Click publish

Sometimes it seems there are too many ways to express the self, including this mode, le blogger, and we have to choose which method for which situation, which place in time, which people will see which thing, how those people might react in their particular places and times, the fallout or repercussions of those reactions or potentially the lack thereof, a silence that speaks to being ignored or worse, never seen, never heard, our lives a vacuum in which we are talking to ourselves but pretending otherwise, until the word "vacuum" reminds this particular self that I forgot to vacuum the dining room rug earlier, and now it is too late in terms of those who are awake versus those who are asleep, and whatever fell off a certain someone's high chair tray will just have to stay there, and my shoulder hurts and hoisting the vacuum wouldn't be a good idea anyway, and the movie we watched half of, "An Education," was rife with people about to act on bad ideas presented in a suspenseful fashion and I'm eager to watch the rest of it, now I am writing as "I" and not "this self," I am getting closer to saying something, maybe what I want to say is that I like distance and this mode of expression begs for assumed closeness and I want to assume as little as possible, that we (me and you, whoever you are) would share the details of our weekend around some sort of beverage cart (because really, water coolers? They are expensive enough, apparently, that they are removed from certain offices as cost-cutting measures), and I am about to backspace over all of this, just unpave the whole thing, and I see that button below, Publish, and this isn't really all that interesting, why should I click publish, or why NOT, as a little counter-argument, arguments about counters, granite vs. laminate, both heavy, and seriously: my arm and shoulder feel like they're about to fall off, and here seems like a good venue for that discussion instead of there, which would turn into "Wot happend?" and "Aww poor baybeeee" and "what did u do?" and even typing in that fashion makes me want to massage my eye sockets with a pencil eraser, and what happened was carrying a heavy but adorable baby, and yoga, and moving furniture, and being old, oldER, shall we say, if we're continuing our beverage cart chat, because this is what (wot) we do: share the mundanity of our lives, and twenty to forty-five times a day I think of doing so, sharing, and usually don't, but the mundanity is where the meaning is, the walk after getting ice cream (birthday cake flavor), the stretch of my hamstrings, listening to the baby learning to say "Uh oh," the weather today so perfect and sunny with a slight breeze and blue skies and the feeling of, Why can't every day be like this? Like Sunday, as Morrissey wondered, like grilling out for dinner and a walk down the block and calm, calm, calm, a day so lovely you almost can't believe there was a hurricane on the east coast, Irene, when you're just going about your business, and at 11:11 when I make a wish (always), it is for myself or my child or my husband and almost never do I use my wishes on strangers, and almost always is the wish the same thing, a version of the same idea, and I am close to telling, I am this close to telling, so I either unpave what I've written or click publish, and you know what? 11:11, make a wish.