Hello, You're Looking Well (I've Started a Blog)
My worst ex-brother-in-law eight years ago suggested I start a "mommy blog." I laughed and laughed. It's even funnier now. While it's true I did squat down and give birth to two swell kids, and this Google-powered site is for blogging, "I Tell You What" is not a mommy blog. So my ex-brother-in-law gets no credit for what I'm declaring will be a raging blogging success. Here I'm probably going to muse about books and movies. I guess I'll get some stuff off my chest and talk about the writer's life and assorted funny and aggravating things, too.
This first bit is about the blog's birth story. It has everything to do with socks, true love, and George Michael.
This time last year was wild, right? First post-2016 election Christmas. First Christmas for the girls and me as a trio. Christmas Eve-Eve my dear friend Cami was in a horrific accident, which eventually claimed her life. And then, son-of-a-gun, George Michael died on Christmas Day. It was another blow in a chain of blows and I guess I was numb. I didn't grieve him, but I wanted to. George was my first musical crush. He had that big, opera singer voice, incredible teeth and hair for days. I was a fearful, old lady kid, scared of war, pesticides, and sex. George Michael offered me a measure of safety because he wasn't the type to potentially spirit me away on a motorcycle or be disrespectful to my parents. No. He would never have done that. I loved him my whole life from Wham! all the way through his brilliant solo career and personal struggles. He was my forever hero diva. I didn't cry for him Christmas 2016. Instead I tucked him away in the part of my heart-gut carved out for "to cry at a later date."
Stay with me; this all comes together in a paragraph or so.
Two things you should know about me: One, I'm too skinny now, and perpetually cold. This winter has been hard on me. My bones visibly rattle. For many months I did not have adequate socks. Well, this Christmas brought me an abundance of socks from people who love me, and the practicality+thoughtfulness is a balm. A warm balm.
Ah, Christmas Night 2017 my ribs hurt from throwing up Cheerwine and I was worn out, but happy, coming down off a busy and magical day spent with two loving families. My girls were asleep and I sat down at the kitchen table to work on a story. I was in my Little House on the Prairie nightgown, long john bottoms underneath, and had just pulled on a pair of my new love socks. Procrastination and distraction are part of my writing process. I YouTubed "Faith," and then "Last Christmas," and ugly cried drinking a Mexican Pepsi. I cried for George Michael and 2016 me, and my 2017 hurt ribs.
But then hold up; my feet were warm. Hurt ribs and mourning a girlhood idol + gifted warmth, primal survival being cared for by another––that's what we in the writing world call some nice juxtaposition. I deal in words and copious emotion. I can't not write about this stuff, but could I submit this stuff to a literary magazine? Heck no, not even as a lyric essay (I might, though). Friends, I was left with no other option than to launch a blog.
Badabing.
The next one'll probably be about the new Star Wars or something.
This first bit is about the blog's birth story. It has everything to do with socks, true love, and George Michael.
This time last year was wild, right? First post-2016 election Christmas. First Christmas for the girls and me as a trio. Christmas Eve-Eve my dear friend Cami was in a horrific accident, which eventually claimed her life. And then, son-of-a-gun, George Michael died on Christmas Day. It was another blow in a chain of blows and I guess I was numb. I didn't grieve him, but I wanted to. George was my first musical crush. He had that big, opera singer voice, incredible teeth and hair for days. I was a fearful, old lady kid, scared of war, pesticides, and sex. George Michael offered me a measure of safety because he wasn't the type to potentially spirit me away on a motorcycle or be disrespectful to my parents. No. He would never have done that. I loved him my whole life from Wham! all the way through his brilliant solo career and personal struggles. He was my forever hero diva. I didn't cry for him Christmas 2016. Instead I tucked him away in the part of my heart-gut carved out for "to cry at a later date."
Stay with me; this all comes together in a paragraph or so.
Two things you should know about me: One, I'm too skinny now, and perpetually cold. This winter has been hard on me. My bones visibly rattle. For many months I did not have adequate socks. Well, this Christmas brought me an abundance of socks from people who love me, and the practicality+thoughtfulness is a balm. A warm balm.
Ah, Christmas Night 2017 my ribs hurt from throwing up Cheerwine and I was worn out, but happy, coming down off a busy and magical day spent with two loving families. My girls were asleep and I sat down at the kitchen table to work on a story. I was in my Little House on the Prairie nightgown, long john bottoms underneath, and had just pulled on a pair of my new love socks. Procrastination and distraction are part of my writing process. I YouTubed "Faith," and then "Last Christmas," and ugly cried drinking a Mexican Pepsi. I cried for George Michael and 2016 me, and my 2017 hurt ribs.
But then hold up; my feet were warm. Hurt ribs and mourning a girlhood idol + gifted warmth, primal survival being cared for by another––that's what we in the writing world call some nice juxtaposition. I deal in words and copious emotion. I can't not write about this stuff, but could I submit this stuff to a literary magazine? Heck no, not even as a lyric essay (I might, though). Friends, I was left with no other option than to launch a blog.
Badabing.
The next one'll probably be about the new Star Wars or something.
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