I love the word, "maw."  Don't you? Every horror  writer worth his weight in willies knows "maw" must be preceded by the word "gaping."

     The Gaping Maw! It sends shivers (where else?) up the spine. Whatever creature possesses the Gaping Maw, must also have as eyes Glowing Orbs. The Gaping Maw contains rows of fangs, it drools saliva on its victims, and it smells of things fetid and pultritudinous. (Okay, I made up that last word. It's late.)

    Point is, I am in the maw, swallowed whole and voluntarily converted into a "profit point," as the Docker set likes to refer to us worker bees when we are not present. This after a full year being a housekeeper, caregiver, trophy husband and writer. I have returned to the world of commerce, of swiping a time clock, of translating corporate-speak, of keeping my language free of f-bombs, of 12-hour days, of bringing a lunch, of leaving the house before my wife and daughter are up and about, and of getting my body back into shape so I can get my old bones to perform a young man's job.

     Back in the maw, the gaping, fang-filled, carnivorous maw. It's been a week and I want my old life back, chief cook and bottle-washer at Che' Mac. Every household should have one adult responsible for nothing but the operation of the household. Shopping, cooking, cleaning, dropping off, picking up, making sure bills are paid promptly. My wife, the primary breadwinner here, had a hot meal waiting for her every night. All she had to do was work. Once she got home, she was able to do whatever pleased her. Laundry was folded, beds made, ceiling fans dusted, front walk swept.

     The beauty of all this is that I was able to do it all and still spend hours a day on Open Salon. I considered this place my job. I read for hours. I endeavored to come up with the most delicious comment in the thread of every post I read. I scoured the feed for "Joe Blow has joined Open Salon," so I could dash Joe a PM telling him to be sure to inform me when his first post went up so I could check it out. I loved my community and wanted to be a good neighbor.

     It was as if I was freed from the bondage of time. Three a.m.? Who cares? I'm almost done. Just one more run-through of this piece before I hit "publish." I found I could garner some attention by publishing before the sun came up. My friends would be see me if they checked their blogs before going to work, and a string of early comments would keep me in the feed through the busy morning hours. I went after Editor's Picks like sane people go after bonus checks.

     I hate working, but I can't complain about making $25 an hour plus OT for 55- and 60-hour weeks when so many make far less, particularly the writers here who toil for causes more worthy than my house in the 'burbs: The home health workers or food bank volunteers or special ed teachers, scores of people whose unselfish commitment keeps others from falling through the cracks.

      For those of you unfamiliar with my situation, I took time off from my job as a waterman (I drive the truck and deliver the five-gallons bottles of water all over the place) because of a foot injury. I have paid into disability insurance for 20 years, so when my time came, I collected two-thirds of my regular earnings. Since I was free from work I took over full time care of my wife's father and uncle. I became a caregiver. My patients died in August and I should have returned to work shortly afterward, but I popped a bone out of its socket in late September during intense stretching therapy.

     I used my time to write about my caregiving experience in a series titled "Shaving with Connie Francis." It was a labor of sheer joy that went up chapter by chapter from Dec. 1 through early March. I had hoped back in February of 2008 never to return to the water industry, to find a new career more befitting a guy in his 50's. It didn't happen. So I have leapt back into the maw and will remain there until I engineer my escape. That or the maw shits me out or spits me out.

     I initiated this post to let folks know why I haven't been answering PM's, why I no longer leave the most delicious comments, but instead can muster merely a "nice job."  But I understand now there is more I must say. This community has become an integral part of my life. Being able to write for people and enjoy their work is something no previous generation has been able to do as we do here. The stars always found each other in the nicer restaurants, poets in coffee houses, musicians in someone's garage. But could anyone ever just decide late in life, "I want in," and get in? We get to be neighbors here without having to smell each other's farts.

     I suppose mine is a case in which absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder. I knew I loved OS. I just didn't know how much until I couldn't be here all the time.  So consider this my love letter, Open Salon.

     I'm still here reading, rating and looking for new members. I glance at PM's, but don't open most. I thought of posting about the adventures of a water man, but my company, for all it's faults, has been fair and good to me. They lost 1,000 customers in the Midwest last year, but haven't forced anyone out of a job. Head count has been reduced by attrition. No one ever questioned the legitimacy of my injury. And in this business, phony injuries are not uncommon. They operate, I believe, with a great deal of integrity. Many businesses are like the proverbial sausage-making factory. You really don't want to see what goes on inside. But they were decent to me when I needed it, and I'll keep what happens in the clubhouse in the clubhouse.

 *******

     My mother always told me, "If you want to have a friend, be a friend." Mom was rarely wrong about anything of real consequence. I intend to continue my friendships here more suitably than I have in the past few weeks. There was stuff on the honey-do list that I had blown off, then a sort of shock induced by leaping back into the maw, but I'm still here and intend to stay here. My writing will likely be less wonderful than in the past. You'll see the first or second drafts, rather than the 20th. But you helped me find a part of myself I had discarded along a regret-filled road decades ago, and I'll never again be so careless.

     Thanks.