I’d like to think of myself as a loyal person, but once you begin to stack the evidence against me, I guess I’m really not. I have a bit of a roving eye, seemingly never satisfied with what I’ve got at the moment. Many relationships have been cut short when I abruptly left for something better. It’s a terrible character flaw, I know, but I assure you that I have been trying very hard to change. That’s why, despite my overwhelming fear of commitment, I intend to stick with this blog.

When I was young and capricious, I blew through the Livejournal and Blurty platforms before I even spent enough time with them to ever feel attached. They just didn’t meet my needs. Sure, using little hamsters to illustrate my present mood was cute . . . for a short time . . . but I wanted more than that.

Eventually I stumbled upon AOL Journals. I liked the platform. The design wasn’t anything spectacular, but it was a step up from what I had been using in the past. I started a blog there called Cynicism As an Art Form. I wrote about my Bohemian life as a starving artist and shared my experiences working in community theatre. I also wrote about an imaginary llama named Fletcher that lived in my pantry. Fletcher was probably more popular than I was. People found the stories and commented. The interactive aspect got me hooked.

Cynicism and I were like peas and carrots. I enjoyed writing, I had a good group of readers, and I was starting to earn some attention. The blog was featured by AOL on their journal front page or something like that for about a week. That was when I started getting negative comments.

My self-esteem has always sucked ass, so the hatefulness of these people bothered me tremendously. I began to second guess anything I wrote, afraid to offend people. Shortly after that I deleted the whole blog.

Before long the addiction called me back and I started a second AOL Journal called Facetious. That one didn’t last nearly as long. Life got in the way of blogging. The journal was neglected. Eventually it disappeared.

Next came Unrequited, which cataloged my dating misadventures. Things were going well, and then AOL pissed me off. They booted one of my favorite bloggers for “offensive content.” (They had an issue with a comic something like this.) THEN they started talking about putting ads on all the blogs. The controversy sent me straight into the arms of Blogger.

Most people knew me on Blogger as “Rabbit” where I wrote a blog called Two Thoughts Before the Epiphany. All was well and good until I suffered a bout of depression. I had always kept my blog content lighthearted, so I felt like I couldn’t post any of my thoughts or feelings. Two Thoughts didn’t want to know the real me, just the fun me. It got deleted.

Being the blog-whore I am, several weeks later I was back with Everyone Loves an Underdog. I thought that was it. I thought Underdog was The One. Come hell or high water, I was ready to live out the rest my days blogging there.

Then someone I knew started reading it and began to email me about how he knew all my “innermost thoughts.” Creepy! That was the end of Underdog.

After that I pretty much gave up on blogging. When I started TouchedByMadness it was a private blog hosted on WordPress. I kept it just for me so I’d have a place to store all my favorite stories. Then I started taking my HTML class and needed to figure out what kind of website to build for the course. Hmmmm. What type of site would be a good fit for me? And where would I ever come up with content?

So here I am. Again. With a new blog. Again.

But this time I am ready for the commitment. I’ve invested time and money into my own domain and hosting. I’ve done a little SEO optimization. I’ve even made it through my first WordPress upgrade. AND I can futz around with the design to my heart’s content. I’ve got it all, baby.

Plus, if I change blogs one more time, somebody is going to kick my ass.

This post is part of the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, and is meant to generate donations for The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN).

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The Captain and I had been together nearly three years when he invited me to move in with him. I had mixed feelings on cohabitation at the time. If my younger sister hadn’t long since decided to shack up with her boyfriend, I might have refused for fear of offending my parents. As I mentioned before, growing up my mother cautioned us that premarital sex was the surest way to secure an afterlife of eternal damnation. Surprisingly, she was quite excited for me when I revealed my plans to make the Captain’s home mine as well. I am fairly certain that this abrupt change in principles is due to the fact that she’d prefer a grandchild over my salvation.

With Mom on my side (and apparently praying for me to get knocked up), I took up residence in my new home Catholic-guilt free. Too easy. As far as I was concerned, everything worked out perfectly.

That is when I stopped receiving mail.

I had filed my change of address forms with the USPS (and my bank, credit cards, the DMV, etc.) about a week and a half before my actual move to prevent any serious delays with my mail. For the first couple weeks I didn’t pay much attention to the sudden cessation of flyers and loan offers. But after a month, I suspected there was an issue and called the local post office.

The man who answered the phone was very friendly until I informed him, “I’m not receiving my mail.”

“Then you’re not getting any.”

“No, I’m quite sure I should have gotten mail by now. I think there’s a problem.”

“Look, if you’re not getting mail it’s because no one is sending you mail. We don’t hoard your mail. What we have, we deliver!”

“I understand that, but I haven’t even been receiving my weekly pay stubs. So you see, I know I should be getting mail, but it’s not arriving here.”

At this point the man realized that I most likely had a valid argument and stopped to think instead of yelling at me. He asked where I lived, had some revelation about “rural routes,” and directed me to call the post office the next town over.

