Welcome to my Xanga

I finally decided to create a second Instagram (and by extension, this old school blog). Because:

My other account is sort of professional but I am a social media oversharer at heart which means it sometimes becomes personal or just kind of weird. And I think that’s fine to a point but I do want to be connected to people in my industry without necessarily foisting my every thought or feeling into their feeds.
I just got a new phone with a much better camera which means I’ll probably be talking a lot of goofy photos—portrait mode photos of my dog’s snoot, for example—and maybe I don’t need those to be on what is a de facto portfolio for my side hustle.
Look, friends. We’re headed into a long, dark, and isolated winter. I live alone, the pandemic rages on, and my therapist is on maternity leave until spring. I think I might want an outlet for my thoughts. Thus the name of this account: this is my roaring 20s version of a c. 2002 personal blog, but with a character limit.

So, uh, yeah. That’s it. Welcome to my xanga.

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I do not dream of labor

There’s a quote that goes something like, “I don’t have a dream job. I do not dream of labor.” I can’t find the original source, but I’d love to know. In any case, I appreciate the sentiment even though in some ways I have had a few “dream jobs,” including my current one. It was an educational journey to get there, though. There was this short-lived TV show called Quarterlife that was on when I was the correct age for it. It might have been a MySpace TV series. Was that a thing? Am I making this up? Anyway, it was bad, but I was feeling my own quarterlife crisis pretty hard and I watched the first episode with interest. Our hero was an early-20s woman working in some low-level position at a women’s magazine, and that’s where it lost me. I would have KILLED for a shitty entry-level job at a magazine. I was working a clerical job at a disability insurance company and in hindsight, it was *fine*, as jobs go. But I had a big ol’ chip on my shoulder about how I, with my equestrian science d...

It’s the right thing to do and it sucks.

When I was a kid, we went to my uncle’s house for Thanksgiving every year, which was pretty cool because he was the caretaker of a 4H camp. It was deserted in November, so we had free run of the place. We’d explore the stables, skip stones on the pond, try to get into the cabins (usually locked) and the mess hall (inexplicably not locked). We learned how to drive by being turned loose with the minivan on the one long road through the property. And we ate pie. Real Norman Rockwell stuff. I say all this to illustrate that I understand why a lot of Americans have warm fuzzies about Thanksgiving and tradition. I do, too. But it is just a day. There isn’t any law of nature that makes turkey and pie and family unavailable to you on days other than the third Thursday in November. If there were no end in sight for the pandemic, I’d understand why so many otherwise conscientious people are doing Thanksgiving travel and in-person gatherings. But there are vaccines on the horizon. Yes, it’s goi...

Maybe I'll Start a Blog

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