Suddenly, I’ve become very blogconscious.

I’ve been blogging for over a year, here, for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, for STL a La Mode . . . I’ve written enough online to be recognized walking about in a city of three million people, and yet, all of a sudden, I feel like I’ve just noticed the shades are open, it’s dark outside, and the light is on.

You people are really out there, aren’t you?

I forget, when talking to people I know, that they read this blog. Then I forget whether I’ve told people I know, things about which I’ve blogged. This is the problem with pouring your brainwaves over a keyboard. So I got weirded out today when Jason mentioned that he’s got this on RSS feed and sees everything as soon as it’s posted. Um . . . hi, Jason. I mean, not THAT weirded out, not enough to stop this nonsense, of course. But later, I talked to my in-laws and they were all caught up because they read the blog, and there was nothing left to say! Um, hi guys, see you in a couple of weeks.

Wow. So now I’m super conscious of who is reading this and I just have to stop thinking about it or I won’t have a darn thing to say anywhere and NO ONE likes a mime!

I’m delighted at the results of the comment experiment! I’ve heard from so many people and it’s nice to finally have a little tw0-way interaction going. So, if you haven’t yet left a comment, it’s time.

As for the red dirt . . . the shoes were a bit more blue than before I put them in the washer, but after just one more day back at camp, they were dirty as ever. I give up. Next time, I’m buying the girl mud colored shoes and socks.

And one more thing . . . I found out today that I will be one of 36 people participating in Leadership Charlottesville this fall. I’ll be blogging about the experience over here, and will provide a reminder when it begins.

Did I tell you I’ve made an honest-to-goodness friend in Charlottesville?

Right before we moved, the girl’s Girl Scout leaders were saying goodbye to us. Two of these ladies, Angie and Hope, are the best of friends. They go everywhere together and talk every day. I’d been holding it together pretty well, emotionally, but when I said goodbye to Hope, I just lost it, and bawled like a baby. After we left, I thought, that’s what I need in our new home. I need a Hope.

I think I’ve found my Hope. On the surface, we probably don’t seem to have much in common. I’m a bourgeoisie Midwestern girl (and occasional hoosier), she’s from Croatia. I can’t live without my gas guzzling SUV. She doesn’t have a driver’s license. She’s an academic. I’m a goofball. I’m a mom, and she’s not (yet). But, OH we can talk for hours and it’s like no time has passed at all.

If you were born somewhere between 1960 and 1990, and you’re female, there’s a good chance your name is Jennifer. I have good friends named Jennifer, and even a relative — it’s not that I have anything against the name, I just think it’s amusing how many of them there are.

I went to the Charlottesville Area Chamber of Commerce Professional Women’s Business Roundtable today. There were about 40 women there. We all went around the table and introduced ourselves. There were a fair number of Jennifers in the group, enough that, one of the final Jennifers asked that anyone with that name raise their hand. There was a breeze as at least a dozen hands shot in the air.

Later on, I was chatting with a friend and for a minute I couldn’t remember his wife’s name. I shot in the dark. Yep, Jennifer.

* Update: OK, I just realized one of the Jennifers is this one. Whoa! Face to face with a fellow blogger without knowing it!

I’ve launched an experimental new blog, Writing the Good Read.

I’ve been wanting to write more about the process of writing, experiment with styles, capture good information for other writers in a space other than this one, where it just doesn’t fit. I also want to share good reads with an audience that I think, is slightly different than this one.

I will continue to blog as STL Working Mom, with all the parenting hilarity that belongs here, with the poignant stories about raising kids, working at home and traveling from Charlottesville to St. Louis (again, and again).

If you’re interested in writing and reading, flip on over to Writing the Good Read where I hope to share what simply doesn’t belong here.

I’m aghast at the red dirt of Virginia. The girl comes home from camp coated in the stuff. I, foolishly thinking of the well-heeled Charlottesville mothers, whose daughers’ hair is “done” in braids and darling ponytails, whose socks are bright white and outfits match (but aren’t too matchy-matchy — are we over that phrase yet?), bought the girl a dozen new, white socks when she started camp. We bought new, blue mocs.

The socks are brown. The backpack looks like it’s been through a war zone. The dirt adheres to the fabric with a vengeance. I’ve gone through two bottles of Shout.

Saturday, the girl and I got haircuts. I brought up the dirt to the stylist, who has lived in Virginia her whole life. “Use Dawn,” she said, “my mom swears by it and that woman can get stains out of anything. It’s her specialty.”

So tonight I spent thirty minutes with a new, cheap toothbrush, a bottle of Dawn, and the shoes. They oughta be in the spin cycle by now. I’ll let you know how they turn out. This could be the best bit of advice I’ve ever gotten from a hairdresser.

The socks, I fear, are a lost cause.

At the pool, the babysitters and teenaged girls wear teeny bikinis. The moms wear Lands’ End tankinis in a variety of styles and colors. The mom in the turquoise halter tankini with the number two leg cut (last year’s catalog) has a toddler she’s teaching to swim. Across the pool I spot two moms, barely distinguishable from one another in their black tankinis, white visors and loose, weekend chignons. Their tans are of unintentional degrees. Moms who have recently had their hair colored sport ball caps and swim, chins grazing the surface.

