The other day I got a simple text message from a friend. Here’s what she said,
“You’ve been horribly quiet”.
Damn it. Caught. Someone is actually paying attention. Son of a bitch.
Okay. Okay. It’s true. And anyone who reads me deserves an explanation because, after all, without you who read me, I wouldn’t have a reason to write. (I’m not one of those people who write because they can’t NOT express themselves- I could STOP in a NEW YORK second).
Alas, I am one of those people who stumbled upon the Blogging world, quite by accident, and sorta fell into a rhythm, and somehow built a following, and have enjoyed the ride.
My first thought was to write about gardening, and I still do, but seriously how many freakin’ times can a gal talk about Roses, or the hornworms that are devouring the tomatoes?
Well, it turns out, if you’re a writer like me without the gift for turning the mundane into prose, or a pig’s ear into a silk purse (because if my purses aren’t fine Italian leather they had better damn well be silk) about six times per season. The garden grows s-l-o-w-l-y and my patience is short.
So… I began writing about food, and I still do, but even though I am a
good fabulous cook, I still sling hash and open cans of crapola that I serve in a bowl. It’s not my style to create an alternative interwebs persona- the kind that makes planning/executing/serving a menu in kitten heels with a brilliant toothy smile and the calm of a zen master… look easy. I can assure you it is not. I’m still looking for a Buddhist monk that teaches the balance to be found between hot flashes and the bottom falling out of your retirement plan. If you find him, I pay well. (Who said money can’t buy happiness? I mistakenly bought some generic off-brand TP the other week and I promise you capitalism is of no better use then in the pursuit of a soft swipe on your nether regions). Jesus- How did that paragraph begin with food and end with a toilet soliloquy?
Then, I began writing about all the fabulousness of my adopted city All Hail NOLA but between my liver and my waistline this girl has just got to stay home once in a while or I will BE the Bouef Gras on next year’s Mardi Gras float.
Of course this led to watching more NEWS and that got me all fired-up so the keys on the laptop began spelling sentences that began with ‘How in the Hell?’ and ended with ‘Screw them all!’
Nice. Very restful internal dialogue.
And finally, I happened upon the friend-making, kittens-and-cream, Santa Klaus-is-real!- niche of satire.
But when you’re not feeling funny it’s hard to be a smart ass.
And it’s hard to be funny when you’re having a midlife meltdown.
I am in a very odd place with my bed-ridden mother whom I have nothing more exciting to discuss, then if she slept through the night, unless I am dismissed when her meal arrives.
I am in the process (and by ‘process’ I mean unclustering a cluster fuck) of gathering all of our ‘overflow’ whodickies which are currently stacked at 30 feet in one of Ben’s warehouses, so that they (and by ‘they’ I mean things I haven’t seen or needed in 10 years) can be transported to a private storage facility, where I will go through everything and decide what stays (because even something I don’t want in front of me might make me happy one day right?) and what goes… into a yard sale.
Which brings me to the dreaded Yard Sale and the inevitable ‘shopper’ who will bring his dog through the gate to piss on the rug that I am trying to sell.
Also, my husband and I are taking a combined eight pharmaceutical prescriptions- and those are only for the things we’re willing to ‘admit’. We still maintain a healthy amount of self delusion which will kill us, of course.
We really need to purchase some kind of longterm health insurance- now. And speaking of insurance- I am drowning in it- auto, home, life, riders, health, flood, key-man, term, whole, universal, umbrella, liability. I am insuring a life that will not be worth a penny once I get through paying for all the insurance to insure the life.
And I am thinking I really should finally monetize this here little blog. That requires a tax ID, an LLC (With insurance. Kill me now), and product.
‘Product’, you say? Yes. I am the product, I know, but I’m also thinking about selling A Pleasant House thingies- like this adorable apron I designed, and garden tools, and private label local food staples, and crystal clear acrylic wine glasses that won’t break when you fall over in the garden!
Then there is the long forlorn A Pleasant House cookbook which I can’t seem to pull out of my
ass adorable apron. How many drafts until you keel over?
Least I forget that I am actually toying with the idea of starting a Food Truck built from a 1979 Citroen. Yes I am. A Pleasant House Cookery: Vintage food for Today. Oy Vey.
All of this at nearly 58. I need to sleep- which is another thing that’s not a bowl of cherries.
On the bright side our kid’s are FABU and our son is getting married next spring!
Of course, I have to lose 20lbs, get a facelift, and grow back the inch in height I’ve lost before I can attend.
So, if you’re still inclined to read my shizz, may I suggest you buckle up because unless Santa sends me a roundtrip ticket to his neck-o-the-woods and I enjoy a spa day with several Elf masseurs it’s going to be a bumpy ride.
There’s just no way around it.