Is my Blog No More?

I have several drafts piling up, and tonight, when I began publishing them, my Blog disappeared! Oh, i hope that's temporary. Blogger hq help says there's some issue with some url's.

I was also attempting to disable the comments feature. I restored it just in case.

For those two who read here, I ahve to admit I've stopped reading my comments. Too many clicks. I have an e-mail address; "contact me".

With the comments box, it was a bit of peer pressure - every blog has a comments box! Also, there was some webpage development skill involved -- see, I can find free commenting services and download scripts, whee!

I had used this blog to practice my writing -- writing that was different and more stimulating than my job that consists of creating a never-ending flood of boring corporate policy crapola.

And so with the comments box, I had thought 'oh people will comment on my writing style, make suggestions, etc.' That's never happened, really, and why should it? Even though the blog definitely serves its purpose in allowing me some creative outlet, it's never evolved into the way I imagined. Oh well.

So I will be disabling the comments.

I am having terrible times with insomnia. I wonder if this entry will even appear?

Whenever anyone starts a sentence with words like "I don't mind being single. Really, I don't," I always think yeah uh huh right. But having said that, I haven't pined so much in the last year over Romance Lost the way I used to. I've shifted to feeling more comfortable by myself -- hmm, maybe for the first time ever. The last act of liberation was, late last year, pulling my personal ads and officially dropping out of a half-hearted search ("The Search").

Speaking of half-hearted pursuits, I also attempt to Network -- networking for a better job, a better career. The very word makes my stomach turn and run. (Although outside that word, I think I am plenty sociable, etc. etc. Blch.)

So, when last weekend I was invited to a snooty party, at first I wondered if I'd even go. Other parties with the same hosts had offered -- in theory -- plenty of opportunities to Network and Search and I had always dressed up for best appearances only to wind up sorely disappointed.

But on the day of, I decided to go -- 2 drinks max. I would not dress up and bring what I wanted to drink (a 6-pack of Rolling Rock). Who cares? And why the hell not?

The evening of the party arrives and I park my car at the same time as a gaggle of gay professionals, all holding bottles of wine, are converging with their fitted, narrow-striped shirts in acid colors and leather sandles. To put it bluntly, I was immediately intimidated. I'm not going to let this stop me, I have to tell myself.

I walk up in my old tennies and 60s madras shirt, Rolling Rocks in hand. "Aha," I say (and hopefully not too cheerfully), "Looks like I'm in the right place. Hope [hostess] will forgive my choice of gift."

"Ahaa, ha," they laugh politely, the scanning devices running up and down. They are all about 6 feet tall and with mucho hair product to my raggamuffin shortness. They then continued to chat among themselves: "Did you go to Tom's 40th last week? Wasn't it *the* event?"

*sigh*

But on the rooftop where there are people like Non-Boyfriend, things get much better. I end up mingling & laughing a lot.

And at one point, one of those 6-foot, salt-and-peppered professionals splits himself off from his circle and introduces himself. It is a pretty standard, polite conversation. He has just 'divorced' his boyfriend of 20 years and is going through an acrimonious division of property. "But I'm moving on; moved on." (Doesn't everyone have standard, polite conversations like this?)

He asks me would I like to have dinner with him? "Sure," I respond, and I am completely relaxed and at ease.

"Oh, good! Well, I need to go check on my friend, but make a point of saying goodbye when you leave."

When it comes time to leave, I make a point and shake his hand. "It was nice to meet you. I'll give you my number." But he has no pen. He says: "Oh, that's alright. Just call [hostess] and get my number from her." "Sure," I said.

Moments later, riding down in the elevator, I nearly speak out-loud: Don't hold your breath!

In the parking lot, I run into some folks I'd been chatting with. "That man was awfully handsome. Are you going to see him again?"

I shrug my shoulders, "I think it will be too much effort."

They exchange surprised glances. But ain't that the truth.