So here I am. Blogging. Or rather, blog. ging. About shit! What?! Have I lost my mind? No, my people. I have not lost my mind. Instead I have gained a pair, or so I’ve recently been told.
This is what happened. I wrote a book. I’m not saying I succeeded, but I tried to write a very good book, and I’m using “very” as a qualifier despite the fact that it’s an exceedingly weak, puffy, flaccid, useless and gratuitous adverb that should be summarily ejected from the English language. Off with its head! But only after I’ve used it to promote my (so far) unpublished manuscript.The title of the book is the title of the blog, which refers to the steaming piles of crapola which life has at times chosen to present to me on a nice plastic serving plate that it picked up on sale at Tarjay. Nothing against Tarjay. Or serving plates. Or even shit, for that matter, because, as a wise t-shirt once told me at the Stone Pony on the Jersey Shore in the summer of 1987: SHIT HAPPENS. And it does! Lots and lots and lots of shit! Over and over again! And now I’m overusing exclamation points in addition to verys!
Let’s put it this way: In 2011, my beloved, brilliant husband, Chris, committed suicide. This left me and our three unbelievably spirited, beautiful children with a task ahead of us: to live. This is the same task each of us faces, though we all take our turns in the shit. When Chris killed himself, it was my turn. My children’s turn. The turn of everyone who loved him, was touched by him, helped and inspired by him. Another day and time it was someone else’s turn. Every day, every moment, is a turn in the shit for somebody. Our charge, as squatters in this mortal world, is to keep moving through it, to live on in spite of it, and to stick out a hand to help whoever’s slogging in a thicker pile than we are.
In the two years since Chris died, I’ve figured out lots of shit. So many things I’ve learned to do without him. So many skills I’ve acquired. And now, I’m working on a new one: how to blog. Watch me figure this shit out.