Husband gave me a compliment yesterday. He’s pretty generous with the “You are smokin’ hott” ones, which are really the most important, and the “I know how hard this mom thing is, but you are doing a great job” ones, but when it comes anything aside from those two, they aren’t as common but mean a whole heckuvalot.
We’d just gone and looked at another house - promising neighborhood, decent price, but weirdest floor plan ever, and pretty poor shape for the price. Dagnabit. I feel thwarted in every way. I can’t seem to get anything right in trying to shape our life here. I blame Wisconsin, as usual. On the way home, I felt deflated. I’ve been doggedly determined to live in the same postage-stamp town as Husband’s work because I want him home 1 minute after he leaves work. I’m selfish, I need help after being outnumbered all day by WonderGirl and Dude, and I’m also crazy about him, so giving up 9 hours to work annoys the heck out of me. (Except if you are reading this and you employ him, I love you. Keep sending the paychecks. I like new shoes.)
We took stock of what’s keeping our home search to this tiny, cracky town and the consensus was simply my dogged distaste for change. Ironic, what with the 5 moves in 5 years and all. There’s not much here for me - there’s preschools for WG and library story times everywhere, and that’s mostly all I do all week. Aside from church (which is the next town over), I don’t have a life here. So, basically I don’t really dig it here, but I won’t let him look for a place I might like? Yeah. He gets to be married to this hot mess, be very jealous.
Later on after I’d moped around the rest of the evening, we were laying in bed recapping our day and he said unexpectedly - ”You should be a writer.”
Huh?
“You’re a good writer. Maybe we’re supposed to live out here so you could develop that talent - write a column for the local paper or something.”
I’m not usually speechless, but.. a compliment about my writing? The writing that generally annoys the heck out of him because he’s all private and reserved and I’m doing a RAH RAH LOOKIT ME LOOKIT ME!!! dance all over the intrawebs? (Despite the fact that we’ve all come to accept that I cannot for the life of me type the word “just” properly - jsut, jsut!) That unexpected vote of confidence is going to do me good until at least Memorial Day.
But back to reality - a writer? I don’t write, I blog. There’s a difference, right? Writers write about interesting things that other people want to read about. Bloggers.. well, at least MY blogging is to write about the most interesting thing I know - me. I’m an expert, you see. And if I don’t have minions like cjane or dooce by now (over 10 years, people - who knew the internet was even that old?), my words must not be all that interesting to the general populace. I should know, as a minion with about 684 blogs in my RSS list. Yikes. Not that I mind - I have readers and true friends who support and mock me every day and I ADORE you. Heck, I’ll even call you my minions. But… write something for a paper? Like a grown up? I have to think about this. The thing is, Husband is usually right about stuff (I don’t think he’ll read this far down, so I can admit that here), so I feel an obligation to look into it.
Do you think the local rag would publish a “ALL ABOUT REVA!!!” column? Because I’d TOTALLY read that.
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