The Perils of Doggie Bath Day

“Someone smells like a dog.”

“Why are you looking at me?”

Our dogs are pretty clean, overall. They don’t have many chances to get dirty, although in our old house Sophie managed to find stinkbugs in the basement with alarming regularity. She’s smart, though, and soon made the connection between rolling in the latest Eau de Canine perfume and going straight into the tub, do not pass go, do not collect $200.

Our philosophy behind having clean dogs is pretty simple. We like petting them without getting grime on our hands, and we prefer that the house not smell like dogs.

So today was Doggie Bath Day. As soon as I said the word “bath,” Sophie went stone-still and tried to melt into the couch. She knows what that word means – she can even spell it – and she wants no parts of it.

Shiloh followed me right upstairs and into the bathroom, because he doesn’t know what ANY words mean. He watched me hook up the spray hose to the shower head. He observed me getting out a stack of towels. Being a good sport with a bad memory, he even jumped into the tub, wagging his tail.

He endured the first round of water and soap with equanimity. “Hmmm,” I could see him thinking, weighing his options as I lathered up his back. “This doesn’t seem TOO bad. It’s kind of like getting petted, only with bubbles. Odd but strangely compelling.”

When I moved on to his head and neck, however, the situation deteriorated rapidly. He went from gentle and amiable to panic-stricken in seconds, even though – and here’s the interesting part – nothing unusual happened. I did not spray gallons of water directly into his eyes or ears. I failed to squirt dog shampoo up his nose. We were not suddenly menaced by a gigantic wall of water. There was no gelatinous ooze monster with teeth like razor blades emerging  from the drain. 

“Good boy, Shiloh! Good, good boy. That’s right, you’re a good HEY STOP! NO! STAY IN THE TUB! No no no no Shiloh what are you OUCH! NO! NO CLIMBING ON MY HEAD! COME ON, BOY, GOOD DOG AIIIIGGGGHHHHHH!”

Afterwards, I dried him off, mildly stunned. He even gave me his paws, probably out of sheer embarrassment. I squelched downstairs, dripping, to inform my husband that he was on deck to wash Sophie. I was done.

There were two spots – one on my shoulder, one on the side of my shorts – that weren’t soaked. Muscles I didn’t even know I had ached from keeping Shiloh in the tub. In direct defiance of basic anatomy, I somehow got water in my spleen.

Doggie bath time isn’t fun for ANYONE.

Sure, there are local places that wash dogs, but Shiloh hates them. Despite the attentions of caring, gentle staff who genuinely love dogs, he struggles and wheezes and sounds like Darth Dog to the point that even Sophie feels sorry for him. Last time we took him, she toddled into the washing area and laid down on the rubber floor mat in a surprising show of solidarity.

It didn’t help, of course, but it was still cute.

So I’ll wash Shiloh at the house, and he’ll remember halfway through every bath that he hates getting baths, and I’ll get soaked, and he’ll get embarrassed. And Sophie will hope against hope that Shiloh continues to go first, and that we’ll somehow be distracted into forgetting that we have two dogs. At least as far as bath-time is concerned. Dinner time? That’s a whole different story.

And we’ll ALL keep our eyes open for a gelatinous ooze monster with teeth like razor blades emerging from ANY drain.

You know, just in case.

A Name By Any Other Name

“You have a boy’s name.”
“Did your parents want a boy?”
“Your last name is spelled wrong.”

I have a unique name. I love it now, but I didn’t always.

“Michael-Anne Rubenstien, get in here this instant!”

For starters, I think we’re negatively conditioned as children to fear our full names. I don’t know about you, but getting called by my full name meant Significant Trouble. The kind with Consequences.

My name has a couple of other interesting complexities. First, it’s hyphenated. You have no idea how difficult this concept is for people to grasp.

“How do you spell that?”
“Michael hyphen Anne.”
“I’m sorry?”
“M-i-c-h-a-e-l hyphen A-n-n-e”
“Hyphen?”
“Dash.”
“Oh.”
I occasionally toy with the idea of throwing in an umlaut, just for laughs.

My nickname – Mickey – brings another layer of hilarity to the mix.

“Like the mouse?”
“Like the mouse.”
<muffled giggle>

“Oh Mickey, you’re so fine!”
“Yes, thank you. You’re very clever.”
“You’re so fine you blow my mind, hey Mickey!”
“Please stop.”

