I want

This month's nablopomo theme was want. I think I covered a lot of ground over the last four weeks - things I want to do, places I want to travel, things I want to be, things I don't want in my life right now, the recovery I want to happen much more quickly than it is. In short, I want to return to my normal life - pre-mono, pre-leaving for New York, pre-dad getting sick.

I want to feel well again, and to be able to spend a beautiful winter day hiking in the Headlands, or riding through the Park, or just sitting outside somewhere and enjoying the city. While I was in New York I wanted so badly to come home. Now that I'm here, I want to be able to enjoy it. And at the end of the day, I want to be able to call my dad and tell him about it. But, well, I can't have everything.

It never rains in Southern California

My suitcase is packed, I have snacks for the trip, and after a quick stop to purchase surgical masks to wear on the plane, I'm ready to fly south for the weekend. I haven't heard from my doctor yet, so I'm assuming she has no concerns about my being briefly airborne.

And yes, I'll make sure somebody takes a photo of me wearing my beautiful blue mask. It's guaranteed to repel dust, smoke, pollen, and germs. And it may keep the seats next to mine free.

My last sunny day

On the beach at Bodega Bay on New Year's Day. I was too sick to do more than nap on the beach that afternoon, but sitting in the sunshine was fabulous.

More from the mono chronicles

I'm supposed to be getting on a plane tomorrow afternoon. After weeks of waffling, of being unsure if I should go to this conference, I was finally getting excited about it last week.

On Monday, I had to call my doctor's office to check on the results of some blood tests. I decided to also ask if I should take any precautions while traveling in order to protect my enlarged spleen. I figured, if I shouldn't be flying, I wanted to know about it with enough time to make other arrangements.

My doctor had hours on Monday afternoon, but wasn't able to get in touch with me. Yesterday, I spoke with a nurse from her office. All of my blood work came back normal, but this nurse had a small freak out when she saw the part of my message to my doctor asking about my travels. First, she insisted I drive. Then she said the flu virus was really bad this year and I really shouldn't travel. Then she worked herself into quite a tizzy telling me what I could do to prevent picking up any germs on the flight.

And she succeeded in making me really mad. I'm already fastidious about my health, but I'm walking a fine line between careful and un-healthily compulsive. I'd like to stay on the healthy side of that line, thanks, and this nurse's lecture did not help my quest.

Today is my 60th day of mono. My spleen is still occasionally uncomfortable. I'm still sleeping a lot. I'm still feeling kind of blah. I'm far from back to my normal life. But I've already given up the last several months of my life, and, at this point, I fail to see any benefit to staying home this weekend. I can't participate in all of the Congress events. I can't get up early or stay out late. I can't take full advantage of this awesome opportunity. But I will surely get much more out of this weekend away - in a place where the sun is shining - than I will staying at home in the rain being bummed out that I can't travel.

And that is the reasoned argument I will offer my doctor today. And if I don't hear from her by the time I need to check in for my flight this evening, I will have to assume that I can safely travel as long as I'm careful.

The coffee is strong at the Cafe du Monde, and the beignets are too hot to touch*

Eleven years ago, I sat at the Cafe du Monde in the French Quarter of New Orleans, eating beignets and drinking hot chocolate. My coffee-drinking friends can attest to the fabulousness of the coffee. I can just say that my Mardi Gras experience in 1998 was terrific. Even if we took our road trip in the months BEFORE most of us turned 21, just months AFTER the French Quarter raised its drinking age TO 21.

Yeah, some of our research wasn't top notch.

That trip was a crazy week of driving and camping and actually sleeping through the earliest of the Fat Tuesday parades because we didn't hear our watch alarms go off.

We were exhausted, but we had a blast.

That week seems like it happened decades ago. I don't know that I'll ever go back to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, but I'm so glad we decided to skip class for four days to make that crazy trip in my friend's mom's minivan.

Happy Fat Tuesday!

*With thanks to Jimmy Buffett for telling us where we should eat breakfast!

