(I emailed Penelope to see if everything was okay since she deleted her blog suddenly. She asked if she could write a guest post to explain. Here it is.)

***

Allow me to take a moment to introduce myself to some of you that don’t know me. My name is Penelope. I used to have a blog called The Rivers of Addiction Flow, however on Tuesday morning I deleted it.

It wasn’t something I wanted to do or that I was happy to do, but in the moment it needed to be done. A couple of weeks ago I wrote a post about how I had just moved to Chicago to be with my boyfriend, WB, but that there was someone back where I moved here from that I had feelings for and that I was struggling to decide what I was going to do.

This past weekend when I went to Indianapolis to visit my sick grandfather, I also made a trip back down to Bloomington (where I used to live) to see my cousin. While I was there I saw this boy and I ended up making a mistake and making out with him.

When I returned to Chicago, WB and I had got into a fight on Monday night about how we want two different things out of life and that we have issues in our relationship. He asked me that night point blank and the next morning if there was someone else and I lied to him and said no. I realize I shouldn’t have lied about it, but I couldn’t find the words to explain that yes I had moved up here to be with him and yes I had feelings for someone else. I felt horrible about the whole thing and I still do.

So when I left for work on Tuesday morning, WB got onto my laptop and found my blog. He read the post and text me that he knew what was going on and that I lied to him. When I arrived at work the first thing I did was delete my blog so he couldn’t read anymore of my now not-so-private thoughts.

When I signed the lease with him, I didn’t have feelings for anyone else. Just him. I just wanted to be with him. But life happens and life can be shitty. I realize it’s not the most convenient time to have these feelings, but I have them. You can’t change the way you feel, life doesn’t work that way.

At this point, I am not sure if WB and I are going to be able to get through this. My feelings for this other person are really a secondary issue because WB and I want two different things.Even if we can get past the my feelings/cheating, I want to move back to Louisville. So I have to ask myself what the point of staying and trying one more time to make it work when in a year we are going to want two different things? I have been trying to make things work for a long time. I have cried, begged and pleaded

I feel like I have spent the past three years of our relationship catering to him and making sure his needs are met. And in the mean time I haven’t been meeting my need and making myself happy. I never wanted to move to Chicago, and WB knew that. But he moved here anyway and as a result I felt like to make the relationship work and give it a real fighting chance that I needed to move up here. I gave up my whole life (close proximity to my friends and family, my job, my comfort) to be with him and all he can see are these other feelings and how I could do that to him.

I know two wrongs don’t make a right, but I will continue to feel that the moral high ground he is standing on is very shaky. It’s like the golden rule or something: you shouldn’t throw stones when you live in a glass house and what goes around comes around.

I thought that my feelings for this person would change when I got to Chicago. I thought that I just had those feelings because I was scared to move to Chicago and that I would get up here and be with WB, that things would be fine. But they aren’t fine and they haven’t been fine for a while. I can’t pretend that I am happy living my life for someone else and always making sure that they are happy. It’s not a fun or healthy way to live my life.

Sadly all my writing is gone. Lost in the vast space of the Internet somewhere. I do plan on starting a new blog again, but it is going to take some time.

It’s so long for a while, but not farewell.

Hello loyal ohsolovely readers, I’m Matt from A View From 5280ft. I’m here to fill some space while Jamie is doing her thing at BlogHer as you all probably know by now.

I feel privileged that I was even asked to post here. Although, those who know me know that I am sometimes a foul mouthed, drunken, self centered jerk. So I might not fit in with the mantra here but here is my attempt at a softer post.

I wasn’t always a jerk. I was a nice kid. A kid who had big dreams…not about being rich, but dreams of being heavyweight champion of the world.

My favorite movie as a kid was Rocky. The very first Rocky Balboa, before Mr. T, the Russian and Tommy Gunn.  My dad bought me the VHS and I would watch it every single day. It was a brilliant movie. A story about a no one who, by way of his nickname got a chance to fight the one and only, Apollo Creed.

What I love about the movie is that it wasn’t a fairy tale. Rocky lived in a dump, smoked cigarettes, could hardly read and lost his one shot at the heavyweight title. Realistic.

I loved the movie so much, I used to throw punches when Rocky threw punches, go down when Rocky went down and I would even tell corny jokes all the time. My dad also bought me a pair of Sugar Ray Leonard gloves and a mouthpiece so that when I watched my hero, I could pretend I was truly him.

