(And by “y’all,” I mean the three people likely to read this, two of whom got here by searching for midget porn and that one pervy guy in Denver who keeps downloading the picture of the slutty girls.)
This blog. It sucks. I know.
I don’t even think you can call it a blog at this point. I haven’t written here in over a year, and even then it was just to humble-brag about a book I don’t even really like anymore. (But by all means you should use that link over there to buy it and judge for yourself.) Before that, I pieced together a few random thoughts I had when stoned out of my gourd at a Slash concert that seemed super funny at the time (but maybe not so hilarious in the sober light of day). And who even knows what came before that?
Who even cares?
Over the last few years I’ve been (mostly) content to just let my little blog hibernate, always with the idea that I’d come back to it someday. It just felt like a given that, at some point, I’d find myself with my panties all twisted up about something and I’d be glad to still have the soapbox.
But Donald Trump has been running his presidential campaign for more than a year now, y’all. If I haven’t lost my ever-loving blogging shit by now, I’m probably not gonna.
I read this thing the other day where two people whose opinions are supposed to matter to me debate the current status of the Mommy Blog. Is it dead? One lady I’ve never heard of says yes, while some guy I’ve never heard of says no.
To me, the very fact that these are the two most interesting people they could find to talk about it seems to answer the question.
The truth is, I don’t really care if the Mommy Blog is dead. Because this was never a Mommy Blog. I mean, yeah, technically I AM a mommy (though no one calls me that anymore) and this IS a blog… but how many Mommy Blogs can you name with posts about pony fetishes and fake vaginas? How many of them get half their traffic these days from clueless pervs looking for dildo helmets?
Probably not many.
The last few years have been filled with soccer games and birthday parties and the day-to-dayness of life. Friendships have been both won and lost. Freelance work and corporate drivel have dominated my days, and a frustrating start/stop creative process has ruled the nights.
I’ve started caring about some new things, and stopped caring about many more. I have a few more wrinkles and definitely more age spots – but I deny their legitimacy by insisting they are just freckles I never noticed before.
I’ve nursed loved ones through sickness and stood witness to loss and heartbreak, and tried my best to offer comfort where I could. Not sure how well I’ve done with that, but the good intentions were there, and sometimes that’s all we have – good intentions.
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” – Proverb
My Little Bean is NINE now (hold me) and not so little anymore. He has an occasional attitude these days, which I find equal parts infuriating and hilarious. And his schedule’s gotten more crazy, which means MY schedule has gotten more crazy. But it’s all okay, because he’s still just as awesome as he ever was, just in different ways, and even when he’s acting like a total asshat he still manages to make everything better better better.
In these last few years I’ve washed one million, seven hundred thousand, nine hundred and ninety seven loads of laundry. And re-washed about half that, because I can’t seem to fucking remember to put the fucking wet clothes in the fucking dryer before they get fucking skunked and I have to start all the fuck over again.
Also, displaying a shocking lack of foresight, the Little Bean’s school has named me President of the PTA. This is horrifying on so many levels I don’t even know where to start.
I should be doing work related to that right now, in fact. Responding to emails, or begging for volunteers, or signing some bullshit at the bank or something.
The last thing I have time for is this blog.
Still, I miss writing here.
I’ve never made any money off of this site. I’ve never shilled for a product (naps and eyebrows don’t count), and the one time I tried running ads on the site (because everyone else was doing it) I felt so gross about it that I pulled them almost immediately. The instant the blog became about money, it ceased to feel like my space. It wasn’t free anymore.
I like free. Free is good.
The Big Bean and I were at a restaurant one day when a nursing home group came in. About 15 old folks of varying age and ailment were ushered in, and we watched from the bar as the restaurant staff pushed tables together and got them seated. All of the seniors looked a bit bewildered as their chaperones worked to get the menus passed out, walkers stowed away, soft appetizers ordered.
“That looks awful,” the Big Bean said to me. “Please just shoot me before I get to that point.”
“Really?” I asked, imagining a day free from all responsibility, no list of things to do, other than just waking up and staying alive until bedtime. “To me, it looks wonderful.”
This blog was once a huge part of my life. It was my creative outlet, it was my venting space, it was a place where I could write, untethered. It opened doors for me. It connected me. It made me new friends, and rediscovered some old ones, too.
It was a way for me to be silly and shocking and weird and deep and sometimes all of the above.
A lot of what’s here makes me cringe now, but at the time I really felt it, whatever “it” happened to be at the time. Sure some of it’s bad (bad bad so bad), but some of it still makes me happy, or proud. Some of it still makes me laugh. Some of it still touches me.
It costs nine dollars and thirty cents every month to keep it hosted, but I never worry about the auto-withdrawal.
It’s worth it.
I stopped writing here because of the pressure.
Pressure to get noticed, pressure to be heard. Pressure to be funny. Pressure to make money. Pressure to be popular.
The pressure didn’t come from anyone else. It came from me.
I watched other bloggers I knew, great writers who were a whole lot more motivated, talented, and connected than me, become bigger than big, using their blogging success to springboard into hugely popular best-selling books, nation-wide shows, Fashion Police writing gigs. They deserved every single bit of it and I was (and am) so happy for them but with every one of their successes, I felt a little smaller. A little less worthy. A little more red-faced that I wasn’t better, or bigger, or doing more than I was.
So I quit. Without even realizing it.
Gore Vidal once said, “Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little.”
I’ve been thinking for a while now that I should start writing here again. It’s a thought that lives in the back of my brain, popping up when something funny happens, or something amazing, or scary, or super annoying (see aforementioned presidential campaign).
But then I always think back, “Why? Who cares?”
Who even cares?
I don’t know if I even care. I think maybe I do, but it’s been so long since I wrote here that my voice feels rusty and it’s definitely different, older, more scratchy and worn from all of that work and stress and disappointment.
(Not that I’ve been toiling away in some bad prime time drama, or anything – I don’t want to oversell it. It’s mostly just the daily repetition and constant checking of to-do lists that have taken their toll, with a few little dramas interspersed. But still.)
What I do know is that I’d like to try. I’d like to see if I can pick this thing back up again and maybe have a little fun with it. Or, at the very least, use it to work through my own personal bullshit, which is what I often used it for before.
In a very interesting and entertaining way, of course.
Either way, I can’t kill it now, and I can’t continue to let it lie stagnant. It needs fresh water and oxygen. And maybe a bath.
I hope I can breathe new life into it. I hope I can give it what it needs.
I’m going to try. And if I can’t, well…
At least I had good intentions.
Tags: writing again