The Lent of Excess

Lent starts on Wednesday. The 40-day period of repentance and sacrifice in preparation for the death and rising of Christ is always a good time to renew some of those New Year's resolutions that didn't quite make it into February, or to return to diets or exercise plans that didn't survive the holidays.

But not for me. At least not this year. For quick review, in the past two months, I've already had to give up socializing, working out, walking, drinking, traveling, late nights, early morning, and most of the foods I enjoy because I'm not well enough to cook yet or to go out to eat often. It's hard to clean my apartment, impossible to do the laundry, and not yet within my comfort zone to go to the grocery store.

I think this is a little more sacrifice than even the modern-day Catholic Church had in mind, so I'm taking a pass on Lent this year. And hoping I don't have to wait another 40 days for a beer.

Beverage in a bowl

I went to brunch today in Rockridge with a friend and drank the largest bowl of hot chocolate I've ever seen. This bowl was so big that my face became obstructed by it every time I took a sip. Seriously. Take a look:

Now faithful readers may remember by brunch with MM in New York City, and her coffee in a bowl. I've decided that my next mission in life is to seek out establishments that serve beverages in bowls and consume them. Next up? Revisiting the Scorpion Bowl.

But I wanna go to BlogHer

My dad and my sister share a birthday. This year, the birthday weekend coincides with BlogHer. BlogHer is in Chicago this year. My sister does not live near Chicago. And my dad will obviously not be at her birthday party.

I'm trying really hard not to be conflicted about it, and not to whine, but of the little I'd planned to do this year, BlogHer was at the top of the list. Higher on the list than the half marathon I probably can't walk, and the professional conference I couldn't attend, and the triathlon I can't compete in, all because of the mono.

BlogHer was my carrot on a stick for putting up with a rough year and a lousy job situation. I was planning a little vacation around it, my first in a few years. Last year's conference was transformative, and this year held so much promise. Chicago! I've been trying to get there since 2004. And seeing all the friends I made last year. And making new friends. And some really cool perks. And an awesome community.

And yeah, it'll all be there next year. But I am so tired of having to wait until next year.

Un-just rewards

When I left San Francisco for my parents' house in November, friends repeatedly told me how courageous I was being. To be honest, I didn't see much bravery in going home to be with my dad while he died. My parents would do anything for me, and I had a small opportunity to do something for them, so I seized it.

The struggle to get to New York was intense. The bureaucracy, the uncooperative colleagues, the mis-information and work I had to do that was really the job of other people. I sat on the phone with my dad one night in early November sobbing because the whole process was so difficult. "Dad, it's not like I'm coming home so we can go on vacation," I remember saying to him.

But in the end I made it work. I completed all the paperwork and got colleagues to donate their precious vacation days to me, and I was able to take almost all of those five weeks off with pay. and I am proud of how well I was able to do all on my own, with no support from my boss or coworkers.

But I'd have done it anyway. I'd have gone home even if it meant not getting paid and losing my benefits for the time I was away. Even if it meant losing my job.

And I'm definitely not expecting any rewards for my actions. Parents die every day. I'm very lucky I had the time to say goodbye, but my situation isn't really out of the ordinary. Sure, I could have used some time off to grieve instead of six weeks with mono, but that's life. I have no expectation of pats on the back for a job well done. But I do expect some respect for the fact that I did just spend four weeks watching my father die. And instead I've gotten hassled at every turn since the day my dad died. And I can mostly handle the nasty emails and the snide colleagues and the blatant disregard for my feelings and my health.

But today I found out that my short-term disability claim was rejected because I hadn't been out sick long enough to qualify. So now, despite the money deducted from my paycheck each month for the disability coverage, I won't get paid for the month I was too ill to work.

I think the system has now officially fucked me over at every opportunity.

I'm noticing a photo Thursday theme around here lately

This is my dad and myself in the black and white years, reading the newspaper while probably watching the evening news.

