I’m here, where are you?

Periodically, when those of us who write these stupid little things called blogs began to question why we write them, our readers get angsty-written posts about our place in the world, our purpose, our why we do what we do.

It’s usually after a time of internalizing certain criticisms or reading much better blogging offerings than our own. It likely comes after a dip in traffic for those of us who keep track of such things, and we all keep track of such things.

It’s easier for me to write whatever is on the tips of my fingers as they scan the laptop keyboard. I don’t plan ahead much, yet I probably should. Lately, this space has been kinda update-y, but those of you who stop by everyday are stopping by for the updates, so we’re all good in this together. Now that Jordan is in high school and her friends are friends of the Google as, presumably, are their parents, much of my personal life has fallen off the narrative. I’ve been accused of the overshare, the accusations coming from people who share absolutely nothing of intimate interest, so somewhere in there lies a theory of relativity that propels me to maybe say fuck off, but I hear what they are trying to say.

There’s a lot of crazy shit going on right now off-blog that I wouldn’t share even if I weren’t toning it down. And before I forget: my first Texans game was exciting and overwhelming and no way can I blog about that either. Not because of any written rules, but because of any and all unwritten ones you can imagine. I can tell you that the chocolate chip cookie that came in my gameday bento box was yum. The rest you will have to read in my posthumously published memoirs.

My posts for the next few weeks may be sporadic, they could be regularly scheduled, they may fire like a bullet war off MLK Blvd, who knows. I’m here, I’m around. No one has died. Before you email me, Q and I are still together, loving each other like hot pockets, and the kids are doing great. If I had to pick a favorite, I’d pick the one who makes me laugh, makes me sandwiches and climbs naked on top of my glass coffee table with a long-forgotten diaper fermenting in the hallway. So, um, all three.

Doubt with Meryl Streep and my boyfriend Philip Seymour Hoffman followed by Season 2 of The Wire in Labor Day comments…