I’ve gotten mail for Michael A., Michaelan, Michaela, Michelle and Nikki Riverstein, Rubenstein and Rubinstein. The best spelling ever still goes to Hallmark, who once sent me a Gold Crown card in the name of Xochiquetzal Rubenstitn. It’s like the person entering the information just gave up and started typing with their face.

I was accepted to one of my top college choices as a male. I appreciated their willingness to welcome me as a student even though they lacked confidence in my ability to specify my own gender on the intake forms. Whenever I call to get information about my accounts – banks, phone, insurance – I’m invariably told that my husband will need to call back himself. This happened long before I was married.

I had a language professor in college who insisted I was spelling and pronouncing my own name wrong. Both the first AND last name. Wrong wrong wrong.

“You are not a boy, therefore your first name is Michelle.”
“Okay. In French, it sounds like Michelle.”
“No, I mean it should be Michelle.”
“Well, I’m not sure what to tell you.”
“And you are either spelling or pronouncing your last name wrong.”
“My parents will be delighted to hear this.”
“You do not amuse me.”

When I married and changed my name to Gomez, I thought things would be easier. Forms with little boxes for first and last name would no longer run out of spaces. I wouldn’t have to debate people on the spelling of my last name.

“Name?”
“Mickey Gomez.”
“You do not look like a Gomez.”
“What does a Gomez look like?”

Now I receive mail written in Spanish, especially during election season. I’ve been invited to serve on a variety of boards seeking my cultural perspective. I’ve received mail for Mickey Goomes, Micket Gomer and M. Gonzalez.

I’ve been forced to the realization that I will never be free of name explanations, but such is life. In this age of babies named Hashtag and Apple, my name doesn’t seem quite as complicated anymore. But it is still unique. And you know what? I love it.

Sincerely,

Michael-Anne “Mickey” “Mickety” “Xochi” “Hey You” Rubenstien Gomez

The Windy City versus the Hairbrush of Doom

Recently I traveled to Chicago for a conference. I was honored by the request to give a presentation, so despite the fact I’d rather run myself over with my own car than fly these days, I found myself on a plane to the Windy City.

Make no mistake. I knew it was called the Windy City before arriving.  That’s why it was that much more surprising to discover, once I’d arrived at my hotel and was freshening up, that I’d forgotten to pack a brush.  OR a comb.

An adventure – how fun! I walked off, a spring in my step, to find the nearest drugstore.

Because I am directionally challenged at the best of times, forty-seven blocks later I staggered into a Walgreens, absurdly grateful for the air conditioning and even the slightest respite from the glaring sun.  Confronted with what seemed to be thousands of hair brushes, I opted for a round one made out of metal and space-aged polymers and ceramics and maybe even dark matter with extra ions and little nubs on the ends of the bristles.  It was also slightly heavier than my normal hairbrush, a seemingly unimportant factor that I would soon deeply regret.

It appeared to work in the manner of a normal hair brush that afternoon, and again that evening. Not a problem. A seamless transition, or so I thought.

The next morning, I got up early to get ready for a full day at the conference. As I was innocently drying my hair – still half asleep and waiting for my coffee to kick in – IT HAPPENED. The brush got stuck in my hair.

When I say the brush got stuck in my hair, I can see you rolling your eyes and thinking, “Please. What’s the big deal? Unroll it and get on with your life.” And normally I’d be right there with you.

This time, however, I was dealing with the Evil Hairbrush of Extreme Malevolence. In seconds, it had twisted every single strand of hair on the left side of my head firmly around it, and it was. Not. Moving.

For the first time in my life, I was quite literally dumbfounded. I moved on to stunned and slipped quickly into shock. The brush would not move. I tried conditioner. I tried water.  I tried loosening the hair strand by strand.  I looked up solutions on the internet.  Phone a friend seemed to be a top pick, but I was in a strange city and there was no one to call. Using chopsticks to somehow gently pry the hair away from the core of the brush seemed like a viable option, but oddly enough I’d failed to pack chopsticks for a two night stay.  In desperation I began to cut the little nubs off the end of the bristles with my travel nail clippers, just to feel like I was doing something. They scattered like depraved cookie sprinkles across the gleaming bathroom vanity and floor.

I started crying like Woodstock in the old Peanuts cartoons – tears flingling themselves horizontally from my eyes.  It was clear to me I wasn’t going to be able to fix this one on my own. And because the heavy brush was stuck about a half-inch from my scalp, I figured I was returning home with a buzz cut and the mother of all headaches. I called the Concierge.

