This month marks 15 years I’ve been posting here at Mighty Girl!
I found out about blogging because I was an Associate Editor at Web Techniques Magazine, and someone wrote a sidebar about a Web app called Blogger. When I started, this was a Geocities site with no photos, no name attached (because who knows what dangers lurk on the Interwebs), and mostly tweet-length posts. A link in Jason Kottke’s blogroll crashed my site, so I got my own domain.
Many years before Ev founded Twitter, our magazine paid for a server so his service Blogger could keep existing. Most of the editors had blogs hosted on Blogger, and their eventual acquisition by Google was distant on the horizon.
Then came Flickr, and Facebook, and Twitter, and Tumblr, Instagram, and Snapchat, and Pinterest — all the fun places that make it a little less worthwhile to host your own site.
But fifteen years later, this little URL is still such a nice place to be. I’ve met so many of you through Mighty Girl, and there are even more of you I’ve bookmarked. I check in, follow your narrative, and remember your history. Thank you for still coming by every so often to check in on me too.
Hooray for the Internet! I say hooray.
Every few weeks, I check in with Tina’s site, Swiss Miss, and feel an urge to repost everything. Some recent highlights.
Same Song in 15 Places is beautiful. I’d watch a dozen more:
A tea bag that’s also a marionette.
Wowwowowow. Abandoned Soviet Space Center with two unfinished shuttles inside.
Getting Past Status Anxiety got me thinking.
Random plant mutations, or a result of the Fukushima nuclear disaster in Japan? We’re not sure.
Sarah Hepola is a friend, one of the early writers over at The Morning News, where they just did an interview with her. I haven’t seen her in years, but I always hoped she would write a book one day. Here it is! And it just made the New York Times Bestseller List. Fucking-a-right it did. Huge Congrats, Sepola. You moved all those bricks into a very pretty pile.
The best parts of Sarah Hepola’s Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget:
…if you’re like me, you know the thunderbolt of waking up to discover a blank space where pivotal scenes should be. My evenings come with trapdoors.
“I’m not angry,” I told her.
“Then what are you?” she asked.
I thought maybe I was bad.
Even my food co-op mother bought a book listing calorie counts, and I memorized those entries like Bible passages. I couldn’t tell you much about John 3:16, but I knew Blueberry Muffin: 426.
I’m not going to say I faked orgasms. That sounds intentional. As if I knew what an orgasm felt like, and I purposefully pretended to be having one. It was more like: Orgasms happen when you’re with men. You’re with a man now. Are you having an orgasm? Probably so! I learned in to these swells of pleasure with loud gasps and moans as if, by moving my arms and legs frantically enough, I might somehow learn to surf.
I knew online dating would come for me someday. It was the fate of all single women in their late 30s to stare down a personal profile, and as far as punishments go, this was fairly benign. Once, my type faced spinsterhood and destitution. Now I had to walk into the gallows of OK Cupid and drum up a good attitude about emoticons.
“You’re a contrarian,” I told him, licking grease off my fingers.
“Is that good?” he asked. “I want to be the thing that you like.”
And it was the first time someone had said this to me, but I recognized it as my driving motto for the past 25 years. It was nice to be on the other side for a change.
I liked talking about writing much more than actually writing, which is an unspeakably boring and laborious activity, like moving a pile of bricks fro one side of the room to the other.
…a glass of champagne, throwing its confetti in the air…
What mattered was that I was doing something I wanted to do instead of merely talking about it.
I wish belief didn’t feel like a choice between blind faith and blanket disavowal. I’m a little freaked out by the certainty on either side.
Then Ozzy came along, and now I’m shedding like collie on a hot summer day. I leave a wash of hair in my wake. I find strands in the baby’s fists, between my toes, joining forces on the hardwood floor. My head feels lighter.