My gift to myself is not a Zhu Zhu hamster, as coveted as those little suckers may be this season. My gift to myself is to find a way to stop dragging the stinking corpse of my old self behind me in the snow. We are leaving quite a trail, she and I, and a crowd is beginning to gather with their Nikon Coolpix. Ashton Kutcher’s speed-dialing Demi Moore, saying, “Baby, you gotta see this hot mess.” No good.
Step One: Revamped blog
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I’ve been taking an informal poll. I tend to agree with the folks to say that Breed ‘Em and Weep is the Best Blog Name of All Damn Time, and I shouldn’t change it. My corpse in the snow? She says nothing, poor dear, although she is secretly pissed off that someone else stole the blog name and tacked on a little something extra to make it hers.
You, Lady A! You can do better for yourself. You have it in you! You are unique and lovely! Go, tiger lily! Get a better freakin’ name for yourself! I believe in you.
Anyhow, back to me, my longtime labor of love, and my decision. This is the original, circa May 2005, authentic, wackdoodle, hardscrabble, “oh my freaking LORD did she just SAY that?” Breed ‘Em and Weep, and I’ve decided that—for now—it’s not going anywhere. Decided. Done.
However, it is getting a superfierce makeover for the New Year. And as drag queens and bloggers around the world know, before the superfierce, must come the superawkward. And my poor old corpse self, she’s silently horrified that you are going to see all of the superawkward mistakes as I attempt to put together a superfierce superedgy superburlesque supermazeltov new-old blog. CASE IN POINT: MISSING GORGEOUS HEADER. Yeah, yeah. Getting around to that. It’s going to knock your panties off. Make sure you’re in the right company when that happens.
Step Two of this 2010 process: I have to let go of who I wanted to be at almost 40. Don’t worry, we’ll make the old Jenn a nice burial spot in a perpetual Winter Wonderland. You, my truly beloved, unbelievably loyal readers (so loyal and good, I can’t think of you without finding my hand has inched up over my heart), you can help me with this. Because if I don’t let her go, I’m not going to be able to live out the rest of this life of mine. She and I, we still share the same essence. But I have to let go of all that she wished for or we’re both going down.
It sounds scary, because, frankly, it is a little scary. I’m scared. So I’m pulling out my bulletproof tutu and ordering some fishnet stockings online. And researching the most intimidating tattoo parlors in the area. Because I’m going to meet the second half of my life head-on. I have to.
Step Three? I have some creative ideas I’m going to try out here. I have a BOX. (Si, behaaaave.) See Black Box, to the right? I am going to say hi from time to time, tell you some stories, show you some things. Let me know what you think about what happens in The Box. I will be operating inside The Box in order to put together something that may be very, very outside The Box. If that happens, dear ones, you can bet you will be the first to know.
Old Jenn is still, quiet, in a snowbank. Facedown. Some kids are poking her with a stick. That’s all right. It’s not really disrespectful—they’re just poking to understand. Isn’t that what all of us are doing, really?
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