Three... No, FIVE Followers Wonder: Who Is This Jaded Jade?

"I've wanted more than anything to have your respect. The first time I didn't feel it, but this time I feel it, and I can't deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me!"

To think I mocked along with the hoi polloi. Now I understand. At last, I'm breathing the rarified air that comes with having people who like you.

Three FIVE followers.

I know next to nothing about blogs or the blogosphere, but it certainly seems as if everyone has a blog for their family photos, travels, hobby, lizard club, etc., which loyal friends and family members dutifully read and comment upon. But since my husband already has to live it and so apparently has no desire to revisit all the fun in cyberspace, and my mother's response was, "I think I recognize your neighbors," and, "It will be good practice," and pretty much everyone I know around here is fodder for the grist, it seemed safe to assume that my blog would remain unknown to all but that loyal friend who silently and invisibly subscribes. I was sure this would be just fine, as I am writing primarily to avoid parenting, Pentecostals, and expensive therapy while filling the hours until I can justify a gin and tonic.


But now that I have three FIVE followers, some of whom I DON'T EVEN KNOW, I begin to wonder how this comes across. I imagine I sound snarky, bitter, possibly even condescending towards all that is The South (unless you read that first post where I mention the things I dig, like pork barbeque. I really dig pork barbeque.) Not to mention blasphemous, alcoholic and a poor maternal role model.

And most importantly, what do people think I look like? 

Surely there must be something about my appearance that screams WEIRD? Something that sets me apart from the ladies here before I even have the chance to open my heathen mouth and shove my flappy foreign foot in it? Things like unusual facial piercings, aubergine highlights, knuckle prison tats, etc.? Why else would I be a self-proclaimed West Coast freak?

Sadly not. I'm well inside the normal range for many suburban mothers: Not being orbited by any moons or satellites just yet, but there's definitely more of me than there used to be. (Can we go with "on the chubby side"?) Not completely sloppy, but it's safe to say I won't be making the Splendaville Sentinel fashion pages anytime soon. An average day might include Old Navy cargo pants (stretch waistband mandatory) and a Target t-shirt.

Brown hair, glasses when I can't be bothered with the contacts, (so, glasses) and a varicose vein (thank you, Phartacus and Slappy) complete the picture. I think I'm still reasonably attractive, (because didn't that sound attractive?) but my days of car wash and construction site leers are well past. In other words, like many women my age, I'm invisible (but that's a whole other post!)

So, though I'm not dolled up like a proper Southern gal, I don't think I look like the kind of person who would necessarily cause controversy or spout outrageous things. It was surprising to me that I seemed to be so controversial here, and after numerous social flops I developed a healthy, self-preservationist case of sour grapes and snark. I also realized I ought to keep my big fat mouth shut a whole lot more, and find another outlet. Hello, blog!

O, five followers who have lifted me up to these dizzying heights, I do possess a secret marshmallow center. I love kittens and Christmas, piña coladas and getting caught in the rain... whoops. I like all that stop-and-smell-the-roses sentimental hooey, but where's the fun in that? You don't come here for that, do you? If you're hoping to witness a story of personal growth, stay tuned. Maybe once I get this all out of my system I'll start posting about my heirloom tomatoes and restored Colonial Revival furniture.