No, seriously, I hear the bells. I live pretty much next door to a Catholic church and they like to play their bells. It's not real-live old timey ding-dong bells, it's a computerized thingy that plays tunes. So right now, it's...shit, I suddenly can't think of what damn song it is. It's a Christmas carol, and part of the lyrics is something about "bringing Him laud", maybe?
There's something wondrous about being able to type "bring him laud" into Google and having it spit back, "What Child is This" in .00002 seconds.
So, here it is, my new blog. And when you type the word "blog" repeatedly, as I have in the last half-hour or so, good Christ it's an annoying word to read. I may wind up renaming the blog (eerrggghh) before the day is out. The Jane C. Nolan...Thing. The Jane C. Nolan...Experience. Meh, too overdone. The Daily Jane...too cutesy, and the last thing I am is cutesy. Maybe just The Jane C. Nolan. If you choose to emphasize the "The" so it sounds like "Thee", it's like "KAPOW here she IS the one and ONLY". Maybe I'll go with that, then.
Which reminds me of my college days. I went to Columbia College in Chicago, which is a fine arts college, as I had an eye toward making my living in an artistic fashion. Twenty years later, I'm in the same office job I was at 19. But that's neither here nor there, I went to fine arts college, and part of the acting track was to take voice classes. One of the interesting tidbits that I will pass onto you as my welcoming gift is that if the word "The" is before a word that starts with a consonant, the proper pronunciation of "The" would be "Thuh". However, if it's before a word that starts with a vowel, "The" should be pronounced "Thee". So you're reading Thuh Jane C. Nolan, but if my first name was Amanda or Ione or Esther, you'd be reading Thee Esther C. Nolan. And now I have one more thing that makes me grit my teeth when I hear people talk.
Oh, I should probably let you know how things are going to work around this joint. I'm a moderating of comments kind of gal, so keep that in mind if you're going to take issue with something I say or are just saying "yay" or whatever. The office job in which I have worked for the last 20 years has delightful internet filters that don't allow me to access anything remotely resembling fun, so moderating comments usually has to take place within The Jane C. Nolan Nerve Center (my bedroom) when I am not at my workplace. If you're just looking to be a doucheweasel, I'll be the only one to view your doucheweaselity. So keep that in mind before launching into a screed about how I'm a fat fatty fat fatter fat fatterson who's ugly and stupid and blah blee blee blee. I mean, I am a fat fatty fatter fat fatterson, you're not wrong about that. But that's not going to make me curl up into a ball and bemoan my fatty fatterson life, as you might discover at my now-closed Fat Acceptance blog, Casual Blasphemies.
I'm planning to talk about silly things and serious things and things that are important to me, and hope to do so in a semi-entertaining fashion. Writers are supposed to write, and in the last 4-5 years, I haven't been doing much of it. I'm going to give it a good old fine arts college try to change that this year.
Or, like I did often at fine arts college, I'll smoke cigarettes, go to the Surf for an omelet, and ditch out after three years because I got sick of writing papers.
