Side saddle

Kidz, it’s been way too many ages and aeons and peons and peonies and pipsqueaks since I really posted here, and so much has changed since I last haunted these halls on a regular basis. I’m not one for revealing intimate (oooh!) personal details here for the world to see, not for airing laundry whether dirty or clean or a little bit of both, so I won’t go into how different my life is from when I used to post here every day way back before Facebook broke out like an oily-faced teenage before the advent of Stridex. (Does that stuff still even exist?)
I’m more active on Facebook than I ever thought I would be, but there you are privy to slightly more intimate details of my life on a more by-invitation-only kind of basis. There, you get to peek up my skirt only when I want you to, and how far up you go is also at my discretion. This is, of course, metaphorically speaking, because I wear pants more often than skirts — indeed, if we’re going to get technical, I never wear skirts, I wear dresses — but hey, if you want to try to peek up the leg of my jeans, by all means, like, GO FOR IT like gangbusters.
This much I will reveal: I am no longer a lady who lunches. I have neither the time nor the inclination nor the zloty with which to do it. And now that everyone and his brother’s plumber’s pumpernickel bread baker’s daughter is posting photos of lunch, no matter how pallid and boring or vibrant and fabulous via Facebook, that’s gotten pretty stale.
I’m not sure what 2013 will bring — maybe an update of the template, at least, a site redesign to spur me into action? Could it be that the old house is so shabby and static that it needs a revamping, a jolt of, like, FENG SHUI or a smudging? I don’t know. I just work here.
But something’s afoot. Pants are being kicked. I think I’m back.

0 thoughts on “Side saddle

  1. Jodi,
    Roses, while lovely, are just flowers.
    I would, however, plant soft kisses on your pink tulips as greedily as ever.

  2. I remember this place… It’s where I used to come to for buttery, bute-sized bits of tender bitchiness.
    Ding dong the bitch is dead?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.