In some ways, I will always look up to Rocky and there will always be a part of me who feels like I am the heavyweight champ.

Don’t I look like a fucking champ to you?

I am under instruction to explain first why you aren’t getting your beloved Jamie writing to you again, so soon after she was taken away from you for a whole week (the instruction, I might add, was from a source other than Jamie). Jamie and I are both members of 20 Something Bloggers and we’ve all decided to throw the blogging world into slight (and by slight I mean total) disarray with The Big Blog Swap. So today you’ll find Jamie on over at my blog, Crazy Brit Heaven, and y’all are stuck with me… (mais ne panique pas, it is just for one post…)

Now that the introductions are out of the way…

I was wandering through my town tonight on my way home. I generally love walking at this time of night, at this time of year, because the world begins to calm down. A gentle breeze picks up, people are strolling instead of power-walking, laughter flows freely and the world takes on a mystical glow from restaurant fronts and street lamps. Tonight was no different.

Except for one thing.

Tonight I realised that, despite being a Londoner through and through, I really do adore living in a smaller town. On the way home I passed by at least three or four friends, all of whom took the time to stop and say hello. I had such a clear sense of belonging to a community. I know there are downsides to that. The gossip. The people living in each other’s pockets. The quintessential claustrophobic downfalls of a ‘village’. But I have come to understand that it is just about possible to steer clear of that, to keep your head screwed on and above water, and only to appreciate the care and genuine interest, which bounces off the people living in your neighbourhood.

One annual event took place last week to mark an historic moment which happened in our town. Although admittedly the history was glossed over, the “townspeople” showed up en masse, with kids and with families, to relax and enjoy. I honestly never thought I’d be describing my home town as a place where I could refer to the inhabitants as townspeople…

I love the life of the city and I’m glad that it’s still only 40 minutes train journey away - it’s still within grasp. London will always be where my heart lies. The electric buzz and indescribable, magical pull of city life will never leave me.

But tonight, with my window open, watching the silhouette of the world and revelling in the total calm of this breathtaking evening, I’m proud to call this home.

Much love,
xx

Dear Google,

It has been a while since I last plead my case. First I came up with a list of reasons why you should hire me. After that was ignored I came up with a list of possible positions I’d be willing to create if hired. I still haven’t heard back from you though. At first I thought it was me. I spent days reflecting on and rereading my posts.

Maybe it’s me? Is it my ears? Perhaps my amazing sunburnning skills?

I know what it is…it’s my Wii bowling skills. Well if it makes you feel any better, I’m not a pro anymore. I’ve stepped down from that pedestal pretty quickly and moved onto greener grasses.

Okay fine. I used yahoo alright. But it was just one time! It meant nothing to me! I was just trying to….you’re so pretty baby, I’m sorry. Come back okay?

But then I realized no, it wasn’t me. I’m much too awesome. So naturally I blamed the Internet. Something is preventing you there at Google HQ from reading my blog. I realize this happens from time to time. Apparently it’s affecting Comcast, too. When the lovely Jamie asked if I’d round up her week of guest blogs (No pressure there!), enthusiastically I replied with a “Super Fuck Yeah!” (Sorry Mom, but this isn’t my blog and I’m allowed to swear now.) Thinking that Google should definitely be able to read this, I decided to make a second third attempt.

I’ve decided that you need a spokesperson, er a mascot. I am volunteering to be that mascot. Just call me…The Googler. Normal chick with two cats by day, The Googler by night! Jen Lancaster has hopped on board. You better get on before you miss the train to Awesomeville. Did I mention there will be a cape?

So what would The Googler do for you? Let’s say you’re having a party and your little geeky baby doesn’t want a stupid clown. Call on The Googler. Balloon animals? No problem. Unless they pop. Then we have a serious problem because I will be out of there faster than a fat kid in spandex.

I’m also willing to move around the office very stealth like and use my skills to help people Google things. Let’s say someone is, god forbid, using Yahoo. I know…I almost cried, too. Well I’d sneak attack them and change their search engine back to Google before they even know it. Microsoft wants to pay people? That’s no match for my skills! By the end of my tenure people will be like, “What’s Yahoo/Microsoft?” And I’ll shake my head as I say, “Exactly.”

Consider the extra money we could bring in with the appearances. I could become an ordained minister and wed people as The Googler. There could be Googler action figures, mugs, even holiday calendars (Tastefully wrapped in my Googler cape of course). I’m pretty sure this is the direction you need to be going Google.

