Lemme tell you, the pressure to prefect a witty,
enigmatic, informative but not-too-informative introductory blog post
is unfathomable. The fact that I'm actually hitting 'Publish' is in and of itself a huge feat. Unless you yourself are a seasoned blogger, in which
case my current predicament is entirely fathomable, perhaps even
charming in my earnest inexperience. But still, the pressure! If all
goes as planned, and some day I achieve world renown (well, at least
in the blogosphere), it's imperative that my legions of devoted
readers click through the archives only to find I have maintained the
same level of wit and panache since I was but a wee blogger. These
are the kinds of things a neurotic, self-deprecating, highly
self-involved, but adorably whimsical perfectionist considers. This
is the blog you're reading.
I've entertained similar
delusions of my inevitable fame for years now. Whether it be mock interviews with James Lipton acted out in my bathroom mirror as a
budding actor (and by budding actor, I, of course, am referring to a
one line part in my middle school play), the indeterminate number of Oscar speeches written in the bath tub, or my peculiar tendency to over-identify with Nora Ephron, I decided long ago the world needed to be graced with my personality (alongside my own need for validation from complete strangers). I spent the better part of my teenage years chatting
with my best friend via instant messenger about pressing global
concerns such as the script of future cabaret act, formulating a
business plan for our Norma Desmond inspired turban line, and
deciding which Marilyn Monroe film was best suited for a Broadway
musical adaptation, landing us as our generation's Comden &
Green. Perhaps most important among our many hours of tying up our parents' phone
lines (It was dial up in those days, and roughly 600 miles between
us) was choosing the perfect title for the gossip ridden
autobiographies we would write in our old age. Inspired by a
generation of ladies with heavily pencilled eyebrows and a penchant
for sequins, it seemed imperative that we get a head
start on this now. A little premature? Hardly! It's never to early
to start planning for your gin-soaked, caftan-clad, old age!
The quest for the perfect
autobiography title, or, as we matured into our college years, our
debut collection of devastatingly witty essays, was an arduous one.
Much like a first blog post, there's a lot to be considered.The title
of one's autobiography sets the tone for the rest of the book,
forever defining your persona for awkward 13 year old girls
obsessively living through movies 60+ years old and gobbling up
autobiographies written by the nostaglic gin soaked women who starred
in them. I floundered around for years, unable to prefect the art of the witty title, until one Sunday I came across an interview with Rosie O'Donnell on CBS Sunday
Morning. Being a child of the 90's, and naturally spending my free
time between Barbies and dress-up watching day time television and
re-runs on TV Land, Ro was a hero of mine. I watched her show
religiously, her book of children's jokes worked as the main source of humor for my
entire 8th year, I eagerly watched A League of Their Own
at least 300 times in 5th grade alone. Who else could I turn to
to remind myself that with enough pluck, obsessive love for Tom
Cruise, and sassy jokes that I too could have my own talk show some
day? At some
point during the interview shifted to Rosie's own struggle to stardom,
explaining how from the very start she was pigeon holed as a “loud
Jewish type.” Rosie recounted a casting director at an early
audition glibly informing her, “The role of Rhoda Morgenstern has
already been cast.” The Role of Rhoda Morgenstern Has Already Been
Cast! “That's it!” I cried triumphantly. I could just see it on
the shelves, a brassy publication with the pithy subtitle “And
Other Misadventures”. An instant hit, lauded by intellectuals and artists everywhere for my youthful biting wit.
In retrospect, it seems unavoidable,
really, that the story of my life be perfectly distilled by 70's
sitcom full of spunky independent working gals. The perfect aphorism
for my painfully cliché life of the perpetually single acerbic best
friend with a penchant for loud prints and 70's style turbans.
But if you're still itching for more, a quick overview of the basic:
My name is Kate. Just another self-proclaimed quirky 20-something
with a blog. Currently studying English in southern Ohio. An
aspiring “I'm Not Really Sure Yet So Please Stop Asking Me”, more
often substituted in polite conversation with “Maybe an editor.” In my dreams I get paid for being a world-renown wit,
jet-setting socialite, and international clothes horse. A kind of Diana Vreeland/Dorothy Parker hybrid. Have I mentioned my
frightfully self-involved delusions of grandeur? But in the mean
time, I'm just a girl with a blog, trying to figure this life thing out.
