This is Not a Blog

Right? This is totally NOT a blog because if it was a blog, I would actually blog. Blah, blah, blahg. So, if it's not a blog, then what is it?

UnKnownSideEffect was born out of pangs of anonymity. I brought this blog to life in response to another, much more WELL-KNOWN blog, "KnownSideEffects" which was published by my husband. Don't start forecasting that this blogging business had something to do with my competitive side. I'll admit to being competitive, but I know there is no point in competing with my husband. He has his talents; I have mine, and our respective skills are on somewhat opposite ends of the talent spectrum. His talents just happen to be of the sort that put him out in the limelight. Google him and you'll see what I mean. Google me, and you'll see him. This doesn't bother me, really. What does bother me, the thing that propelled me to make my voice heard in the form of this blog was something I overheard one day at the height of KnownSideEffects popularity: "He's married?!" (This person was asking this about MY husband of 15 YEARS.) "I didn't know he was married. When did that happen?"

So, this is how the unknownsideeffect was born. Initially, it was going to be my clever way of anonymously responding to posts by knownsideeffects. My intention was to be the alter-ego of knownsideeffects. His background was all black. Mine would be all white. When he wrote about racing or about being on the road, I would write about spectating from the sidelines or about life on the homefront. This singular focus turned out to be utterly impossible for me. I'm not the shadow of my husband. And I'm no good at writing about the exterior life. The interior life is much more interesting, to me anyway. Of course, it's my own interior life about which I write, so I'm biased there.

This brings me to this post. What is the point of it? I don't know. But it's not a blog.

Greenhouse Gasses

So I’ve been thinking (and not writing) that this blog space of mine might be contributing on a small scale to an increase in carbons in our ever-more fragile ecosystem. My reasoning has something to do with me allowing this space to sit idle much like a car pool mom sits alone outside the karate studio in her idling Cadillac Escalade reading teen romance novels; meanwhile, her little Kimberly is inside chopping away at the air and other little Kimberlies in an attempt to earn a belt of a new and more prestigious color. One day, Kimberly might actually use this defense skill to protect herself from the growing numbers of criminal types walking the streets waiting to pounce on seemingly defenseless Kimberlies; for now, though, it’s all about the accessories.

But here's the thing: I haven't been reading any romance novels--teen or otherwise. I've been reading really scary stuff about the demise of our planet and politics, and about how politics are contributing to the demise of our planet. At the heart of this war is our food supply. It's not safe. A trip to the grocery store may just as well be a stroll through a park planted with landmines. One night I actually found myself standing in the middle of the expansive produce section at my local Dan's not daring to pick out a single piece of produce for the poisons it could be harboring. Sure, I can use veggie wash to clean off the waxes and pesticides on the outside of the food, but there's nothing I can use to wash away the poison that was injected into the soil where this stuff grew up. This poison is now part of the plant's genetic code, and if I eat it, it will worm its way into my own.

And all this time, this blog space is sitting here idle, breathing precious cyber air. Right now, it seems that this new, paperless world we've created is safer for us than that carbon emitting world of processed trees and land lines, but are we sure? In 1973, the year I was born, the U.S. Department of Food and Agriculture was sure that their new and improved ways of growing and subsidizing corn would result in our country never again having to face food shortages driven by high cost and limited supply. They were right. But what they made certainly hasn't turned out to be better. What if a similar danger lurks here in cyberspace? What if it isn't limitless after all and my idle corner is slowly eating away a precious and non-renewable resource?

What if? I guess I better start using it--even if only to type useless blather. Kimberly needs to hurry on out of karate so I can rush off to another parking lot--piano, tutoring, ballet, soccer, harp--anything to keep my mind off this seemingly futile fight to win back the planet.

In the Forests of the Night

Three months pass quickly! I would like to say that it goes by more quickly now than it did when I was ten, but that wouldn't be entirely true. My dad is an accountant, so I've always been innately aware of the short spanse of time that is three months. I remember thinking, "Didn't he just DO quarterlies? Why is he doing it again?" Clearly, this was before I could tolerate the joy of relentless repetition the way I do now. Now, the routine is comfortable. It's when routine is suddenly disrupted that I fall apart.

Today, I accidentally hit "blogger" when I logged onto my google account. It's been EXACTLY three months since my last post. This must be some sort of a sign, right? Sign or no, I can't pass up the opportunity to post another chain of silly words today--I like to think of it as my personal Quarterly Report. Plus it makes the random act of clicking on "blogger" less disruptive to my senses.

Only, it doesn't make typing this post any easier. I really have nothing TO report. Ho Hum. Hum.... Ho. oH. Palindrome. Huh. Look, another one! Crazy.

What fearful symmetry. The radio whispering in the background has something to report: "It's all about Tiger Woods tonight." Poor, poor...

Tyger, tyger burning bright...

Misplaced Modifiers

Today, from my "personalized" horoscope, comes an example of a sentence with a misplaced modifier. See if you can spot the error:

You may meet someone who lives far away at a party, and be invited to visit them at a later date.

When you've got it, type a corrected version of the sentence in my comments. You may also include explanations in your comments as to why you agree or disagree with this prediction as one suitable for my personality and lifestyle (please site reasons beyond the scope of the grammatical error).

Guess Not!

Recently, it came to my attention that I still have this blog out here in cyberspace. Two months ago I momentarily thought I was ready to get back at it. You can see how that actually turned out. I'm stopping in to say hello before I head out the door for yet another incredibly short run.

What seems like a long time ago, I posted an update on Facebook that had something to do with two miles hardly being worth the effort of lacing up the shoes. With the passing of time comes the advantage of wisdom: Two miles is better than none, and one must ALWAYS lace the shoes to avoid tripping.

Tripping. I must make a better effort to avoid doing that. Which reminds me...

Back In

So I made it back inside safe and sound and dry...except for the sweat. The wind challenged me to a battle on the way home. I won! All in all, it was a good run. Glad I got outside, and getting out made me realize that where running is concerned, it's easier to stay out once you get out. Kind of like blogging, I guess. It's easier to not blog, and the longer between bouts of blogging, the easier it is to avoid it all together. On the flip side, once you start, well...

Advice: If You're Going to Get Out, Get Out Now

My therapist friend likes to say, "It's easier to stay out than to get out." This might be true this morning. I hope not. I don't like being cold and wet.

9:31 a.m. severe storm warning. On and off bouts of rain drops.

I had it set in my mind to run outside this morning, and I just can't shake it, so I'm off! I'll report back in about an hour. If I don't, that means I've been struck by lightning or stranded in some neighborhood by flying and falling trees. I'm thinking Dan Pope doesn't know his weather like Mark Eubank. I miss that old Eubank.