “Holy shit, I’m so sorry! I thought you were someone else!”

“Wow,” he laughed. “I’m glad I’m not that guy!  Who’s Damon?”

“Oh, no one…it’s nothing.”

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