Cutting my toenails in the moonlight

Life is a journey.

So is a blog.

There are several stages. One is where you blow off what you think to the unknown. Then you step back and wonder is that relevant. You also know it is a raw side of yourself. Do you really want to tell all that to a Ukranian hacker?

Then you learn the give and take of a social community. Marvel at someone discussing cutting their toenails can get ten thousand visitors a week. Regularly read a person's running ad and then one day an idea from their blog cuts you to the bone.

My favorite or least favorite is a blog which is essentially the lamentations of a woman's nonexistent love life. I get the all too painful loneliness of longing from self-experience. There is a frustration I feel for them. Reading a person's lonely search for love and they are on the cusp of being fifty. Their big declarations of independence and search for meaning in the outer world. What I did at twenty to not too dazzling results.

The blogger will never see herself in my blog. She doesn't visit other blogs. Besides, I have exposed myself some.

This week I have learned one thing and accepted another. I've learned when I have the desire to make a long ass comment, I should cut and paste it for a future blog post. Then write an appropriate comment.

What I accept is that there is so much "crappolo".  I no longer have that flexibility of youth to think I should mold myself to survive. Reading an article about a killer is no longer a caution but a call to anger at injustice and cruelty.

Meanwhile, I ponder all the blarney people do that is just plain stupid. I think of listing some. Then I remember, I've decided to just accept it. It is not going to change because I have a thought or opinion.

Last night I slipped outside by myself around 11:30 PM and cut my nails in the moonlight. My dog Loretta gets beyond neurotic about nail clippers. Her first impulse is to get in my mom's 85-year-old lap with her 60-pound self. My mother has some powerful juju which can protect a dog from thunder, gunshots, and nail clippers.

I carefully put the clippers in the glove compartment of the car. Loretta was waiting for me at the door. It didn't make sense to her that I would go out without her. I told her, In the olden days, people kept journals. Now we keep blogs that we can edit and delete at will. She seemed happy with my answer.

Maybe I should become a politician when I grow up.