Requisite Yet Confessional, Thinky (!) After-Blogher Post

I need to confess something.

I wrote a very long and over-thinky (which is, by the by, bad and should not be confused with thinky, which is good) "goodbye to all this Picket stuff" post about 10 days ago. I meant every word, every labored, blubbery, i'm-outta-here, over-thinky word, but instead of just blurting it out, I did something shockingly unusual: I decided to sit on it for a while. This normally would not be a polite or well-intentioned thing for me to do, what with the crushing that could ensue, but in this case, waiting, sitting, even crushing, was one of my better ideas. And god knows, I have many, many good fucking ideas.

Anyhoo, that post is somewhere tucked away on this machine where I figure it will linger and lollygag and get lonely for me to come find it. Maybe someday I will. Maybe someday when I'm looking for something completely different it will pop up to say hello -- oh helllooooo, where have you been? And maybe I will hang out with it for a while and we'll play scrabble or boggle or charades or something. Who knows? For now, it stays hidden away and waiting.

See, I'm home from Blogher where Carolyn and I did our usual soul-searching and deeply intellectual conversation-making and about which she has written here. (You should go read it, even though she stole all the best stories and funny lines from me -- ALL.OF.THEM -- just like she stole all the drink tickets. But I digress.)

The thing is I'm glad I waited before hanging the foreclosure sign on the House of Picket, because it turns out even though the dog peed all over the carpet and the screen door rolls on its track like a square-shaped ball up a hill, it's comfy here. And you can't beat the location: it's a very, very short walk from the porch to some other houses (yo! updated blogroll and I command you to go there) with all kinds of good stuff going down by all kinds of amazing funny real tipsy truth-telling and dare I say, inspirational people.

Carolyn whispered to me on Saturday night, about one of the many we met and adored, "I wished she lived in our town." I love Carolyn but she is so bad with geography (me up here, she way down there) and yet so frickin' right (again). Doesn't matter where you live -- New England, Atlanta, Virginia, California, Maryland, Connecticut, Ohio, Canada, middle of nowhere, city, farm -- where you at? -- because here, here, it is OUR town, granted one big weird town with an inordinate amount of good looking, brilliant loudmouths, but ours nonetheless.

So, lock your garage doors, because I'm sneaking in for your beer and the boxes of bulk mac and cheese I know you store there. Someone's gotta feed these kids.