I have discovered who Dooce is. Because I went to her blog and read it. Well, not all of it. But enough to get a pretty good idea.
I am so embarrassed. I have jumped on the Dooce bandwagon. On two separate occasions while reading her archives, I have laughed so hard, I nearly threw up. Literally. I had to get out of my chair, coughing, sputtering and gagging with laughter, and walk around and breathe.
I sent Karl there yesterday to read it, and it was lost on him (he is not a parent), so maybe Dooce is not for everyone.
That having said, I feel like a dork for not knowing who the infamous Dooce was before now.
I doubt her blog will become a regular read (once I've dispensed with the funny archives and the initial curiosity) because she is already so famous, there is no chance of a tete a tete with her, but dang, that woman is funny.
I should say, too, that her honesty in the face of depression is simply raw. It is simply painful to read.
I can be a very honest person, but she takes the cake. Absolutely no fear. There are things on her blog that I cringe to read and I want to say, "Stop: don't you know? Don't you know that if things ever go wrong in your marriage, this is fodder for the courts?"
But it is far too late for that. It is rather amazing to witness this kind of honesty-- it's like reading what your innermost brain would write if you would only get out of the way and let it. It's like taking an exhilerating ride at the amusement park once a year: you are breathless and surprised and you scream like hell and you feel really amazing afterwards for awhile because you got all your toxins out.
But I cannot imagine doing it every day. Granted, she does not write piercing things every day. Nobody can sustain that. But when you read the archives in one batch as I have been doing, it can leave you pretty raw.