Eight mostly fabulous years

Eight years ago this week, my dad flew into Roswell on a lousy little puddle jumper that bounced him around between Albuquerque and the Roswell Air Field. He helped me pack the U-Haul and sell my bicycle. He hung around while I said goodbye to the few friends still in town and bade my last farewell to my apartment complex with a pool.

And then we made our way from New Mexico through Arizona and into California. It took four long days to drive into the parking lot of the Redwood City hotel I'd chosen as our base while I looked for an apartment and got familiar with San Mateo County - where I would work for the next year and a half.

The day after I'd signed a lease on a studio in San Mateo, I drove dad to the airport. I'd never seen such rain as that weekend afternoon, and the wind almost blew me off of the freeway. The next day, as I was unpacking photos of my family, I experienced my first earthquake. I could actually see the floor ripple as the earthquake rolled through my new apartment. I immediately called my parents and grandma to tell them about it.

In the months after that trip, I wondered if it had really happened. Had I really spent that week with my dad, packing up and then moving in and completely changing my life for a job I knew nothing about in a place where I knew nobody? Was I really finally living in California, something I'd planned and dreamed about for years?

As I sit in my apartment today, looking out the window to the skyscrapers of downtown, I can say with certainty that I didn't think in those first few years that I'd make it this long. But I did: from San Mateo into the Sunset District and my little apartment by the beach. I survived roommate struggles and the rental boom and falling in love -and then breaking my heart - and a break in and countless moments in which I wondered if San Francisco was the right place for me.

And then in 2005, on the eve of my graduation from grad school, my dad mentioned a conversation we had in the car somewhere in Arizona. He told me I'd laid out a plan that included a job, then grad school, then a better job. And I'd done it all exactly like I said I would.

But eight years ago, as we were sitting in some diner in Kingman, Arizona, I wasn't quite sure if my adventure would have a happy ending. But I was thrilled that my dad came along for the ride.

Because anything sauteed in olive oil and garlic is terrific

Tonight I cooked spinach. I don't particularly like spinach, but I sauteed it in garlic and olive oil. Yeah, I'm on a bit of a healthy eating kick. I figure if I can't work out and I'm losing all my muscle mass, I can at least eat like Popeye now. Maybe it'll help me out when I can get back to the gym.

Laughter may provoke my aching spleen, but at least I'm not crying

I'm trying not to whine because yesterday and today were terrific days. But my spleen really, really hurts. And it's hard to laugh through a funny movie while holding my left side, as if to shield it from all the jostling, while trying to find a comfortable position in the movie theater seat.

But when I'm feeling better, I'm absolutely going back to the Kabuki for another movie in the bar balcony. And I'll be ordering a cocktail.

Even if I really wanted a cleaning lady, it's not in the budget

Maybe the rain prompted my brief cleaning frenzy. Or maybe I'm just disgusted with the clutter. So now the coffee table is clean and dusted, and all those papers and things are, well, at least elsewhere and no longer in my way. And the kitchen sink is finally clear of dirty dishes. And since I couldn't schedule a grocery delivery until tomorrow, the sink will stay clean for at least a day, because I'm pretty much out of food, and a quick trip to the store is out of the question. I've used up all of my energy on the cleaning.

But I feel a little better. I just wish I could tackle the dust bunnies under the chair and the clutter in the kitchen. But that will have to wait for another day. This long weekend would be the perfect time for all the cleaning and rearranging I want to do, but I'll have another three-day weekend next month. And maybe by then I'll be up to some serious scrubbing and washing.

But right now, I think it's time for a nap.

There's no crying in baseball, especially when witnesses are WATCHING your trainer stick a needle full of steroids in your ass

Pitchers and catchers have started reporting for duty. Jason Giambi has come out in support of Miguel Tejada and Alex Rodriguez's current steroid-induced legal troubles. And Friday evening the San Francisco Chronicle reported that Barry Bonds did indeed have somebody shoot him full of something while other people were watching. And they will testify. And he allegedly confessed to former Giants catcher Bobby Estalella, who will also testify.

