Getting Googled In Your Jammies

Back up several months, if you will, and recall the humble - no, humiliating - roots of one dear rural blogger. Old friend becomes new flame becomes manipulating, lying, son-of-a-bitch. Shell of a human being washes into a therapist's office against his best judgement. Indignant exit to follow.

Caught up? OK. There was never any plan for a blog. There wasn't even a plan for a journal. We didn't own a note pad, for that matter. Had we wanted to document any aspect of the experience, we would have been stealing our own toilet paper for the title page. Or, we could have broken the No Wal-Mart pledge we'd just signed, driven 25 miles each way, and bought paper. Then it occurred... This is (was) 2006. There's a computer in the house.

At the computer, the goal was to snap ourselves out of the unprecedented funk by making fun of the entire therapy experience. We had laid down a number of rules for the journey: 1) We are not going to lie down on that couch. Too cliche. Besides, we get reflux. 2) We are not going to blame our mother for how we interacted with a 6'5" hairy oaf. 3) We are not going to pay a therapist for the privilege of an erotic relationship. (See? We can clean it up when required. You'll see why briefly.)

So we started repeating and revising, in 90% truth style, the experience and found a helpful way to participate in the Clinic while clinging to our Cynic. It worked. Funk dumped. Sense of humor restored. New-found lease on life, if not love, established. Thank you for your time and, for the record, "No, we are not interested in expanding this paid relationship into the erotic arena. Flattery duly noted."

What helped it work was a healthy dose of exhibitionism. By pure accident, we stumbled across the free blogging site, perused a number of the posts, and generally decided that our ego would allow us to document this experience - anonymously - in the public eye. The self-imposed commitment to keep it running was helpful in the extreme. If nothing else, it kept us from sinking inward toward that black hole of self-absorption - the bad kind, not the kind we peddle here on an almost daily basis. Never, never, never did we have any ambitions toward becoming the next Erica Jong, David Sedaris, William Burroughs or Schmoe Jablonsky, the weekly newspaper letter writer.

Then came the strokes, feedback, snarky responses, and the occasional cat-call. Instant addiction. And not just a couple minor delusions of grandeur. We were our very own Huffington Post - if to no one else but the dog and the guy in New Jersey who never fails to read a post. We've tottered along that way for months now. Following the therapy, we changed our name a tad, changed the focus a lot, and started talking more about the world and less about ourselves. Some called that evolution. Others just wanted to know where all the dirt about our personal life went. (Note: It went back where it came from with a cross-eyed man. We never said it didn't still rankle us.)

We got a little giddy about the world-wide stumbles that just having a blog will get you. Spain, Venezuela, Sweden, England, France, Vietnam- even places they don't speak English!! Like Arkansas! Somebody searches for "Judy" and whether it was Garland or Blume, if you mentioned either, you're going on the list of clicks they can make. One time we typed "Sirhan Sirhan" into a post and it has generated more visits than anything else in over a year of typing. Go figure. Someone googled "women's prolapsed (rectums)" and found us. We cannot begin to explain that phenomenon. Such is the Internet. You don't get too giddy about who's reading because half the time they didn't mean to find you anyway. That was until last night.

The House of Representatives found me. The real one. Ours. Three times in twenty-four hours. I'm sure they're not conducting a job search. I happened to mention my congresswoman in passing. Someone on The Hill googled said lady, and by whatever happenstance ended up between the covers of (if not with) YOURS FRIGGIN' TRULY! Now, this may be the standard protocol for Congress, but when you live in Mayberry and anybody in the hallowed halls of Congress has reason to know you're alive... Words fail.

Our drunk friend** in New York City has pimped some of the writing here to New York Magazine, made us flirt with CNN staffers, and generally shoved us off on a number of his dates via telephone - most of whom had some editorial title for some major magazine you've either read or from which you've cut pictures. But nothing.... nothing... prepares you for the day when you're sitting in your underwear eating Frosted Flakes and you see "Unites States House Of Representatives" among the footprints to and from your potty-mouthed rambling about everything and nothing. (**Ed. Note: By "Our Drunk Friend" we mean "Our Only Friend" in New York City. Due to heightened sensitivities on the Island of Manhattan, we take this rare step to clarify that we have never seen this unnamed person drunk. In fact, we have never seen this person. To our knowledge, he may not exist. We also cannot confirm that he has ever had a drink of anything, including water. Neither can we confirm that he is a he. We cannot confirm that he is in New York City for that matter. We take complete license to characterize him as we see fit and leave his friends to have a sense of humor about the matter or to spend more time at the gym. If they took as many well-lubricated phone calls in the middle of the night as we had, they would enjoy taking the occasional jab at one of their favorite people, as well. No aspersions are cast on the quality of this individual - which we assert to be well above average. Aspersions are heaped on those who would take such an off-hand, mostly loving characterization and turn it into a Whodunnit. Now...back to our story.)

We want to just take this chance to give a big shout out to the folks in D.C. for the hard work they do, for making a nobody's day, and.... since we have your attention, at least fleetingly... You're doing the Lord's work. Thank you for helping us get rid of the last guy. And thank you for being smart enough not to do the job like we would - with flaming torches, nooses and midnight raids. You seem to be hitting all the right notes with a broad swath of the constituency - even though we'd prefer a Jihadi Democrat Congress that pulls wigs off little old Republican ladies. And men.

We're smart enough to know that getting everything you want usually isn't good for you.

And please.... Google more often. Next time, call ahead and we'll fix punch.