A coupla days ago, my hubs found his first gray pube.

We laughed, we joked about him getting old, and then I popped the question...

Can I blog about it?

He said no. Absolutely not.

And ya know what...I completely understand and respect his boundries 100%.

And so, I absolutely, positively WILL NOT be blogging about the fact that...

MY HUSBAND FOUND HIS FIRST GRAY PUBE.

You're welcome, honey.

(I'm going to hell.)

Before my Hubs, before kids, before my life became so domestic...

I was a writer.

I was an artist.

I was a drunk.

Ok, so I wasn't really a drunk, per se, but I did get fuct up alot.

I would come home hammered and grab my notebook. In it I would write the most incredible, albeit angry and drunken, prose and some really good poetry.

I would write about life, love, lust, and fucking. I would write about god or lack thereof. I would write about hate, and anger, and dark thoughts that no one dared talk about out loud.

I would wake the next morning and look back in my notebook amazed at my complete outpouring of thought and emotion. Only a drug or alcohol induced haze could possibly produce such intensity.

But it was good. It was really good.

I don't let anyone read my notebook. Not even my Hubs.

My notebook was therapy for me. My way to get all of the negative energy out. But, in order to get it all out, I have to be fuct up. It unlocks my mind, you see. I could sit in the dark, by candlelight, with a pen, my notebook, a joint, and write all night long. I could. But I don't. I can't. Not anymore.

My life is different now.

I no longer get fuct up. I no longer smoke pot. I no longer let myself get more than buzzed even.

I no longer write in my notebook.

I try. But the words just. won't. come.

If there is one thing about my pre-family life that I miss, it's that.

My creativity.

My poetry.

My words.

So I've been thinking of moving to Wordpress for one simple reason:

Password Protected Posts

Those of you on Wordpress...

Do you like it?

Is it better than Blogger?

Is it even worth the effort to switch everything over?

My older daughter, L, loves to sit with me as I put my makeup on. She likes to play with all of my makeup brushes. I don’t mind because she plays nice and always cleans up after herself.

So, I’m putting on eyeliner and watching TV, not paying much attention to L and her brushes until I hear her ask, in her best ‘baby brush’ voice, where Daddy is.

I glance up and notice that she’s holding two large brushes in one hand, one taller than the other, as well as three tiny brushes in her other hand.

A quick line of questioning determines that she is playing ‘family’ with them.

My curiosity is suddenly peaked. Which brush is the Daddy? Would she automatically assume the larger brush is the Daddy?

I ask her. And, yes, the larger brush is the Daddy. Why? Being that she’s only 2 ½ she hasn’t yet been conditioned by society to believe that men are traditionally taller or larger in any way. I am taller than her father. (Just don’t tell him I told you that. As far as he’s concerned he’s taller than I am. winkwink*) I assume much more of a leadership role around the house. (Yep, that’s right. I wear the pants.) So why is it that the big brush is the Daddy brush while the smaller (much prettier) brush is the Mommy?

I’m baffled. Maybe the stereotypes thought to be drilled into our heads via society are really much more innate that initially believed to be. Facinating.

Regardless of her reasons, I will never know exactly what prompted her to make the choice she did. And that’s ok. Because, for now, all curiosity aside, I am content to watch her play house with my makeup brushes. Before long, she’ll have her own makeup, her own makeup case, her own beauty routine. And call me crazy, but I’m guessing, Mommy won’t be allowed to sit and play house with her brushes.