Now, I've written before about my dismay at the abuse of steroids among professional athletes. But now seems the time to clue these guys into something that apparently consistently catches them unaware. Whether you're Jason Giambi or Barry Bonds or Michael Phelps, somebody is watching you swallow or shoot or smoke. And if you can't be certain you can trust your friends to keep their mouths shut, you should probably not do drugs in front of them.

Really, what happened to the classy days of the '70s, when disco queens used to snort or shoot up in the privacy of dance club bathrooms? Get a clue, boys. Your friends only have your back while the money is rolling in. But they'll take notes and hide tape recorders and shoot photos and gossip to their friends despite the nice perks of being your pal. And once you hit the off season or ponder retirement or can't get a minor league contract, "these friends" will quickly disappear, taking the emails, the recordings, the photos on their camera phones, and all of your "secrets" with them as they flee.

And then the investigations will start. And your endorsements will waiver. And you'll read about yourself on the front pages of papers worldwide. And, if you're really lucky, one day your ex-girlfriend - the one you were hiding from your wife and kids - will testify in open court that steroids made your testicles shrink.

So here's to the start of the 2009 baseball season. May it be the last season dogged by steroids and scandal.

2009: Tahoe or Bust!

I'm approaching my 8th anniversary in San Francisco, but I've never been to Tahoe. Storms, wildfires, and then a LACK OF SNOW have forced me to cancel several sets of travel plans over the past five years. But 2009 seems to be my lucky year. This year, I get to go twice. And I'm so excited!

Don't ask me where, because I have no idea of the specifics. But I'm going with friends on an annual trip in March. They will ski. I will not, but perhaps I'll be up to a little snow hiking. Or I can sit in the hot tub and perfect the art of building a fire.

In July, I'll be going with a group of girls who make a weekend out of some celebrity golf tournament. I don't really like golf, but the list of attending celebrities and professional athletes is impressive, and I can schmooze with former baseball players while hanging out with some cool friends.

And this trip totally makes up for the trip my ex-boyfriend planned and then backed out of - despite swank FREE accommodations and hookups for dinners and booze - because he didn't want to drive in the snow. Because this summer, I'm totally getting Kenny Lofton to buy me a drink.

Into the Wayback Machine

That's my dad with me on May 14, 1977. Please admire the very '70s sideburns and shirt collar.

Letting It Go

A week ago, I sent an email to a friend. I haven't heard from this friend recently, and I wanted to find out why. Some significant events have happened in my life in the past few months, and I hoped and expected this friend could be with me through them.

So I sent that note a week ago. It was the culmination of many conversations with other people, lots of soul searching, and about a year's worth of frustration and disappointment. It was a nice note, not accusatory or nasty at all. But, if you know me well enough, you probably would have been able to detect a slight bit of snark between the lines.

It's been a week now, and the silence is deafening. But the message is pretty clear.

And I've decided to let it go. I don't generally Let Things Go with any ease. I'm stubborn and I harp on details and I descended from a long and practiced line of champion grudge-holders. And I know this circumstance could definitely involve significantly harsher feelings on my part. In fact, some will say I should hurl lots of hurtful, nasty words and threaten house fires and things. And I know they're right too. But today I'm trying something different. Yes, this is a hurtful situation for me. I am sad and angry. I don't make friends casually or easily, and once I decide to be your friend, you're pretty much stuck with me forever. I am very loyal.

But in surveying the world around me lately, I realize I have some tremendous people in my life. For all the horrible rottenness of 2008, it was a year of making good friendships better and making friends out of acquaintances. I am very blessed. And my energy is far better spent having fun with people I care about who also care about me, rather than being hurt by somebody who apparently is no longer interested. And if only one of us is shedding tears and losing sleep over the end of a friendship, then maybe it wasn't that much of a friendship after all.

I'm hoping that by putting this out into cyberspace, the letting go will be a little easier. If it's not, maybe somebody out there knows where to buy some voodoo dolls.

But do I really want to go?

Every year at the end of February or so, the Catholic Archdiocese of Los Angeles hosts the nation's largest gathering of Catholic lay ministers. I've been lucky enough to be able to go the past three years with other members of my choir, and it's awesome. We have a blast.

