I missed you.
You may or may not have noticed I’ve been somewhat of a cold and distant partner the last couple of weeks. Just when I had you warmed up (okay fine, conditioned) to withstand my endless barrage of words, I went ahead and changed my whole game on you. Nothing but silence. Dead air. You tried to come find me here. Maybe you wanted to talk about it. See if we could make it work… only to be met with empty blank pages and bright red error signals. “Cannot load page.” Do not pass Go. Do not collect 200 dollars. Just nothing.
If it makes you feel any better, you should know I’ve just been sick about it all. The whole thing has me turned inside out. I don’t like these games. I don’t know how to play this role. I’m much more comfortable in the wise cracking supportive best friend role- you know, like if our life were a movie, I’d be the Bonnie Hunt character.
That I know.
But this? playing the coy, petulant, game-playing girlfriend that won’t return your calls? Honestly it all just gives me a stomach ache and sweaty armpits.
I want you to know,
It’s not you. It’s me.
Actually it’s not even me, it’s country music.
Country music made me do it.
Particularly, one country song. From almost 20 years ago. A little country song by Deana Carter titled Did I Shave My Legs For This?
Like a little hussy she sidled right up in between us. She shut me down.
Touché, Deana. Touché.
You have better hair, better ankles (one can only assume…), and undoubtedly a better singing voice. I don’t technically know. I haven’t listened to your song yet. I’m just not ready. I will wait for my readers to come running back to me and then in some kind of poetic justice we will pour some wine, sit on the back porch, and hold hands while we listen to your song.
Frankly, after the mind numbing, eye crossing, heinous amount of effort I have put into getting my blog (and you) back in the last 14 days, I’ll freakin cut a b**ch if she tries to take me down again.
* At this point I would like to clarify, for legal reasons, that I would never actually “cut a b**ch.” That is just me trying to sound scrappy. I swear. *
I have spent the better part of the last two weeks on the phone and in front of my computer trying to sort through the hot mess of a legal battle I was startled to find myself in. I learned terms like “intellectual property rights” and “copyright infringement.” I also learned about the country song with the exact same title as my dear sweet blog. Then ultimately I learned that I must acquiesce. I had to give up my domain name. Or be shut down forever.
On the one hand, I felt indignant and wronged and sad. Had I owned a rape whistle, I’d have blown it because I definitely felt forced to give something up against my will. As far I knew, those words came from my own brain, and frankly I’d grown quite attached to them. I felt they represented me rather well.
On the other hand, I suppose it’s more the job of my actual words to represent me. Not some kitschy title.
Plus, I must confess: in some subterranean, twisted way I felt validated. I knew it! It WAS a cool title! Cool enough for someone to trademark it. And then send their legal people after me.
Did you hear me? LEGAL PEOPLE.
What is happening?
Who am I, even?
I can only conclude from our troubles dear reader, that what you and I have is something special. Granted, I fought the law and the law won, but clearly it was worth fighting for.
I may have a different name tag but it’s still me.
I’m still here.
I promise never to hurt you again. Please come back to me.
And in the famous words of Ross Gellar, “WE WERE ON A BREAK!”