So, after an awkward pause, I am back blogging my tushie off. There will be a few changes, however, content-wise, so in the interests of fairness, I am going to make a full disclosure in this post – that way, should you choose not to hit the “unsubscribe” link at the bottom of the Chimpmail thingymajiggy, well, you’ll have only yourself to blame.
Firstly, while I will die a bra-burner and proud – proud of my huge collection of charred Wonderbras; scorched La Senza contraptions whose promises and lies once seduced me and the earthly remains of my maternity bras burned in a blistering hellfire down to nothing but twisted and buckled little press-studs – I will no longer be serving the feminist cause from the front lines. It comes down to this: After I wrote “Cry Baby” (and I know this is gonna sock you right in the DDs, for which I am sorry, truly) … the pay gap still exists. Yes.
Secondly, I can no longer dole out freebie parenting hacks. After Russell was arrested, well … No, lie. The truth is both more spineless, gutless and chinless and boring: A lecture I attended at my children’s school by the disarmingly charming face of Social Media Law, scared the bejesus out of me, and precipitated a re-think about continuing with a blogging strip show, especially when my life is riddled with flabby bits and stretch marks – and more specifically, when my family and what friends I have left are, without their knowledge or consent, cast as the chorus in this sordid flesh pot. This goes ditto for my suburban survival crash course. The irony of its own founder and life president closing the Dainfern chapter of the Scheduled Drug Club to avoid a possible criminal record forever sabotaging her dream of someday being hired by Ernst & Young, and/or the prospect of reading an article on the back page of the Fourways Review featuring her children’s expulsion from their proudly drug-free school, all while she has had to scrub out her WordPress account with a toilet brush and lashings of Jeyes Blue after the trolls have taken their anonymous dump with utter impunity, ain’t lost on me. But still.
So where does that leave you, the loyal subscriber to my blog, now forced to seek help for your middle age anxiety disorder on the black market or certain Engen garages? What, by way of content, you ask with eyebrows arched and lips tweezered, do you get to “look forward to” from your electro-blog therapist now? I am reluctant to confess. Thing is, I still suffer from a messianic complex. It would be worse if I simply announced I was the messiah, okay, so gimme a little credit for my profound self-insight here. Getting down to business, I’ve always been an armchair slacktivist for tree-hugging, and this, I nervously admit, is where I’m going. No, no, wait! Don’t go! Please. It won’t hurt, I promise. I will make it almost seem like you aren’t being emotionally blackmailed. Not all bunny-humpers eat organic kale chips or even pretend to eat them and I will make a series of posts on food and farming taste good – like they are artery-clogging fucking bad for you with a nice little sugar rush on the side. Go on, sink your teeth in right here.
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/45409431@N00/3540233348″>Go North!</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/”>(license)</a>