Daughters are with “writers” and brain scientists young and old are visiting grandparents overnight. I am alone. Alone! With work to do, and quiet in which to do it. And Peter Frampton (comes alive!) And Tom Quinn (does not come alive! as he is pillow-Tom-Quinn and not non-pillow-secret-agent-Tom-Quinn.) And it is springtime in Satan’s Nethers, so I can ride my bike and think exercisey thoughts and then come home and think other thoughts completely uninterrupted. Hooray for cohesive thinking!
It has recently been brought to my attention that the posting around here doesn’t seem to happen that often. It has been further noted that I posted a lot of stuff in September of 2008. This is why: I started a blog on myspace so I could post installments of a tale I was telling about my ridiculous ex-husband – installments that were to be read by my lone myspace friend KRD. But then I realized that I hated myspace and that anyone can have an actual big girl blog and so I told Tom to cram it and decided to start an actual blog wedged into this tiny corner in the internet’s overcrowded crawlspace. This way if my ridiculous ex-husband ever googles “the son of the man whose father owned the oldest piano store in town”, he’ll see my tale and have to choke down the bitter little pill that is my stark depiction of his stupid writing “career”. Hence the frenzied fall transfer of goods! So far the google hits to this wayward pit have consisted primarily of people looking for “lovely labia”, and while it’s plausible my ridiculous ex-husband was one of those people, the only thing he’d learn from the lovely labia post is that I now on occasion eat pork rinds. And that’s actually more of a bitter little pill for me. Pork rinds. Wow.
I am deeply conflicted as to what is appropriate fodder for this space. I would very much like to share my recent adventures at local events (e.g., political functions, burlesque shows), but I question the pragmatics of creating an electronic record of such things back here in the internet’s overcrowded crawlspace. People say all sorts of stupid things when nervous/post-coital, and I will feel like a tremendous tool if someday I’m chatting with a politician and freak out and mention this whole qwanty thing and then have to deal with the repercussions of having yammered on about wanton designs and shag carpeted ice jets. One might be given the impression that I am both creepy and irrational. And one needn’t be given that impression! These things are meant to be slowly discovered. They are the creamy middle of the qwanty ding dong.