I’ll sit back and wait for the offers to come pouring in. And don’t think you fooled me by contacting me for a massage therapy job. You know I don’t have enough experience yet and that was a very cruel email! (Send it again in two years and we’ll talk!)

Sincerely,

Jenn a.k.a. The Googler

Hi everybody it’s…. oh, well, that’s awkward.

You see, I’ve reinvented myself and gone anonymous recently, but I’m without anonymous moniker. You know something witty and sleek and a touch sexy, something that tells you what I’m all about without telling you WHO I AM. My favorite anonymous bloggers all have that something: Dooce, the Damsel, Deutlich. Maybe the key is having my name start with a D? Delight? Delicious? Dainty? Dandy? Dangereux? Dumb Dumb.

While I try to figure out exactly what I should be called (suggestions are welcome!) I’m really here to take up some space while Jamie’s away. I’m not really sure what to do in a guestblogging role, so I guess I’ll just butter up the host. Just like toast, but less calories! Like you, I find Jamie witty, adorable and all around rad. But seriously, the perfectness of her hair makes me hate her. Just a little. Like hate in the “I want to graft the follicles of hair off of her head while she’s sleeping and give myself the hair I’ve always wanted” way you hate someone. What is that too much?

Unfortunately the universe has something against me and the Lovely One ever meeting, and so we admire each other from a distance. Makes me think the Universe might actually implode if the two of us where to ever enter the same zip code. It would be just like the Rise of the Silver Surfer. (I actually don’t know what that means, because I’m only 19 minutes into the movie so please don’t ruin it for me! And yes I’m aware it came out like a zillion years ago, but I’m a little behind on video films, like I just saw the first Shrek! How funny was that, with that weird green creature in love with a girly princess! Improbable, but funny! I’ll tell you what I thought about Sex and the City in about 4 years!)

So yes, I love Jamie. We share important common interests, like recapping Project Runway (July 16th, the madness returns!) and thinking that Tyra has absolutely lost it. The latter is more like a statement of fact though, I’m sure we of the Intelligent Internets will agree. The only thing we can really disagree on is which team should prevail in the epic battle of good versus evil (Detroit Tigers vs. Chicago Wrong Sox), but I still respect her for being woefully mislead. I mean, I thought the Pussycat Dolls were really singing on So You Think You Can Dance Thursday night. Mistakes happen, Jamie!

Now that Jamie is appropriately scratching her head wondering why she ever asked me to guestblog, I think my work here is done. Happy weekend, everybody!

I deserve a little spanking.

No, not like that.

But I’ve been a bad, bad blogger.

Wonderful Jamie asked me to guest post for her on Thursday June 19 and I accepted.

Wait, that’s not the bad part.

The bad part is that I didn’t do it. The reasons why include something about my strep throat infection spreading into my jaw and repeated trips to Urgent Care, but let’s not discuss that because I Am Not Happy About It.

Instead, let’s discuss a homeless girl’s dream about the best blog meet up ever.

(If you’re interested in why I’m homeless, click here).

So, getting to the point.

The point is that I want to host a Blog Bash. A huge f*cking crazy awesome blog bash. I know they have BlogCon and all those formal thingies, which I’m sure are pretty neat and dandy.

(Who says neat and dandy?)

But I want to have a blogger party weekend. Maybe one where everyone who can come stays in a hotel for a weekend and I plan an itinerary of stuff and then everyone just attends the stuff that interests them. Or maybe one where we go on a cruise (not likely, I know, but wouldn’t that be incredible? Bloggie cruise 08!). I don’t know, I just want to do something. It would be amazing if that something was on New Year’s Eve, but I’ll settle for any random weekend.

Now I’d like some feedback. What could we feasibly do? Where could we realistically do it? Would anyone actually come? Suggestions, ideas, anything that could contribute to the Best Blog Bash of All Time.

Yes, that’s what I’d call it.

Dear lovelies,

From what I hear, I am to be one of the week’s last guest-posters while Jamie is off frolicking with Mickey Mouse and the Princesses in Florida. That means, that by now, you a) have already read materials from the A-list bloggers of the Oh How Lovely armada, b) are sick of guest-bloggers altogether and really just want Jamie to come home, c) have been lured here from No Ordinary Rollercoaster with the promise of hot, sexy porn (Joke’s on you, pervs! And you, Jamie, who will now have to deal with these keywords for the rest of your life!).