“Um. Hi. I kind of have a problem. I have a (muffled sob) brush stuck in my hair.”

“I’m sorry?”

“A hairbrush. It’s stuck in my hair. I need help.”

“Would you like me to send up someone from Housekeeping?”

I blinked. Housekeeping? Were they going to Windex the brush free?

“No, I think I need to call a salon or something. Is there one in the area?”

“Yes, there’s one a couple of blocks away.”

She gave me the number, and I called, hoping against hope that they’d be open and someone would be available.

“Hello?”

“Um, hi. The Concierge at the Blackstone gave me your number. I have an emergency. I’m a guest at the hotel and I’m here for a conference and I somehow got a brush stuck in my hair.”

“Are you a client?”

“No, I’m visiting from out of town. It’s kind of an emergency. I can’t walk around with a brush stuck in my hair.”

“Hmm.” She sounded bored.  “Let me ask the lady.”  She put me on hold.  After about five excruciatingly long minutes, during which I began wondering if Housekeeping would deliver scissors, she returned to the line. “The lady, she says come in.”

“Oh thank you! Thank you so much. I’ll be right <click> in.”

Now I had a whole new problem – was I really going to walk through the hotel and down the street to a yet-unknown destination with a brush sticking out from my head? I grabbed a giant scarf and wrapped it around my hair, pretending that the metal brush didn’t make the scarf bulge alarmingly in a way that instantly made the phrase “deformed unicorn” leap to mind.  I opted for sunglasses instead of my regular glasses.  Even in this city where I knew very few people, I decided to sacrifice vision for anonymity.

I made it to the posh lobby without incident, and sidled up to the Concierge station. A woman in front of me was negotiating for a pedicure.  I waited as patiently as I could, feeling like I was standing under a neon sign flashing *FREAK! CAN’T BRUSH HER HAIR!* on and off for the entire world to see.  I tried and failed to NOT wish horrible, debilitating nail fungus upon the long-winded yet reasonably innocent woman standing between me and directions to the salon.

Because I was still in shock, the Concierge had to repeat the directions four times.  Even then, walking out into the bright sunlight, slightly dazed, all I remembered was right, two blocks, then left. Or maybe right. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to find.

In the end, I only went about twelve blocks out of my way.  I finally walked up the steps to the salon with a strange mixture of relief and trepidation, tried the handle only to discover that the door was locked. I knocked quietly. No response. I knocked slightly louder, trying desperately not to offend anyone who might be able to help. Someone finally let me in.

A kind-looking woman walked over to greet me and motioned me to a chair. “Take off the scarf,” she said. I slowly unwound it, eyes fixed on my lap. She blurted out, “Oh my god!” and I burst into silent tears, bottom lip quivering.  “You’re going to have to shave it all off, aren’t you?” I sobbed quietly, like this was the worst thing that has ever happened in the history of the universe. All sense of reason and perspective had left the building at a run about an hour before and were still gaining speed somewhere off in the distance.

“Let’s see what we can do.” And she went to work.

Thirty minutes later, the brush was free. She tried  to hand it to me but I averted my eyes and made useless flapping gestures with my hands. “I don’t want to touch it, I don’t even want to see it. I think maybe you should shoot it or burn it.” I said this earnestly, then asked her how much I owed her.

“Don’t worry about it, ” she said. “Just no more crying. You need to smile more.” And she patted my arm.  Then she explained how to pick out a brush that was NOT the Unholy Hairbrush of Impending Doom.

So I gave her a watery smile and an enormous tip, and sent her flowers the next day.  I may have even promised to name all future houseplants after her (it didn’t seem right to promise to name future dogs after her), but things got a little fuzzy there at the end.  I was free!

I skipped down the street, puffy-eyed, tender-scalped, dehydrated from stupid amounts of crying, horribly frizzy and totally unstyled hair streaming behind me in the furnace-like summer breezes of the Windy City.  And for that moment in time, I was blissfully and ridiculously happy.

Here is the Happy Hairbrush of Lesser Drama, which I bought on the way back to the hotel:

The presentation went well. Thankfully, it was the NEXT morning, although I am still haunted by the thought of session feedback survey results saying, “Presenter did well overall but seemed distracted by an odd shape on the left side of her head under her scarf. For some reason, it made me think a little of a deformed unicorn.”

Timing really is everything.

###

Eye of who?!

