the wisdom of dooce

I've been a Dooce devotee for quite some time, along with a hundred thousand or so other people. I feel closer to her than one should ever feel to someone they've never met because she's helped me through tough times with depression, constipation, and other pertinent life issues. As you probably know, I never seriously considered that getting Dooced could happen to me, and despite writing extensively about my employment and employers, it hasn't. This post is, fortunately and unfortunately, not about me getting Dooced and losing my free chopped salad and gym privileges. It's instead about a ridiculous coincidence that happened today and has left me unable to process, much less write clearly about, my feelings. This morning at work between filing and stapling tasks, I read this interview with Heather Armstrong:

Apart from what you've already talked about with regard to writing, design, and setting boundaries, is there any advice you would give to a new blogger?

My only other piece of advice for a new blogger would be for her to ask herself, who is the one person you would not want to read what you have just written? And now imagine that person finding your website and reading it because it will happen. Are you comfortable with that? If so, carry on. If not, maybe you should consider keeping a private journal. If that person doesn't exist, well then aren't you lucky.

As I read this today, I recognized my impudence with regard to the kind of material I write about on this thing, and, given my previously unbreakable impudence, remained certain that this would never happen to me. As I've mentioned in the past, it takes some serious fucking up for me to learn any sort of lesson. Well, I think a lesson has finally been learned. I got a phone call from my mom today, and it turns out that my parents have found and read (I don't even want to know how much of) my blog (Hi, Mom and *gulp* Dad!). So I texted dear friend E, and she called me right back to tell me that tonight she found out that her parents have been reading, too.

I've written so many posts and thought "If my parents ever read this, I would die." I'm not going to die now, but things at Via Gina headquarters are going to change, somehow. I won't be giving up my vices and joining a knitting circle or anything, but I do think it would be good for me and my desired career to find things to write about besides how drunk I got the other night and the latest dude drama (which happened two days ago and I uncharacteristically refrained from writing about.) Also, I do care about my health and my safety and what my parents think of me, so I may consider ammending my lifestyle somewhat. But nothing can take away my to-go margaritas.

Parents, you raised us well. We're all okay. I realize this isn't much consolation coming from me, but I promise you that.