I’m at a loss, really, of how to start this blog. I’ve erased quite a few witty titles, and even trashed a paragraph of mediocre writing. But don’t feel sorry for me – there are far more important things to consider today, such as: Will Michael Phelps win his 87th gold medal, or will they actually let him eat, sleep, and take a poop break? (Because after all, that expression is a little more than just plan ol’ Resting Bitch Face. I’m just saying.)
So here I am, drinking diet soda when I’d rather have a lager, contemplating a quintessential introduction while listening to my kid talk to herself in the bathroom. (… I’m now realizing an odd miniature theme in my train of thought, but I can assure you, there will be discussion about topics other than the bathroom here. How many, though, I can’t guarantee.) In an effort to maintain my flimsy shroud of maturity, I won’t highlight the events that transpired between me and my husband shortly before writing this. However, I will say that it involved a “not it” gesture and a bit of victory dancing.
I suppose saying there’s a “flimsy shroud of maturity” around me is a fair way to put how this blog might turn out. I say “might” because I have no real clue how it will end up. It could end up being witty and edgy, something people will want to read. Or, it could end up like a (surprisingly striking) pasta necklace pin you saw on Pinterest. It starts out as an interesting DIY prospect, saddled with unrealistic hopes of greatness and innovation (because, look at what that person was able to do with ziti). Only, after you begin, you realize that even with using fancy floss thread, all you’ve made is a string of large, uncooked noodles dying a slow death in Mod Podge and micro glitter. Therefore, I conclude that through this blog, I’ll either be a well-loved snark, or the maker of gaudy macaroni bling.
So to the five people who might read this:
Sorry (just in case).
Enjoy (but don’t be an airport if you don’t – no need to announce your departure).