In light of recent political events, it occurred to me that a certain type of small aquatic amphibian might need a bit of a PR boost.

Newts already have it tough.  Ever since Shakespeare, folks have been trying to use their eyeballs in potions.  They shared their name with a doomed character in the movie Aliens.  J.K.Rowling used the letters to stand for “Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Test”, and who likes tests?  Really, they’ve been in need of some positive public relations for quite some time.

I happen to like newts.  So while people can be forgiven for confusing them with the man of the same name running for the GOP candidacy, I thought I’d give them a little help:

“I am a small aquatic amphibian, and I approve of this message.”

Increasing the Volume

I’m going to be a bridesmaid in my cousin’s wedding.

I’m pretty excited, as you can imagine.  She picked out gorgeous bridesmaid dresses, in direct defiance of tradition.  The fabric doesn’t look like upholstery.  It’s not electric blue.  It doesn’t lace up on the outside like Wonder Woman’s bustier.  It’s fluttery, flattering, a lovely color, and firmly in the “will wear again” category.

And it’s strapless.

There are many phrases that describe me, some of which could even be said in polite company, but the phrase “amply-endowed” is not one of them.  In light of this, I’ve never been a huge fan of strapless anythings, mainly because I am not a huge fan of flashing friends, family, and total strangers as a result of simply exhaling.

Last week I went for my alteration fitting.  I changed and went out to stand next to a bride, who was also getting fitted.  She was covered in swaths of fabric and looked lovely.  I looked like a stick insect in a handkerchief.  The seamstress came out, eyeballed me critically from all angles, put pins up both sides and said, “Okay?”

“I just don’t want it falling off.” I explained.

“Falling off?”

“You know.” I mimed jumping up and down. “It’s not like I have a lot holding things up.  I was hoping maybe we could just staple it to my body for the ceremony.  Do you think that would work?”

“You’ll be fine.”  She patted my shoulder and left.

The bride had a friend there for moral support.  When I went to schedule the appointment to pick up my dress, she followed me out.

“Excuse me,” she said. “You know, if you’re really worried about it, there are ways for you to… increase the volume.”  She made a spinning motion next to her chest.

“Increase the volume?” I echoed stupidly.

“Yes,” she says, “increase the volume. Victoria’s Secret sells these bras with gel inserts.”

“Oh!”

Now I’m not a big fan of Victoria’s Secret, ever since they changed from chamber music, mahogany and brass to neon, excessive pink and club music.  Neon is no one’s friend in a dressing room.

“I appreciate it, but I’d be worried that it wouldn’t work.”  She looked skeptical.  “You know,” I explained, “the dress would still fall down only now I’d have my… increased volume flailing all over the place.”  I made an energetic spinning motion with both arms in front of my chest. “Thanks, though!”

Anyway, here’s hoping I don’t embarrass my cousin at her wedding, ample cleavage or not.

And that the ceremony doesn’t include jumping jacks.  Or excessive gravity.

Photo credits:  Some rights reserved By forgetfullo

Driving Music

A couple of weeks ago I was driving home from an evening event: windows down, cool breeze alternating with pockets of warm air left over from the summer-like day, heady scent of just-bloomed honeysuckle wafting in and out of the car.

Suddenly a song starts playing and I’m transported back to a summer during college, driving these same roads, and it’s like no time passed at all.

I take music pretty seriously.  Certain songs are more powerful even than scents in placing me inside a memory – a certain day, a certain place – it’s like I’m there.

I started considering driving music – what is it? How is it defined?  It’s not just a favorite song – I have plenty of favorite songs that I don’t consider to be “driving music”.  It’s not necessarily upbeat, or slow, or in-between.  Some are songs I know all the words to, the kind that beg me to sing-along.  Others call for reflective listening.  They vary based on mood: some evoke joy, some sadness, some nostalgia.  But I’ve noticed that there are certain songs in my music library that automatically call for windows down, arm outside, hand snaking up and down in the air currents no matter when I hear them.

