a conversation

Once upon a time, there was a lonely (but not quite bitter) widow and her son. She always had a lot to say, and even though she was lonely, she could eye her situation from a distance and laugh at the absurdity of it all. Most of the time, anyway. Eventually, she started this blog and started tricking other people into laughing with her (but almost never AT her).

A little over two years ago, this lonely widow met a man that quite unexpectedly rocked her world. As in "Pour Some Sugar On Me," gotta-have-this-man-in-her-life. It was startling, mostly for her, but there were those who were almost accusing when they asked why they'd never heard of the guy before now.

Her answer: "Um, because not even I had heard of him before now, so STEP OFF. Also, you're not the boss of me."

And they got married. And her son became their son, and he calls this rockin' man "Dad" and it's all tied up in emotions that she can't often put her finger on. Mostly joy mixed with a healthy dose of wistfulness and sometimes even deep grief. It's very confusing for her, not to mention anyone else she gives a peek into her sometimes heavy head (thanks, Aubyn, for a great phrase that this girl - who is now THIRTY but is still firmly a girl - uses all the time now).

And life started happening. Quickly. So quickly that sometimes she can't keep up with it all, much less tell everyone else about it. Plus, she now has a husband who maybe doesn't like full disclosure of all his business on the internet? It's hard to tell. Also, her son is getting to an age that is alarmingly self-aware and then she read about that punk of a teenager suing his mother for posting about all the crap he put her through during his slightly younger punkish years. While she and her rockin' man firmly believe it is their duty to give their son something to tell the therapist, they'd prefer it stay out of the courts.

So now what? She doesn't feel particularly funny about the steaming shit sandwich she's currently being force-fed (stupid condo complex and by-laws and notaries). She has NO END of great stories about, you know, other people.

But she likes these other people. And she wants them to talk to her again. Thus, the following conversation was overheard at her house tonight:

A: I feel like I finally understand writer's block.
R: Why?
A: (essentially the last three paragraphs) I just don't have anything insightful or funny to say about JUST MYSELF right now. Or I do. I could talk about Cannon Beach via a trip report and include photos. I could talk about my ridiculous sense of smell and how it's one in a line of things that make me suspect God is messing with my head. But I can't talk about work because I like my job and want to keep it. I can't talk about other people because I love them. The things I could talk about are just too exhausting to think about right now. I'd rather read or play Angry Birds. So, you know: writer's block or apathy.
R: Well, not so much writer's block as... what's the word... DISCRETION.
...
You've come so far! I'm proud of you.
A: (wailing into a pillow) I've never felt so stifled in my life!