The Mister and I went to get our taxes done last week, and our preparer asked me about the blog. “I’m not doing much anymore,” I said. I shrugged my shoulders and figured it conveyed my embarrassment and disappointment as well as anything.
“That’s too bad,” she said.
“It is,” The Mister agreed.
It is. It really is, because I used to get an enormous amount of enjoyment writing here. I still do, though I tell myself I lack time to write. I don’t, not really. What I lack is the courage to carve out an area of my life that is mine and only mine, no matter what anyone else thinks.
The students found my blog. Then the parents, followed by the teachers. It’s been fine, of course, because my content is tame by anyone’s standards. I only write about dinosaur erotica on Fridays, and most people are too busy planning their weekend to catch those posts.
But, let’s say they’re back to work on Monday and don’t feel like changing another bed pan. They might make their way over here and read that post where I accidentally necked a guy during a failed side-hug. I want to warn them that they’re reading crap to avoid touching crap, and that my archives are a dangerous place where only people comfortable with the word “quirky” will feel at home. Don’t do it, I want to cry out. Your Monday will still be about poop!
If I’m being honest–and that’s my problem, I’m often honest and opinionated–I worry my writing will embarrass the boys. It’s assumed I will embarrass myself, but embarrassing the boys kind of kills me.
My solution to this problem is to censor myself and write maturely about mature things. So far, this hasn’t worked. I sit down to Adult Write and come up empty. I can’t do it. I can no more write about mortgages and how to pack a PlanetBox than I can vote for Donald Trump.* Everyone has their line in the sand.
“You should try writing again,” our tax preparer said. “It’d be good for your tax return.”
“That, and I think it’d make you happy,” said The Mister.
I’m not unhappy, per se. I’m just lacking a place to share the thoughts and stories that crowd my mind. Instagram works, but I miss punctuation and paragraphs. I miss the details. When I†shared the story of†Maggie and her rainbow flip dress†on Instagram, I didn’t have enough room to talk about the guy in the vet’s waiting room who comes in at 9:00 am on the dot because they have coffee, and hell if he’s going to pay for the swill on the streets. I didn’t have enough room to talk about the other guy who said his wife has a fine ass, if you’re into barn doors. I didn’t have enough room to talk about the woman who dropped off her dog for teeth cleaning and said, “Mama will be right here when you wake up, Toby. Mama loves you, Toby. Mama says don’t worry, Toby. Mama knows you’ll be okay, Toby.”
Who the hell names their dog Toby?
These stories have a place on the internet because they’re the stories that earn you blank stares with people in real life. No way would I share my vet chronicles in the faculty lounge, the same way I wouldn’t admit that sometimes I see (non-hipster) people wearing sweatshirts with pictures of wolves howling at the moon, and it takes all my†willpower to keep from walking up to them and asking them what’s up with the sweatshirt. Like, I really want to know more about the entire buying process. Is the wolf their favorite animal? Do they own sweatshirts featuring†other animals? How hard was it to find the sweatshirt: did they stumble upon it, or did they search with intent? I assume they were Team Jacob.
Life is funny, weird, amazing, unbelievable, ugly, and awesome. Life is a dog in a rainbow flip dress, and I’m making it my job to†write about it.
* I own two PlanetBoxes, which both boys have used since 1st grade. I own them and I like them, but I can’t imagine taking a picture of their contents and writing out the details every day without my brain slipping out of my ears.