Again, I called the post office and explained my situation. They put my mail carrier on the line.

“Yes, Miss Willets. I have all your mail.”

“Excellent! When are you going to deliver it?”

“When you move in.”

“Uh . . . but I have. I’ve been living here for about a month.”

“You must be mistaken. My records show that the Captain is still living at that house.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can’t deliver your mail until he moves out.”

“Um . . . but . . . yeah, you see, he’s not moving out.”

“Well then how would THAT work?” she snapped.

Long pause.

“. . . Ohhhhhhhhhh.”

Very long awkward pause.

She then explained to me that because I live on a rural route I would have to fill out a special card requesting service. I also had to make sure to list my name AND the Captain’s name as mail recipients because since we didn’t share a last name, I wouldn’t be able to get my mail otherwise.

A simple “Welcome to the neighborhood” might have been nice.

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DONATE TO RAINN HERE. And if you’re feeling especially generous, please mention the GBBMC:08 and my name & blog in the “donation in honor of” field. Thanks for your support!

On my way home from work yesterday I decided to stop by Staples for a new mouse pad and some other equally unexciting office supplies. No big deal, right?

That’s what I thought until my seventh pass through the store when a salesperson, perhaps sick of listening to click-clack of my heels, finally asked, “Miss, can I help you with something?”

“Actually, yeah,” I answered. “Do you guys sell laser pointers?”

“Oh yes,” he said, suddenly lowering his voice to a near whisper, “but we keep them locked up under the counter. You’ll have to go to the Service Desk for that.”

I decided to ignore his strange look and the unnecessary emphasis on Service Desk. “Thanks,” I said and headed in the direction of the counter.

“Wait!” he said. “You are over eighteen, aren’t you?”

“Yes, quite a bit so,” I replied with an uneasy laugh. What did it matter? I wanted a laser pointer, not porn.

When I got to the Service Desk, a middle-aged woman greeted me. “What kind were you looking for?” she asked.

The kind that emits a laser? Makes a small red dot on a distant surface? So you can point at things? Sound familiar?

She answered my look of confusion with “Smooth? Textured? Special –”

“Uh . . . the regular kind?”

She began to pull out several nondescript brown cardboard boxes. “Hmmm, the regular kind,” she said as she dumped out laser pointers all over the counter. She clearly didn’t find what she wanted and emptied another box. “Well, we used to have an $18 model, but I think we’re all out,” she explained as she littered the counter with a third pile. She picked one out. “I think this is the next one up. It has a comfort grip and the batteries are included.” People began to gather behind me. “Can we get a price check on this green ribbed one?” she yelled to the salesperson all of four feet away. Folks craned their necks to see what special instrument I was so interested in. Inexplicably, I could feel my face redden. “Price check on –”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s great,” I replied, grabbing the pointer and dodging through the crowd.

I ducked behind Register #2, safe from the judgmental stares of the scandalized Staples shoppers.

“How are you today?” the cashier asked.

“Fine, thanks,” I said, dumping my purchases on the counter.

She held up the laser pointer, “What do you plan to use this for?” she asked with a sly smile.

Surprised and flustered, I sputtered out, “For work . . . to . . .” and completely forgetting how to speak, pantomimed using a laser pointer using jerky, manic movements.

She gave me that look that says, “I know you’re full of shit, but whatever.”

“Ha ha,” I forced a laugh. “Is there some other use I don’t know about?” What did this crazy woman think I wanted it for? Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten the model with the “comfort grip” handle after all.

“Well . . .” she said, leaning towards me as if she had a most amazing piece of sensational gossip. “You wouldn’t believe how many people buy these for their cats.”

“Ha! Their cats? Really?”

(Busted.)

This post is part of the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, and is meant to generate donations for The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN).

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There was a time in my life (not so very long ago) when I truly believed that my sex appeal could be rated somewhere below that of a geriatric stripper. I have since realized that I was dating all the wrong men. Men who loved me like a sister. Men who “respected” me too much. Men that never even considered finding and pocketing a pair of my underwear.

At a certain point, that becomes bad for the self-esteem.

I recall one night in particular when I decided to make an attempt at being seductive. I wore something curve-accentuating, put on make-up and perfume, and dimmed all the lights. When my then-boyfriend arrived, I opened the door just a bit and leaned against the frame. Blocking the entrance with my body, I asked him suggestively, “What’s the password?”

He stared at me dumbfounded for a moment. Then he answered, thoroughly disoriented, “Um . . . camel?”

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DONATE TO RAINN HERE. And if you’re feeling especially generous, please mention the GBBMC:08 and my blog in the “donation in honor of” field. Thanks for your support!

I remember the days when I bought only whatever food was on special at the local supermarket, when I was barely able to make minimum payments on my credit cards, and when my “nice” clothes came from Target. It sucked living paycheck to paycheck. There’s no doubt about that. But there was one small (yet significant) benefit to being dirt poor . . .

I actually got a tax refund.

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