I am restless today, my friends. Restless, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli. Oops! That's an angry old man, according to George Costanza, while relating the tale of how he, as a fake marine biologist, saved a whale by plucking a golf ball out of its blowhole, a golf ball landed there by Kramer, driving golf balls into the ocean for no discernible reason, aside from the fact that he's Kramer, and had 600 Titleists from the driving range in the trunk of his car.
I'm restless. Not angry. Restless from being cooped up in the Mansion since Monday afternoon by the Great Icepocalypse of '11. Restless from fabricating stories out of true life for my little blog, which is going on its sixth year. If Hillbilly Mansion was a child, he'd be in kindergarten by now. Or possibly first grade. And his teachers would be referring him for testing in the gifted program. Or not.
I am in a quandary. On one hand, I would like to turn this blog out, acquire more readers, by hook or by crook, share my insanity with more people, whether they want it or not. On the other hand, I must remain anonymous, deep in the Blogger Protection Program, if I continue to harp on actual events and people in my actual life. Woe is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Would I even have enough material to fill a new blog? Some days, I barely scrape by with a daily post here, where I am comfortable, where I let my lovely lady-mullet down and bellow out my butt when people piss me off. Remember that? It used to be my motto. I've tried to tone it down lately.
I've been lucky so far, keeping my identity hidden. My blog buddy deadpan mean teacher mommy needing a xanax knows what I'm talking about. Sometimes, you've got to recreate yourself in order to have breathing room. And I'm not so keen on leaving comments many places with the blog name of Hillbilly Mom. You know how people react to us bitter prayin' gunclingers lately.
I'm thinking of venturing a little farther afield, shaking off my blog agoraphobia and dipping a gnarled toe into deeper waters. What's the worst that could happen? If I nearly drown, I can wash up here at the Mansion, bedraggled in my Victorian swimsuit, coughing and gasping, flailing my garage-nail-scarred arms, and continue this little hobby that has given me so much pleasure since 2005.
The Mansion will remain open for business. But service may be slow.