Thursday, March 26, 2009
Every day something new occurs to me that I think I could maybe write about here, but if it doesn't happen right away, it sort of rolls around in my head and eventually piles up in a corner with all the other little silly unimportant thoughts, until there's such a mess of them that I couldn't possibly write about any of them. Disjointed thoughts look so pointless and un-amusing to me when traveling in packs. Sort of like clowns.
(That's a bad description, because I so rarely find even lone clowns amusing. French clowns are a different story, though. Perhaps if my thoughts were in French...)
Not too long ago I mentioned wiping out all the archives of this site and starting fresh, the main reason for that being that I was tired of keeping my blog a secret from people I know, because doing so was so not worth the effort especially for such Morrissey-esque moping that seemed to sum up most of the writing, but not feeling like going back and making sure every post was kosher for my friends and family, not to mention protecting my own warped sense of privacy, it was just easier to take it all down and start clean.
And it's all been good, especially given my postpartum proclivity towards staying home with the baby for days at a time, but recent events forcing me to socialize IN PERSON with living, breathing human beings who know me and my family and who OH MY GOD MIGHT READ MY BLOG has been a sort of weird experience.
The weirdness being all on my part, as far as I can tell. Although that's not saying much, as apparently in addition to becoming easily wigged out by socializing with people IN PERSON, I've also lost all ability to interact normally and within accepted etiquette parameters, despite my Southern heritage, and have developed a very keen ability to shove my foot entirely inside my mouth with an athletic finesse that would make Mary Lou Retton jealous. And I chose Mary Lou Retton BECAUSE I AM OLD.
(My apologies for all the caps - I've been reading dooce. It's like when I spend a lunch chatting with my aunt and uncle in Atlanta and walk away talking about how the kayatays over yonder kipt us frum kitchin enny deer. And that is not an insult, because they are proud of the way they talk. Yes, really.)
Anyway. The fact is that I need to write, and I'm too lazy to write in secret anymore, and socializing is difficult these days so the blog is a convenient (if not sometimes appalling) way to keep up with me, if you are so inclined. And so, I am trying to force myself to continue, because it's therapeutic for me, and Lord knows I need the therapy. I know this is where I should say, "Who doesn't?", but really. Who am I kidding?
And you see? I feel better already.