Do the Right Thing

One day this blog is going to be Mike Tyson in orange leather overall shorts leaning against a bale of hay with Don King. Which is to say that one day I will be embarrassed of it, by it, the sheer girth of its thighs. Or maybe--who knows? Maybe one day I will own it, think stho? (You know, because Mike Tyson has a lisp and apparently in this analogy so does my blog/me.) Stho? I wore orange leather overall shorts and bit the ear off a man. Yeah, that wasth me, and it wasth gooood. Which it was, at times, this blog. I think. Not the ear of a man because I have never done that, but what I have done here.

When I was little I used to pretend that Johnny Carson was interviewing me. And every night I brought down the house, was asked back the next night and the next until--I don't know when I stopped or why. Maybe it was just two nights that I pretended and the memory has expanded with time.

The point is, I have loved it here, my own teeny tiny corner of the world wide web, a magical mystical place of which I can barely conceive. I love the whole of it: internet shopping and Facebook, LinkedIn, Tumblr, Share This, Like That, Upload, Embed, Hyperlink and Google, Google Images, Google Maps, Google Analytics, Google Reader, This Blog and That One, all of it a rabbit hole where hold on, just a minute turns into 2am and a strange woman in Missouri knows more about me than most of my friends IRL. (LOL with the IRL. That right there is some pleather overall shorts.)

But the internet has no limit, no last page to turn letting you know it's time to get some sleep or go outside. So I don't know what to do with this feeling that this is the end. Blogging is dead. People have been saying that for over 5 years now and I have always thought it was a crock. Blogging is not dead, there are too many amazing writers, too many stories left to tell. But what if just my blog is dead?

Oh, I am probably not going anywhere and I am certainly not dead. I just need to think for a bit about what this is. This space. This blog and my voice, what I am doing here and if I should ask myself back for another night or a thousand. Lean in close to Don King as we rest against a bale of hay in a url somewhere on a Tier 3 Network far, far away. If I listen closely I am pretty sure he is telling me something smart, something wise...can you hear what he is saying? Or maybe he's just telling me I should have sprinkled some cornstarch on my balls.*

*See? I'm totally coming back. Because there's no way I could let that be the last sentence on my blog.

Monday Morning Mom Porn

Forgive me Walt Whitman, for I have sinned. I read all three of the Fifty Shades of Grey books, although they were absolutely terrible. I don’t know why I did it, other than wanting to stay culturally relevant with maybe a side order of sexy. Truth be told they weren’t even sexy, what with all that Inner Goddess crap and the cupping of her sex. Bitch please, you were totally faking it. Then last night I saw Magic Mike and felt dirty once again, at least until Anne Lamott sat a few seats away from us. I mean, if beefcake is good enough for Anne Lamott on a Sunday night, then who am I to feel bad?

Though I must admit I sat through half the movie hoping that if I said something clever out loud she just might maybe turn to me and say, you should totally be published! Let me make that happen for you! Kind of like the time George Lucas was sitting at the table next to me at a breakfast place and I spent 30 minutes eating my eggs in such a way as to be discovered. Of course this was before I saw what he did with Boba Fett.

This has nothing to do with Star Wars, Fifty Shades, or Anne Lamott, but it's Channing Tatum as a tween girl and I like it.

Happy Monday,

S