No matter what your answer or how much you want sweet, little Jamie to rescue your Google Readers…it’s Ben Day here at Oh How Lovely and I couldn’t be happier about it unless of course I was in a big tub of puppies, eating copious amounts of Doritos while listening to Kelly Clarkson. But then, as any of my faithful readers would tell you, I have plenty of puppy in my life to begin with and when it comes to Doritos I really should avoid the extra calories before I’m required to post another I’m-going-to-get-in-shape post.

If you’re keeping track, I have officially gone two full paragraphs without saying a single thing of value, let alone finding a theme for this post.

That’s what happens when you’re paid writer monkey – when your days are spent with key messages, advertising quips and the oh-so-overrated clarity. You end up starting a blog, mashing your forehead into the keyboard, slapping a picture of your mini dachshund on it, clicking publish and hoping for the best.

Add a dash of homo-tastic undertones (but not enough to clue in potential readers within my extended family) deliciously drunk and quotable parents and friends (“Ask that girl if she wants to play with Calvin?”…“I am NOT going up to a little girl on the street and saying: hey you, come to the backyard. We have a puppy and candy!”…“Tell her we have cigarettes too! Those are still cool right?!”) and you can kick back and wait for the book deals to come soaring in.

And while you wait, if nothing else, you’ll somehow manage to capture the attention of one Chicago reader whose blog shames you into shelling out the cash for a professional design and who will eventually request that you post for her while she’s in Disney – a place much like the 20-something blogosphere except without the binge-drinking and anonymous sex. Okay, without the drinking at least…that means YOU, Sleeping-Around Beauty.

You’ll start writing without any topic, purpose or strategy and end up reading back the tragic train-wreck of a tale that has become your life. You’ll wipe away that one, obligatory tear that you learned in a high school theatre class, knowing that another opportunity at attracting international acclaim has been wasted, and you’ll click that publish button one more time…

Hi everyone, It’s Meghan from over at Blog Voyeur Turned Blogwhore and the Oh! So Lovely Jamie asked me to do a guest post while she’s visiting the house of mouse. This is my first time doing a guest post and I’m kind of insanely nervous, so really it makes me think I should just share another classic first time with you so we can all be awkward together.

I’m kind of a trainwreck on my blog, why change that now?

The First Time I ever Went to the Strippers!

I was eighteen when I left home and made my way to college, and like most of the people unpacking in the dormitory was looking forward to my first year of independence, studies but more importantly FREEDOM to do whatever I chose.

The slight difference that was noticed between the others and myself which became apparently from the first night was my lack of experience, of…..anything. Cards and beer and coolers came out and as the fizziness of my first ever Mike’s Hard started to loosen up and as the conversation flowed the divide became even more obvious.

“So you’ve never drank before?” Hot European dude.

“Nope, other than the occasional drink, but not drunk.”

“So you’ve never had sex?” girl sitting on guys lap across from me. I think she had.

“Nope. Never even kissed a guy other than a school play.”

“Let me get this straight… You’ve never been away from home, never been kissed, never smoked, done drugs or been in trouble?” The girl who would soon become my best friend and take me under her wing.

“Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. »

There was no response necessary. The group just eyeballed each other with what I thought was amazement, but I now know looking back was something else. Excitement.

I was fresh, untainted, corruptible meat.

So the plans started formulating and before I knew it Saturday night had come and I had been outfitted with the best of short skirts and the worst of Fake ID’s armed to take on the club almost a full year before I was legal to do so. The energy was electric and yet there was something off I couldn’t quite place my finger off.

“Don’t the guys normally come out to the bar with us?”

“No, no. They always come afterwards. The women always go for the first hour or so by themselves.”

So off we went, purses and glitter and wedge heels that only the late 90’s would allow. Noone was gonna break my stride, noone was gonna hold me down. No way.

It worked! The fake ID worked! And inside the college bar, home of the dollar beer and the toonie shooter I looked around and was amazed by the glowing beer signs and the large screen TV’s showing The Simpson’s in the background in case we got bored. It was smelly. It didn’t look hygienic. It was fabulous.

I was barely propped up on my barstool, trying to find the best way to hold my drink and sit like a lady in a miniskirt, when I saw the smirks on the faces of my friends. I turned around.

