Sometimes a day starts with unplugging a toilet. Like today.
I've been an absentee blogger. Blame it on work or social life or drink (it's a bit of all that), but mostly I haven't blogged because I didn't want to. The ideas swirl breezy like a wad of cotton candy in front a hair dryer nozzle, but then...
Who cares what I write?
Who's reading anyway?
It's vanity to blog, no question. It's also therapy and burning off crazy energy, the kind that has me in the gym so often lately the bottom of my feet hurt from pounding on the incline trainers. Picking up the throw rug under life and shaking it out hard now and then is good for you, and I need a good hard shake. Gotta try to write more. With two weeks off work I hope to. I went through a bit of a pity-party-of-one-why-do-I-do-it phase, the creative energy tapped and suddenly finding topics off limits. But I know some people read my words, some are inspired by them, some laugh at them. Some are voyeurs. Like me.
And I think it's okay to be sad. Sometimes. I think it's always good to share your truth.
As of today I’m 10 days late. Again. At 44 “late” is a relative term given the bio clock doesn’t tick as it used to (and three pee sticks still reflect the happy minus sign). We had the chat briefly, though, the manfriend and I.
“Thought you ran on time,” he said. “Oh yeah,” I reassured, “Just a little off this month. It’s fine.”
One beat. Two beats.
“What would we do if I was?”
He doesn’t want any more children, he has one. Been there, done that, in the middle of it.
“I thought you didn’t want any either,” he said.
I did in my late twenties, a short phase nothing more, mostly because I decided and knew I didn’t want to raise a chicklet on my own and the opportunity and years simply passed by, clicked over one by one. But I would have been a good Mom.
I don’t want or need to pass a head. Nine months without a cocktail is enough of a stretch.
And you have to pick the people you procreate with carefully. You could come out with some goofy looking Little Lord Fauntleroy boy with Annie-esque curls or manly girl (everyone is beautiful in their own way, sure, but have you seen paparazzi shots of Adam Sandler’s offspring? She’s toddler sized Sandler in a dress. She’ll grow out of it, yeah? Yeah?) Cross the manfriends ginger beard, light eyes and freckles with my bluish white pallor and spots and we’d produce something nearly see through, like those tiny tank fish whose dark eyes and spine are the only part visible in a clear floating shell.
I’m not (First Response® and a recent episode of Nip/Tuck tells me so – no brown nipples, belly bloat or hormonal acne), still the first serious conservation we’ve had relationship wise.
And it lasted all of a minute and half. I’m okay with that.
I'll be back to chat. I have to come back. My longtime love, gum chewing, sexy beast Dave Grohl said it well:
It's only words, they're just fucking words. But I meant every word for word for word.