I do wonder sometimes why I have a blog, what purpose it serves. I look at my statcounter list of readers and I know most of you, so I suppose the blog is a way of staying in touch as we see each other less and less (if I don’t know you and you’re a reader, please feel free to say hi in comments or via email). I started this blog years ago, with my friend Jenorama, to make myself write daily and to make my pointless job at the H.A.C. a little less painful. I was also trying to process a failed relationship, a series of personal losses of the death variety, and a general lack of direction in my life. I was in a navel gazing mood, and blogging is just the thing where belly lint is concerned.

Since then I have managed to depart from said pointless job and have reinvented myself in many ways – you could track the progress of those events in my archives if I hadn’t suppressed them for professional reasons. I am very blessed right now in home, family, and career, light years away from where I was. I wonder, as fatherhood looms will I fall into the trap of being a blogging daddy? Those parenting blogs are popular, but a popular blog is not my goal – too professionally risky. In a Cosmo like way, there seems to be an article in every issue of The Chronicle of Higher Education on why blogs can kill your career. Ah well, I’ve had several careers and I imagine I’ll have several more. The risk seems innocuous as long as I am topically selective.

I want to return to an earlier thread: my time at the H.A.C. I’m really not sure how to view the three years I spent in the land of the new age. D thinks I should use all of those experiences to write from, and perhaps he’s right. The story of the Buddhist nun attempting to repossess the PVC pipe meditation pyramid is just the sort of thing to land me in The New Yorker. It’s right up there with my Mrs. Claus story from when I was a Days Inn manager.

Have I piqued your interest? Which one should I write first? I’ve wanted to do a roll call so that the blog feels a little more interactive, so is it Jetty the Buddhist repo nun calling in the marker on mystic plastic or is it the racy but sad tale of the lonely custodian and Mrs. Clause? I’ve kept dinner parties in hysterics with both of these, but it’s been so long since I’ve told either of them that the details might be slipping. Perhaps I should write a meta narrative about the teller of these stories.

I am far less interesting than my pregnant wife. I would write more about her, but she has her own blog at which she never posts. She’s lost interest in being a blogger. She’s standing here saying, “I’m more interested in my baby than in my blog. I’m just not a blogger, I can’t help it.” She has now exited the room, as will I. We have a prenatal diabetes screening this morning with our doctor, strictly routine. Jes has to drink this super sugar solution exactly forty five minutes before the appointment so that they can draw her blood at peak sugar rush. “I have not exited the room. I am just bouncing around the edges of it. It’s a big room. Lies!!! You publish lies!!!!”