So I was sitting in a work meeting this morning, scribbling notes on a very old notebook that is branded with a very old logo of a Giant Multinational Corporation's Website For Laaaaaadies that courted my blogging services, once upon a time. (I just checked and the site still exists, albeit with a different logo, so presumably they were able to find some bloggers who were willing to work in exchange for free notebooks.)
Only about six pages of the notebook have anything written on them, which is about my going attention span for every notebook or journal I have ever owned. I dream dreamy dreams about keeping orderly household lists and a running log of post/column ideas...maybe even experimenting with some short stories or book ideas, until I get bored and hand-crampy and my handwriting devolves into the chicken scratch of a serial killer.
(Same with dayplanners. I'm completely over them by March. But then December rolls around and the siren call of calendars and tabbed pages and preprinted lines for my to-do lists proves irresistable once again.)
I paged through those six pages and was horrified to realize that oh my God, it's a blog post I wrote on a plane back in 2006. There's handwritten CAPS LOCK there, for Christ's sake. And. Sentences. Like. This.
Next — and here's where my coworkers probably wondered if I ever dabbled in erotic fanfiction or something, because my face flushed beet red when I realized what I was reading — there are several pages of character descriptions and plot outlines for a book idea I had once. A terrible, no-good book idea, by the way. Just all kinds of trite and predictable. About a girl! A girl with a blog! Who blogs things and then you are reading those things and also about the girl and I dunno, hijinks or conflict or some shit.
(Note that I never actually finished the plot outline, so it was very Step 1: Decide to write book, Step 2: ????, Step 3: PROFIT.)
(Although, if I swapped the girl for a dog and the book for a TV script, I could've sold that, no problem. To the same parent company of the website that offered to pay me in notebooks! It's all so circular!)
(PERHAPS I'VE SAID TOO MUCH.)
I'm not entirely sure why reading those handwritten pages was so extraordinarily cringe-worthy. I mean, what the hell do I think my blog archives read like, after all? (Don't answer that.) (Also: DON'T READ THEM.) And it's not like I've really grown or learned anything here, because my first impulse was "hahahahaaaa I have to tell the Internet what a dumbass I was."
The Internet: Oh honey, we already know. We've known for a long, long time.
Amy: Okay. Then I now feel comfortable enough to tell you that after showing up to a meeting with a notebook full of demented, seven-year-old ramblings, a coworker commented on how tired I looked. At first I was like, gee, THANKS. But then I looked in the mirror and realized that while I'd remembered my foundation primer, I'd forgotten to put on my actual foundation. Or powder or concealer of any sort. I'd gotten distracted by the kids this morning and apparently just...kinda never completed a couple of important steps before getting in the car.
So actually, "tired" was an upgrade. As a seasoned professional writer, I would have gone with "exhausted." "Haggard." "A pale, porous oil slick." Or something like "Oh god kill it with fire."
Anyway, that's been my day so far. All very clearly worth documenting for posterity and stuff. How's your day going? Are you wearing makeup? (Might want to go double-check.) Everybody remember their car keys? Pants? Awesome. High fives all around.