And I'll stop right here to chastise anyone who's laughing at me because I willingly spend my free time attending blogging and church music conferences. I absolutely accept that I'm a music nerd. And it's way more productive than those nights spent in dive bars or all of the afternoons I've recently given up to naps. And I'm pretty sure I can't go to BlogHer this year, and I'm really sad about it. So this is sort of my only feed-the-inner-geek conference opportunity this year. But I digress.

This year's Congress is at the end of February. I missed the early registration deadline because I wasn't paying any attention to it while I was in NY and then preoccupied with mono. I thought I might take a pass this year and offer my spot to somebody else. I wasn't sure I wanted to spend a weekend away. I wasn't sure I wanted to deal with the crowds. I wasn't sure I wanted to get on a plane.

And I didn't think I could spend the weekend immersed in incredible music and then not be able to call my dad and share it all with him. And I thought that was ridiculous, so I sent in my registration, and, despite the late date, was still able to get all of my first choice workshops.

And then I helped research accommodations. And then I found out I have a terrific roommate. And then we started planning dinners and other fun things while we're in Anaheim. And then I was really excited to go.

But now I'm not too sure. I feel pretty tired still, and I'm not sure I can handle a three-day event that will involve a little bit of walking and thousands of people jostling about. I'm concerned about getting sick again, because I have no immune system, and I'll be doing lots of flying and staying in a hotel and meeting lots of people. And our plans don't exactly involve a 9 pm curfew and bottomless glasses of Sprite.

And I can't even explain the hoops I'll have to jump through at work in order to be gone for a few days. My actions on that front might even be a little unethical.

But I've already bought my plane ticket. A group of us are on the same flight, and there's a good possibility we might be arrested as soon as we land in Santa Ana. I'm registered and the hotel is booked and I'd be ditching a great roommate and missing out on four of the best days of the year. And let's face it, the past year hasn't had a lot of good days.

So I guess the questions become: if I get tired, do you think David Haas would be insulted if I napped during his workshop? And if we do get arrested while disembarking at John Wayne Airport (or somewhere else along the way) can we call any of you for bail money?

So have you ever had your spleen palpated?

So you remember how I mentioned that a symptom of mono is that my spleen could rupture? I spent quite a considerable amount of time talking about this over the past several weeks. And all of you said it was impossible. There's nothing wrong with my spleen, many people told me several times.

Well, it didn't rupture, but my FABULOUS new doctor, in her exam today, discovered that it's really enlarged. And so is my liver. You're not supposed to feel either of those organs when you push on my abdomen, and I shouldn't have been wincing in pain during the exam.

But both happened. In fact, my spleen still really hurts, and I left the doctor's office about three hours ago.

So how about that? I'll continue to sit quietly on my couch for the time being, careful not to jostle any internal organs as I rest up. It looks like my recovery really is going to take awhile. But my spleen should feel better by morning.

I need a vacation

In the absence of anything witty to say, I present the I want to take a vacation edition of clairnation. I can't travel right now, but I can share some photos from one of my trips last September. Yosemite is one of my favorite places. Enjoy the photos!

My Saturday night rally cap

I have participated in two social events in the last six weeks. Two. I have friends in this city I haven't seen since November. That's going on three months now. I am going out of my mind. I have far exceeded my alone time quotient for the year.

So when a friend invited me to a Chinese New Year get together, I responded tentatively. I could perhaps make the early part of the evening, if I could figure out a way to get there without having to traipse the hills of Chinatown. I could get to the bar early, grab a stool, and watch the festivities while sipping a sprite.

This week's setback made me question my plans. Could I really do this? Friends called throughout the week to cheer me on. I rested all day today, and by this afternoon, I decided I could go. Having survived this debacle not that long ago and rallied myself impressively, I thought I could, even in my somewhat weakened condition, enjoy a few hours in a bar with friends.