There was a male there and he was naked. I saw things I had never seen before. My peripheral vision was aghast with mantan and body oil, zebra thong and washboard abs. I couldn’t hear the cougars in the background screaming like banshees. I couldn’t see the stagette full of women pawing at him like a walking, talking sample sale. It was just me, him and his thing. So I did what any person would do.

I screamed in his face.

At the top of my lungs, a scream that could curdle blood and rival anyone big breasted woman in a B grade movie getting chased by a knife. It was loud enough the music paused and the naked man jumped about ten feet in the air almost landing on me and yelping back in surprise.

And the bar howled, my friends being the worst offenders. From that point forward the rest of the male exotic dancers had already heard about me and made it their point to come over for a show. My face matched the hair and possibly the curtains that none of these boys were ever going to see. It was horrifying. And when the boys came to meet us at the bar afterwards and they heard all they could do is laughing knowing it was exactly the reaction everyone was going for.

I hated the dorm boys for it. I hated the dorm girls for it. I hated the strippers whose face I screamed in. But eventually I got over it, as with a few years of debauchery and hijinks under my belt, with the halo dimmed and put away for good I knew that in my last year I had a mission to pull off. A tradition.

Let’s corrupt the new girl.

Everything.

All of it.

I mean, it can be daunting enough coming up with a neat topic to write about in your own blog, but when it’s time to do so for someone else it can be really nerve wracking. It’s all about figuring out what to write and – OMG – what if her regular readers really hate this entry?

Then there’s the fear of writing something completely offensive. I can do that in my own neck of the internets but it’s kinda rude to sit at someone else’s dinner table spouting off about S&M or George Dubbya.

Somehow, those two topics fit perfectly in the same sentence. At least in my twisted world.

So why’d you accept the invitation to guest blog?

Shuddup. Nobody asked for your sensible questions.

Actually, in all honesty? I {heart} teh Jamie. I do. And yes, I spelled that wrong on purpose.

Just to throw you for a loop.

Miss J is off in the wonderful land of the Mouse and I might be a smidge envious. Oddly enough, this comes at the same time that most of my co-workers are down in the same area for work shenanigans.

Eh, that’s really neither here nor there.

Ever wonder why this mouse has become such a staple in America? Why wasn’t it some cartoony version of a frog? Or mayhaps even a talking tree? Or a slug!

Technically speaking, a mouse is a rodent and those can be kinda gross.

But not Mickey. He’s just all kinds of awesome. McAwesome, even.

To end this slightly erratic and nonsensical post, I would like to note that I will meet teh Jamie and a crap ton of fantastic bloggers in Chicago in LESS THAN TWO WEEKS!!

Oh, and in case you’re wondering who this is… I am the one called Deutlich from Speak On It. Hope you’ve enjoyed the reading. If you’re in Chicago, I hope to see you soon!

Hello everyone.

I’m Chris and I write at my site surviving myself, but because Jamie thinks I am quite lovely too, she invited me to guest post here today while she’s at Disney World.

I have to admit, I’m not really that happy with that introduction. I am writing for a whole new set of readers and the above paragraph is what I come up with?

Terrible.

I bet Jamie is shaking her head right now and saying, “I knew I shouldn’t have asked Chris to do this!”

And I bet Mickey is agreeing with her.

But that doesn’t surprise me because Mickey and I - well, we had a bit of a falling out. And no, I’d rather not talk about that right now. Okay, fine, Mickey stole a woman I was in love with and for years every time I saw anything remotely Disney related I flew into a murderous rage.

But I’m fine with it now because I hear she got fat.

So let me start over.

I’m Chris and I have the privilege of posting here today.

See, I don’t even like that one. In fact, I don’t even really like my name.

Chris.

It’s so damn boring, isn’t it?

When I was young I used to want to change my name to Sebastian.

Sebastian!

How bad is that???

How I ever thought Sebastian was a good name for anyone other than someone who appears on the cover of romance novels with flowing hair and maybe guys who write Dark Poems About Serious Things is beyond me.

But I did. I hated my name.

I think everyone does at some point.

At some time in all of our lives we think to ourselves, “My parents are such morons! I should change my name and then they’ll understand who I really am!”

But usually that rebellious cry is followed by us sitting down and watching Mr. Belvedere and forgetting the whole stupid thing.

So unfortunately I’m stuck with the name Chris and not Something Awesome like “Danger Man” and unfortunately you just read this entire post about nothing.

Life is unkind.