the return

Hi, Reader! I say "reader" instead of "readers," because I'm skeptical of there being more than one person who reads this blog. Okay, there are probably three of you suckers, maybe four. But definitely no more than five.

Time has passed! I have disappeared! I did not actually disappear -- unless we don't quite know when we disappear until we look into a mirror and realize we are missing not only a face, but a head and a body and maybe even our arms. Our feet and hands, however, remain. And our smile. We have turned into the Cheshire Cat while at the same time being curious Alice and the aggressive Queen, looking for a head to chop off.

I did not stop writing. I guess I exist if I write? So I've been existing, not disappearing. It's just that I've been writing FICTION and PRIVATELY. Privately fiction. Private Eye fiction. Not private eye. I am simply private about what I write when I feel like I may be on to something... Not that I necessarily believe that my idea(s) will be stolen, but because I feel like I have to keep the sauce in the pot boiling before I take it off the stove and show it off to everyone in the dining room. Keep it in the kitchen until fully cooked.

Other than marinating/sauteing/frying/baking/filleting the strange and surreal stories that seep out of my brain, I have been doing a lot of walking. And reading. I read while I walk, which makes me the weirdo in the neighborhood who reads while she walks around the park in circles. Who is this odd blonde creature with over-sized sunglasses and a shocking shoulder tattoo? Why is she such a nerd? I wonder if she is secretly a drug dealer and is going to the park to give children candy laced with cocaine? Kids don't need cocaine. That last sentence will be the title of my second memoir. My first memoir will be titled, "Do Kids Need Cocaine?"

So I read, walk, whisk up words in a mixing bowl (yolks included), and push around a kid in a wheelchair. Oh yeah, I now have a job. And it's a "wheely" good job! Kidding, it's not good. At all. Okay, so helping children is wonderful. They are ill-behaved germ bags who are on rare occasions amazing humans. Overall, though, I look at this job as very super incredibly temporary. For one thing, it doesn't pay well -- and we all know that it's all about the, uh, scrilla. I also feel like I am not "utilizing my talents." But seriously. I have this English degree and I can whip up an Ionesco-like one-act play in seconds flat, but put me in charge of a dozen 6-year-olds and I become the dumbest person in the room (which is pretty bad because 6-year-olds are pretty dumb). I'm beginning to realize that I don't give myself enough credit. I settle for what is easy and safe because it is, well, easy and safe. I don't have to worry about being crestfallen or groundless. But oh how I've forgotten how much I value vulnerability and bravery. Vulnerability IS bravery. It's time I take a chance on something and go after what may seem impossible, yet soul-fulfilling. If there's anything I've learned from teaching kids, it's that the impossible usually ends up being possible and worth it. I've also learned that kids hate vegetables and love sneezing into the wind.

I don't have a point with this post other than to update you on ALL THINGS MEG. Meg! The girl who sneezed her dreams into the wind and ended up infecting the world! Get ready!