So I got on the bus, got off two blocks from where I needed to be, made my way through fire crackers and other madness, grabbed the first available bar stool, and socialized for two wonderful hours. And had to dodge a stink bomb tossed into the building by New Year's revelers. And enjoyed a celebratory beer before switching to a bottomless glass of Sprite. And it was fabulous!

Then, when my friends geared up to head out to the parade and then dinner, I responsibly made my farewells and ventured home, tired but happy. My second New Year's celebration was far greater than the first. But I'll still be in bed by 10 pm.

I'm just resting my eyes

I took a nap yesterday afternoon, slept for an hour, rolled over to check the time, and then lost 45 minutes. I don't know if I fell back to sleep, or if I just laid there in a mono-induced haze. This happened often the first few weeks I was sick. I would lay down and time would just disappear. I lost most of the month of January that way, in three-hour increments of thinking I'd just lay down for a minute to rest my eyes.

I've obviously become my father. He, like others in his generation, used to nod off in his recliner after dinner, only to be awakened by my mom or one of us when he started to snore.

"What, what?" he would ask. "I was just resting my eyes."

He is not the only member of our family with this habit. But I'm only 31, and so far I've heard nothing about this genetic trait impacting members of my generation, though if any of them are reading, their input would be much appreciated.

Obviously, mono has caused me to age rapidly. I just hope I can count on my friends to stop me before I start shuffling around the neighborhood in my pajamas and slippers.

Overdone

Shoot, shoot, shoot. I really thought I was feeling better. I walked the seven blocks to and from my appointment yesterday and felt great. But maybe I shouldn't have walked the four blocks to and from dinner last night, because now I don't feel so great again.

But slow progress is better than none at all, right?

I love Jesus, but I drink a little

This is the funniest thing I have ever seen on television. If you do nothing else all week, take six minutes to listen to this.

In the tracks of other people's tears

In the past few weeks, my conversations with friends and colleagues have led to lots of tears. I'm rather unattractive when I cry, but I don't really mind this odd new phenomenon. It's somewhat cathartic, and kind of nice to know that, amid a lot of people who just don't give a shit, some really care about me and what my family is going through.

But today my grief counselor cried.

I've been in a grief group since last fall, but until it resumes tomorrow I've also done a couple of individual sessions. This morning was my first since the week I got home, because I've been too sick until now.

And when I told him the whole story of how I went back to work, he cried with me; tears of sadness for a friend who has been unnecessarily hurt.

I can't explain how this affected me. It's like the past six weeks of my own tears and frustration and anger and incredible disrespect for my employer were immediately legitimized. Because, hey, my dad died. And that's awful. And getting sick was pretty lousy. And the screw ups at work? The ones that might result in NO PAYCHECK for our next pay period? They were really unconscionable on top of everything else.

And so there are still tears, but there's a little less weight hanging uncomfortably around my shoulders this afternoon. And that feels better. And I was able to walk the six blocks to my appointment AND the six blocks up the hill home today. And I could carry on a conversation while walking up the hill. That is a huge step forward.

Caution: I'm wearing cranky pants today

My back aches, my quads are tight, I'm not sleeping well. Have you ever met somebody with mono AND insomnia? I am not a pretty sight at 4 am.

I'm not well enough to start working out yet, but right now I want nothing more than a nice long swim and a little bike ride. I'd sleep better, my whole body would move more easily, and I'd get rid of the nagging lower-back pain so easily remedied by some sit ups and stretching.

But I'm too tight from lack of moving to do much stretching without walking or swimming first. I'd definitely hurt something. I could rupture my spleen. And when I do get back to the gym, I will have to start from scratch. And I'm kind of mad about that.

Whenever I'm sick or my schedule forces me to abandon workouts for awhile, I always know it's time to get back to it when my muscles ache. Maybe this is a sign that I'm over the worst of the mono; that I'm really starting to recover.

I see the doctor next week, and I'm hoping she'll clear me for at least some weight lifting and light workouts. Since I'm already paying a gym membership, that will be much cheaper than the anti-grumpy drugs she'll have to start prescribing if I'm on the disabled list for too much longer.