Here they are, in no particular order:

Cuts You Up – Peter Murphy
Susquehanna Hat Company – Too Much Joy
Until I Fall Away – Gin Blossoms
Trail of Tears – Guadalcanal Diary
Bittersweet – Hoodoo Gurus
Take Back Everything – Salt Chunk Mary
ZZQ – Blue Mountain
In the Blood – Better Than Ezra
When You Were Young – The Killers
Recurring Dream – Crowded House
Thomastown – Not Drowning, Waving
Windfall – Sonvolt
Witchdoctor – Sidewinders
Wolf Like Me – TV on the Radio
Yesterday Girl – Smithereens
Wolves, Lower – REM
Girlfriend – Matthew Sweet
Solsbury Hill – Peter Gabriel
Windmills – Toad the Wet Sprocket
Wagon Wheel – Old Crow Medicine Show
Bedlam Bridge – Midnight Oil
Achin’ To Be – The Replacements
Dead Heart (alternate) – Midnight Oil
I’d Run Away – The Jayhawks
Love in a Trashcan – The Raveonettes
Cannonball – The Breeders
Darker Days – The Connells
Marker in the Sand – Pearl Jam
Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters – Elton John
Singing in My Sleep – Semisonic
Sun Gone Down – House of Freaks
Ain’t It Strange – Driving’ N Cryin’
Santa Maria Street – Sand Rubies
Nosebleed Section – Hilltop Hoods
Mighty KC – For Squirrels
I’m Not Over – Carolina Liar
Lone Star Song – Grant Lee Buffalo

Please feel free to add yours in the comments below. Thanks, and happy listening!

Photo credit:  Some rights reserved by mallix

To Mama With Love

Three generations - me and mom and grandma.

An amazing friend of mine started an organization called Epic Change. It’s one of my very favorite nonprofits, because they partner with folks in communities to help them achieve needs identified by the actual community.  This is different from the approach taken by some nonprofits, which is to go into communities with their own idea of how to “fix” things.

Community voice is spectacularly important, yet so often overlooked and undervalued when it comes to “helping others”. It’s one of the first things I noticed and admired about Epic Change, that they truly listen to those on the ground, the ones who live in the communities seeking change.

I could go on and on about their successes – Tweetsgiving, building a school and tech lab in Tanzania, the Twitter Kids – but I’d like to focus on an initiative happening right now in honor of Mother’s Day – To Mama With Love.

To Mama With Love is a collaborative online art project that honors moms across the globe and raises funds to invest in remarkable women who are transforming our world.

The donation you make goes to support Epic Change, and specifically supports the efforts of four extraordinary women:  Mama Lucy Kamptoni (Tanzania), Suraya Pakzad (Afghanistan), Maggie Doyne (Nepal), and Renu Shah Bagaria (Nepal).

You can create a heartspace to honor a special mom in your life.  And, trust me, the impact will go far beyond wilted flowers or a soon to be empty box of chocolates.  (Of course, just to be on the safe side, I created heartspaces AND got some chocolates.) You can include photos, quotes, a special note and even video.

The goal is to raise at least $65,000 USD to invest in Mama Lucy’s secondary school in Tanzania, Renu & Maggie’s schools in Kathmandu & Surkhet, Nepal, and Suraya’s women’s shelter in Afghanistan.  Over 95% of the funds collected through donations for heartspaces will be invested directly into the efforts of these remarkable women.

I made one heartspace for mom and another for grandma.

Would you consider honoring a special mom in your life this Mother’s Day by taking part in To Mama With Love?  Would you share the link (http://www.tomamawithlove.org/) and help spread the word?  I would certainly appreciate it, as would the incredible folks at Epic Change and the inspiring women doing what they can to make the light shine a little brighter in their corner of the world.

Thank you.

Towel Day or Wear the Lilac?

Okay, I’ll admit it.  I am an avid reader and fan of fantasy and science fiction.

This is what makes May 25th such a challenge:  celebrate Towel Day or Wear the Lilac?

Towel Day

Towel Day first began in 2001, two weeks following the death of beloved author Douglas Adams, who had this to say about towels in his book The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy:

A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapors; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (such a mind-bogglingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can’t see it, it can’t see you); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

Originally intended as a tribute to Douglas Adams, 9 years later Towel Day offers an incredible array of events ranging from collecting new towels for the homeless to Vogon poetry slams.  ThinkGeek has even gotten into the fun by offering a new t-shirt with text reading “Don’t Panic & Carry a Towel”  (in large friendly letters, of course).  Please visit towelday.org for more information.

Wear the Lilac

In Terry Pratchett’s Night Watch (one of my favorites), several characters Wear the Lilac on May 25th in remembrance of the Glorious Revolution of Treacle Mine Road.  Given Pratchett’s diagnosis of early onset Alzheimer’s in 2007, fans now Wear the Lilac both in celebration of Pratchett and to raise awareness and funding for Alzheimer’s research.

