You served me well for four years but now it’s time to bid you farewell, send you into the arms of some other (lesser) writer. It’s not my fault. I would have kept you, even though your processor was dated, your software malfunctioning, your power cord sucking the big one, and your e and i wearing off for the third time each. But the old employer wants you back.
Okay, they would have taken more than double your market value in exchange for your freedom. I passed. Sorry.
It’s not you, it’s me.
In the time that we were together, I wrote brilliant ad campaigns. Brilliant, original, award-winning, career-changing ad campaigns. No one will ever see them, of course. What’s that adage about advertising being better without the clients? I wrote some good campaigns too. And some mediocre campaigns. Sometimes at 6 am. Sometimes at midnight. You didn’t sleep a lot, and neither did I.
I spent my entire first pregnancy on bed rest with you on my belly, branding my thighs with permanent red marks from the heat of the titanium casing. You can still see the scars. I wrote letters to my unborn daughter. I researched fetal development and fetal positions and fetal anomalies that I pretended not to have read. I spent far too many hours researching crib bedding. I spent far too many hours creating my registry then changing my registry, then changing it back. Then changing it back again. Then just…oh ok. I’ll leave it.
No I won’t.
I banged away on anonymous mom message boards. I learned the meaning of CIO, CVS, SAHD and OMFG. I used the term snarky. I used the term LOL. I denied ever using the term LOL.
I wrote very, very bad poetry.
I started my first blog with you. I created a pseudonym that stuck, only because citymama was already taken. I left my first blog comment. I got my first blog comment. I got my first email from a blogger kind enough to tell me that my comments were off.
With you I learned that html wasn’t pronounced hatemail, and that wysiwyg wasn’t a typo. I got my first paycheck from blogging. I started my second blog.
I found my voice.
I had my second daughter. I managed to find a name for my second daughter.
I lost my cat.
And of course, Chicago. By way of Houston.
I’ve made friends with your help and I kept them. And I believe I will keep them for a very long time. But you, my friend, you are going across country tomorrow and you’re staying there. Our time together is up. I’ve got a newer, sleeker, faster model. Not that there was anything wrong with you that we couldn’t have fixed. It just wasn’t worth it.
I’ll always have the memories. And, probably, the red splotches on my legs.