What the Hell, February is a short month

The theme for National Blog Posting Month in February is want. I seem to have kicked off a little early this year, and, since writing on the theme isn't mandatory, but I have a lot to say right now, I jumped in with both feet. And since February only has 28 days, I figure I'm getting a break. Blogging every day for a month last November almost drove me to drink.

Today was the first day in the six weeks since he died that I wanted to call my dad. This is the point in my story where I have to insert a warning: reading this may make you cry. I can in no way be responsible for tears shed and mascara ruined during working hours, so continue at your own risk.

It was silly, really. A friend and I had an email exchange in which I mentioned that I was sure going to Mass drunk was inappropriate. I almost wrote to her that I'd call my dad to check, as he's the person I've always gone to for church questions - from the sublime to the ridiculous. But I stopped myself, teared up for a few minutes before my computer, and resumed the email by saying I'd have to read up on that because my dad had always been my go-to guy on all things church related.

I'm pretty sure he'd have gotten a kick out of this question, so I'd like to recreate the conversation as I think it would have taken place.

"Hi dad."

"Hello, California!" (Don't ask. He really enjoyed answering the phone this way. Actually, I should feel lucky. He and his brother used all sorts of odd greetings on the phone, and they caused some awkward situations with strangers).

"Dad, I've got an important question for you."

"OK. I might have an answer."

"My friend invited me to this party on Sunday. It starts at 3 pm and goes until 8 pm, but I have to go to Mass in the middle. Would it be a bad idea to have a few drinks at the party, go to Mass, and then return to the party? What's the Vatican's stance on going to Mass drunk? Does it count?"

Now, once we'd stopped laughing, I'm pretty sure he'd have said I should go to the party, have a good time, and just remember to abstain for an hour before the Consecration.

Imagine 50 people a day ... they might think it's a movement*

I've been giving considerable thought lately to why I do this. Why do I write random, sometimes funny, and often very personal things on the Internet for strangers to (hopefully) stumble upon and maybe peruse occasionally.

The simple answer is that I'm a writer. I have always been a writer. I couldn't ignore it if I tried. And when I stopped writing for a daily newspaper, and then for daily grad school classes, I needed another venue. And this is the best I could find. My job doesn't allow me to write nearly as much as it was supposed to, so three-plus years and over eight hundred posts later, here I am, writing away and building a nice little community in the process.

Yesterday, I stumbled upon this post and this one through my Twitter feed. And the situation made me furious. This is how I responded:

I got out of journalism because I saw too many cases of questionable ethics, and nobody standing up for what was right. I blog now for me, personally, and not with the intent that anything I say is actually sourced, newsworthy content. However, the sourced-content journalism blogs should only make mainstream reporters work harder, write better, and embrace ethics. Yes, the medium is evolving, but the standards should not be plummeting.

I may not be blogging for a salary, or even looking to build my professional resume with my blogging. But I am a writer, damn it (an award-winning one, actually), and my medium and I deserve respect. And I really do think there's room for all of us in the blogosphere - the parents writing about their kids, the political bloggers, the triathletes, those of us with personal blogs, and the media bloggers who are now so prevalent that my hometown paper often runs stories by its bloggers on the front page.

These news bloggers are journalists. Is their writing more legitimate than ours because they have the backing of a newspaper or television station? Absolutely not. But they should be held to the universal journalism standards of fairness and accuracy. And all of us, no matter what we're writing for, need to be responsible, fair, and kind. I know what these standards mean for me, but I think we need to each figure out what our own standards are as individuals, before we pick up our pens or laptops or blackberrys.

So read the post, join the movement, and give some serious consideration to what you're writing about, and to the act of writing itself. Phil Graham, a former publisher of the Washington Post, is credited with saying that "journalism is the first rough draft of history." I think it's now fair to say that bloggers are also writing their drafts, and our words will be here long after we're gone. So we need to treat them well.

*With gratitude and attribution to Arlo Guthrie