Things I can't blog about

The blog-o-sphere is a strange land. I find myself stumbling through this new space, as I discover exactly how to best navigate. What is the best time to blog? How many posts per week can I manage? How can I get more followers? What is the best place to blog, kitchen or coffee shop? How much "blooper" and how much "real" should each post contain?

Most importantly, though, the question that every blogger faces, every time they post: what makes the best blog topic? What am I comfortable posting on the internet, up for all to view, judge, and (gasp!) discard? My name is on my blog, and my readership of approximately nine includes some family, friends, and co-workers. Anonymity is not mine. There are real consequences to what I post to the internet; do I want everyone to know what my Saturday night was like? Do I want people to know my failures, my successes, what makes me just like them, and what makes me different? How personal should I go?

As I negotiate the answers to these dilemmas, I pass up dozens of hilarious potential posts. I am finding that the topics with the most comedic potential can also be the most personal. Here is a brief list of them*, and my lamentations on their exclusion from The Blooperrealist:

• I will not blog about the dumb thing that you said yesterday, or the crazy outfit you wore last weekend. But know that I noted both. Duly.
• I will not blog about how great I think I am. Though, that my blog exists already blows that cover. I suppose now it has been directly and indirectly acknowledged.
• I will not blog about workplace issues. Because there are none.
• I will not blog about my "texts from last night." Considering peoples' obvious propensity to laugh at others' follies, this is a particularly tough loss for The Blooperrealist. If only I could check my shame at the door. Oh, the material I surrender here.
• I will not blog about dates I want to go on, or have had. Because then you'll send them the link and I will be alone forever. On a similar note, I will not blog about ex-boyfriends. Because you know them.
  
• I will not blog about life epiphanies that I have. Because you probably realized the same thing, but, like, five years ago, and now I'm stupid and slow.

The hilarity of these topics makes me contemplate launching an anonymous blog. If I do, you probably won't hear about it (until I become rich and famous and my blog has become a book and everyone in the world, not just you nine, knows how stupid and slow and shameless and egotistical I am. Ah, to dream).

I guess some things are meant for Sunday brunch discussions. See you there.

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*For every bullet on this list, there are, of course three more that did not even make this cut. Let your imagination wander.

I did, in fact, elf myself

I did several things to prepare for the Santa Speedo Run. These things did not include eating light and healthy foods for the week or two before race day (in fact, I had bacon-wrapped meat on two separate occassions in the past four days). Also absent on this list was visiting the gym at all in the past ten days. My preparation focused on finding two important, and delicate, balances, both of which centered around my warmth.

The first balance that I pondered was with regard to my outfit, which would dictate my "outer warmth". The powers that be at the Santa Speedo Run headquarters stipulate the following attire guidelines:

• Obviously, a Speedo-like bathing suit is required. Holiday colors are preferred. Please, no thongs! We know you have the body to pull it off, so why prove what's obvious?
• Santa hat, beard and other holiday flair at your discretion

Since my dreams of parading down Newbury Street in a velour/faux fur thong were crushed, I focused on preparing an outfit that would strike the appropriate balance between keeping me warm, and still appearing Speedo-like. All that, with holiday flair. Delicate indeed.

My original vision included a Will Ferrell-inspired elf costume, because, well, smiling is my favorite, too. And because then I'd get to wear tights. I opted for knee-high, red and white striped socks that called attention to my glue-gun and felt elf boots. I attempted to add a bell to the points, but the weight of the bells crushed the formless felt. Unfortunately, I did not get to jingle while I ran. The outfit itself consisted of a green sports bra and a short skirt I sewed out of a t-shirt. Warm(ish), Speedo-like, and festive. Success.

The second balance that I toyed with was with regard to my "inner warmth." On race day, this x-factor was directly related to pre-race libations. How much Jim Beam was necessary for a holiday tingle that would distract me from the 20-degree wind chill? How much would be too much? An attempt to control one's humors is always delicate, and this case was no exception. It did end in success.

In all, time well spent in preparation for a hugely fun outing. The only thing missing were the bells. Next year.

It is time

Sequined argyle: Hip or hypocritical?

I am going to the Lady Gaga concert in Boston on Tuesday. Fame Monster, here I come. You may be thinking, "Oh my God! What are you going to wear?" Survey says that this is the most popular thing for a person to ask me after I've delivered this news.

It is beyond me why the first question is never, "Oh my God! Why did you waste your money?" Let's be real. The live version of "Paparazzi" will be half as good -- no, let's go with twice as bad -- as the studio version. Will she or won't she lip sync? This is the most pressing musical choice Gaga faces.

I would be stupid to go see Gaga expecting a musical showcase. Half of her lyrics (and even her name) are complete jibberish. Instead, I am expecting a more circus-like performance, in which -- let's be honest -- motley's the only wear. Clearly, the main point of this outing is to look and act like a fool. Or, at the very least, to witness others' -- namely, Gaga's -- follies. What will she do next? What will she wear? Will she be a man or a woman? It's almost Shakespearean.

Costume and over-indulgence will abound and I, for one, will enjoy my view. I can't brag about a fabulous costume or outfit, but I do have a shirt selected that will be subtly entertaining. It is black, with black and silver sequins on it, in an argyle pattern. Yep, sequined argyle: Preppy school girl meets night club. Pretty sure that's what the Scots had in mind.

Wishing on a hug

Last summer, I publicly declared that I require three hugs per day. I suppose this proclamation came about upon recognizing the void left in my life after years of living in such close quarters with my friends that I felt comfortable slapping their asses to congratulate them -- or just to say hi, and waking them up by jumping on them in bed (sorry, but it was time for brunch).

That summer was a glorious one, full of hugs and squeezes of all styles and sizes. Most days, I surpassed my daily goal of three and floated, wide-eyed, in my hug-haven. This daily quota of three hugs quickly solidified as a key constituent in my happiness. I also came to the conclusion that I must have been coddled too much as a child.*

People in my office, like those in offices all around the world, have things at their desk to attract visitors. One co-worker has a large bowl of trail mix on her desk, which means that I am at her desk around six times per day. Seven when there are M&Ms in it. We have become friends.

What is my contribution to the workplace? Tissues. I have a square box of tissues that reads on one side, "I'm there when you need to pick up icky things." Another side reads, "I'm there when you run out of toilet paper." This is how I bribe people to visit me.

Today, the day before Thanksgiving, and a four-day break from the office, wishes of a happy holiday were frequent, and people skipped around the office in anticipation of family and pie. Chatter, laughter, and desk visitors were above average. A co-worker came to my desk at the end of the day. As I noticed her presence at my side, I turned in my mobile chair to face her. She reached out an arm, and I excitedly rose out of my chair, expecting my first-ever workplace hug. As I stood up, she turned to me, startled, and I fell back into my chair.

As it turned out, she just needed to pick up something icky. And now I am the office creeper.
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*My mother has recently confirmed this.