Want to celebrate both?  Etsy artist The Lazy Daisy is offering a towel featuring the lilac, a portion of the proceeds to benefit Alzheimer’s research around the world.  Share and Enjoy!

Photo credit to Code.Monk via Flickr.

Lessons from Dad

In honor of Father’s Day, I want to share with you some lessons I learned from my dad:

Dad and me.

There are no strangers, only friends you haven’t met yet.

Dad could go almost anywhere, introduce himself to folks, and, within minutes, be well on the way to friendship.  He loved to go golfing alone so that he could join in to make a foursome and meet new people.  He knew all of his neighbors.  He got along with pretty much anyone, across age and gender, because he never spoke down to people, treated them with respect, and was genuinely interested in what they had to say.  He knew how to listen.

Carpe diem and don’t sweat the small stuff.

My parents loved to travel.  Once they went on a cruise leaving from Copenhagen.  The airline lost their luggage, and they weren’t sure if it would arrive in time to catch the ship.  Then dad’s wallet was stolen.  At this point, many people would have canceled the trip, sorted out travel arrangements and gone home, but not my parents.  They got on the ship, went to a formal dinner in sweatpants and t-shirts they bought in the gift shop, and had a blast.  (And, yes, their luggage did eventually show up.)

Dad sports a festive party windsock.

Life is filled with laughter and joy, it’s all in the way you look at things.

My father’s laugh could fill a room with smiles.  He could have fun doing almost anything, and in doing so made life fun for those around him.

If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well and treat others the way you’d like to be treated.

Later in his life, dad worked in customer service.  He didn’t do it because he had to, he did it because he wanted to.  Nothing made him happier than fixing people’s problems, and he would often go far above and beyond what was necessary to fix a situation and to make things right.  When he was at work, he was 100% focused on doing the best job that he was capable of doing.  When he was at home, his focus was 100% on his family and friends.  How many of us can say the same?

Dad in his tux.

I learned a lot of other life lessons from dad, but I’ll stop here for now.

Dad died suddenly in 2006, one year shy of his 60^th birthday, and I know that I’ll miss him for the rest of my life.

I like to think he’s off adventuring on a cruise ship, drinking a Guinness and listening to Jimmy Buffett.

Wherever he is, I know he’s having a great time and making things fun for those around him.

Happy Father’s Day, big guy.

Listening Well

He had the gift
of stopping time
& listening well
so that it was easy
to hear who
we could become

& that was the future
he held safe
for each of us
in his great heart

you may ask, what now?
& I hope you understand
when we speak softly
among ourselves
& do not answer
just yet

for our future
is no longer the same
without him

–Brian Andreas

Further Adventures of a Reluctant Blogger

I started blogging last year as an experiment in social media.

First, I wanted to test drive a blog to learn how it worked.

Second, many of my posts were about my adventures in social media.  I shared my thoughts as I went along, hoping to encourage others in my small circle of acquaintences to give it a try.  Naturally, as I became more interested in different types of social media, my blog updates became fewer and far between.  Those of you who are observant will likely see a correspondence between the lack of posts and  my introduction to Facebook and Twitter, but I am not here to point fingers.

So why have I started again?

I first joined Twitter after watching a video by John Haydon.  He was kind enough to introduce me to others interested in social media and social change, and not long after that I met Danny Brown, the founder of 12for12k.  What is 12for12k, you ask?

The 12for12k Challenge is the combination of social media and fund-raising that aims to change the lives of millions worldwide.

Its aim is to raise a minimum of $144,000 for 12 charities over the course of 2009, with a new charity being supported every month. All proceeds raised go directly to the chosen charities.

The concept is simple:

• 12 months of the year
• 12 charities, a different charity each month
• $12,000 per charity

After sitting back and observing this initiative for a short time, I decided that I wanted to be a part of it.  I requested a 12for12k avatar for Twitter, put the badge on my Twitter background, and happily tweeted about the amazing charities spotlighted each month in the hopes of making a difference.

But now I want to do more.  I’ve started up this blog for a couple of reasons.  First, to help to promote 12for12k.  Second, because many people on Twitter have asked me why I don’t have a link to a website or blog or ANYTHING to help them learn a little more about me and my interests.  So here it is.

I’m not sure what this blog will be about, if anything in particular.  You’ll most likely catch me musing over random things.  Regardless, I appreciate you stopping by and look forward to connecting here or on Twitter.  Cheers!