Dear Diary:

"We courted by horse and buggy," my Grandpa told the 100 or so of us who had come to help he and Nanny celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary back in 1971.

"By the third trip the horse knew the route and that left both hands free."

People were laughing, as much at the steam coming out of Nanny's ears--she was giving him death glares that would have terrified a lesser man--as at my grandpa's naughty grin.

My grandmother, a formidable woman everyone called Nanny. He brought down the house with his final line: "But I want you all to know that she was lily white when she married." (The joke being that Nanny's maiden name had been Lillian White.)

Neither of my grandparents kept a journal of any sort, so this is the only glimpse I've ever had into what went on between them when they were dating.

CF188, in his diary, just recently told a funny dating story:

"Anyway, Bianca and I celebrated her newfound freedom by walking into the nearest sexshop and buying some bondage bracelets. They're really nice. They're black leather with white metal buckles and a big connection between them made of two metal loops on a stick.

I think we might have embarrassed the roomies with them, though : I put them on her this morning and sort of dragged her, giggling and screaming, around the kitchen-- the boys were eating in the solarium, of course, which I hadn't realized. 'Oh. Um, hi guys. Heh...' *moves to stand in front of half-naked, shackled woman.*"

Oh my.

See, that's the problem when you fall into the orbit of someone who's keeping an on-line journal (as the Bianca mentioned above has). Very personal bits of your life may end up getting tossed into the ether.

On the surface, it's all anonymous, but ... well, most of the folks who know about this diary are my friends and family, so how anonymous is that?

Do all the folks enshrined in your on-line diary have the right to know what you're saying? Or is this a "private by invitation only" place?

CF188 and I have had a little gab about this. It began because he jokingly mentioned in his guestbook about the need to keep something from his new girlfriend, and that made me wonder if he's worried about diary access, too.

Neither of us has opened our diaries to our sweeties, neither of us has any plans to do that in the future. He makes some great points about this odd public-private situation you create with an on-line diary that has no password.

I hope my friends who read Marn's Big Adventure also read what this journal has to say, too. This diary is *my* alternative reality, gosh darnit, and I may step on toes along the way.

Ah, and the weird contradictions just keep piling up.

See, I really don't know CF, never laid eyes on the guy; he's the friend of one of my daughter's friends.

So ... I discussed a personal dilemma with a stranger who's been known to drag his half-naked, shackled girlfriend around his apartment.

Oh my.


Old Drivel - New Drivel

Subscribe with Bloglines

Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -

.:Cast:. .:Diaryland Notes:. .:Comments (0 so far):. .:E-mail:.
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.

Cavort, cavort, my kingdom for a cavort Globe of Blogs 12 Per Cent Beer my partners in crime

A button for random, senseless, drive-by linkings:
Blogroll Me!

< ? blogs by women # >
Bloggers over forty + ?
<< | BlogCanada | >>
[ << ? Verbosity # >> ]
<< x Blog x Philes x >>

This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.

2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.