We swim, or sit and read, glancing up occasionally to locate kid #1, kid #2 and less often, kid #3.

It’s time to go at the third adult swim of the afternoon, the cue I’ve given the girls (my own, plus our guest for the day). I spot them hiding behind a chair. They don’t see me. They scurry off to the restroom. I slip in as they lock themselves into stalls, plotting their next move.

“She didn’t see us!”
“Let’s stay here till she leaves!”
“We can walk home!”

I wait, wondering how long they’ll camp out with the dank floor, unpleasant odor, locked behind metal doors in their dripping suits. A friend of theirs enters. I nod, and slip back out the door, waiting silently, just outside the door in the sun. After a few minutes they tiptoe out and walk right into me.

“Busted,” I say. “I heard everything you said. If you guys pull this stunt again we won’t be having any more guests to the pool.”

Turned on my flip flop, and stalked off to gather our stuff.

The girl apologized the whole way home. It was a lovely day at the pool.

I’m so surprised I’ve never blogged this before. My husband and I have a game we play. We call it Celebrity Deathwatch. No, it’s not original. Other people play variations of the game, or so I’ve heard. Ours was born out of our news junkie personalities and a desire to one-up each other in speed knowledge.

The game is this: the first one to notify the other, either by phone, voicemail, e-mail, IM or in person of the death of a celebrity wins the point. We argue degrees of celebrity when one of us recognizes the deceased and the other does not. We agree that major celebrities (defined as well-known individuals and occasionally, animals) count as extra status if not points. Lately, the boy is score keeper since we can never keep straight who’s ahead. I’ll admit I’m down a few points at the moment.

It was a good week for death. I got Syd Barrett. Mark got June Allyson (how sad, and incontinent, I remarked). I think Mark scored Kenneth Lay, too. Mark got Harriet the Tortoise, which I allowed because I think most people had heard of her and we certainly had.

It’s fun, we enjoy the healthy competition and staying on top of who’s dead and who’s alive. Sick? Maybe a little, but hey, if you can’t laugh at death, you’re just going to fear it.

I’ve gotta go tell Mark Red Buttons just checked out. Score one for me. Later.

Stop what you’re doing for just a sec.

Now, don’t look down or into any reflective surfaces. Do you know what you’re wearing? Everything?

Since I’ve been working at home my wardrobe has devolved into whatever’s clean and comfortable. I have what is essentially a uniform of jeans and tee shirts. I have several tees in the same shape and cut, just different colors, all from my favorite, reliable clothing source. Without looking sometimes I have to really think about which shirt I have on. Not that it matters; it’s just me in a room.

Do you know what you wore yesterday? What about what you will wear tomorrow?

Note to Mom and Dad: skip this entry. Seriously, you’ve gone this long without what I’m about to share, there’s no need to internalize it now.

Everyone likes to be remembered, right? It’s particularly a charge if someone who didn’t need to remember your name does, the next time they meet you. I’ve always gone out of my way to note names, partly due to my own name and the irritation I feel when people get it wrong (especially, more than once), and also due to Sister Bernadine. Sister B. worked in my high school office and knew the name of every single student and, more than likely, all their siblings. It was, at times, creepy. I always thought it was cool to have a memory like that; it’s on my list of items that cannot be bought that I would totally buy.

My parents, in their groovy 1970s wisdom, gave me a gift. When they decided to name me Marijean it was in recognition that, in all likelihood, I would be their last child. They chose to combine their names; my mom is Jean, my dad is George Anthony Mari. He’s French. Whatever. So in 1970 I became Marijean; thus saving me from being named Barbie (my sisters’ pick) or Patricia Jean (PJ) their compromise. They kept the Patricia as my middle name and, as those close to me know, you can call me MJ, but only if I’ve given you permission (it’s nonverbal and understood; you’ll know if it’s OK to call me MJ).

Growing up, I hated my name. It was different when I wanted to be same. It was weird, not cool and people got it wrong. A lot. Plus, everyone else was named Jennifer.

Then, adulthood: the internet, and epiphany; angels’ choirs, sparkling lights, microphone headsets; and magic.

Spell check changed my life.

The first time it happened, the CFO of the company I worked for, a straight-laced accountant, of course, approached me with a giggle and a twinkle in his eye. “Did you know,” he asked mischievously, “that when you spell check your name it pulls up marijuana?”

YES, I know. It IS hilarious and NO my parents are not hippies. I always finish the story by telling people to please not tell my parents, that they’re really conservative and wouldn’t find the humor at all.

The second greatest attribute of my name is this: it is original and totally googleable. If you Google me, it’s all me, baby. There’s no wondering if it’s some other Marijean Jaggers. Nope, right there is a history of what I’ve been up to, writing, where I’ve been working, etc. That’s good, right? Well, it’s handy, as long as I keep my nose clean and keep doing a good job, I guess.

So, Mom and Dad, if you were stubborn and continued to read past the warning then, thank you both; I love my name. It sure makes great cocktail party conversation and almost everyone remembers my name (and enjoys spelling it right) later.