If my workload is any indicator, then the recession appears to be over – or at least, releasing the strangle hold it's had on my life since November '07. As a result, I find I have less time on my hands. Walks in the park are down to one a day. I have broken up with self pity and my online Scrabble partner. And this needy, whiny blog has taken a backseat to deadlines and opportunities.
This weekend was no exception. The little bastard was in Newfoundland wrapping up his eight or so years in "minor" hockey, and I barely had time to miss him, his toenail clippings, or his crusty boxers dropped hither and yon. I worked while he played. And while his phone calls were few and far between, his games were streamed live over the Internet. I felt his every move, every glove save, every triumph, and every disappointment. Much like the Waltons huddling around the radio – my computer became a link to the world.
Like this blog.
Just when it felt like I was totally alone – I discovered I wasn't. In fact, I was less alone than ever before. This blog gave me a voice that echoed and bounced back as someone else. I made new friends. I found old friends. I grew my business. I pissed some people off. I helped others. I used motherfucker in a sentence. Alot. I vented and roared. I shrunk my ass. I fell in love with writing again.
I'm not ready to let it go.
While 95% of blogs get abandoned, my recent detachment is not from lack of interest. I miss it. It pulls on my pant leg, wanting to be picked up when I am trying to work. But there's never enough time! Much like, after 14 years of being someone's one and only – I am having to get comfortable with my child's inevitable and natural detachment. Settling for an "I love you" in a hasty text from afar. Time has taken the little bastard from needing me constantly, to knowing I will always be there when he does.
Like this blog.
So as we flow from from minor hockey to major hockey, and from the red to the black – I ask for more time. To appreciate what I have – and to turn on this tempestuous, premenstrual, perimenopausal radio, and broadcast live from my crappy world to yours. Even if that means pouring out my guts, and my heart – once or twice a week – instead of every bloody day.
Goodnight, Mary fuckin' Ellen.