So, here it goes- the first of, ambitiously speaking, maybe four “blog” posts for which my husband will surely mock me. Why do they call it “blogging” any way? It just doesn’t sound all that appealing to me. “So, what do you do? Oh, you blog? (acts interested) You blog about your organic garden of pickles and squash in your suburban neighborhood? (assuming you don’t have a real job) Cool, how very eco-friendly of you.” (walks away regretting conversation)
When I think of blogging, the first thing that comes to mind is a row full of geeked out hipsters pelting the keyboards of their Macbooks with their tiny little, white chocolate mocha drinking fingers. I imagine them sitting in the corner of their local Starbucks sporting cable knit scarves in the middle of summer and browsing the latest Urban Outfitter ads while “blogging”. There they sit for hours at a time getting super caffiene wasted on triple shots of Espresso, hijacking the wi-fi while typing away, looking like their up to something noteworthy. I imagine that some of them are trying to defeat the man. Some of them are likely working towards a useless art degree, and some of them are just shopping for a pair of sunglasses that will make them look like they make enough money to not live with their parents. ALL of them are blogging about it.
Then again, sometimes I am reminded of the Gwyneth Paltrow’s of the blogosphere. You know- the women that can out cook your momma, plant a luscious garden in the middle of the desert, and look like a J. Crew boss while walking their Corgi’s. Those women know all the secrets on how to portray a seemingly perfect existence. From their custom drapes to their cashmere cardigans, they would make Betty Draper proud…if Betty Draper wasn’t a jealous bitch.
I think of a lot of people when I think of blogging- none of which are me. I don’t hold the key to raising your children so that they become successful politicians or physicians. I only recently learned how to cook an edible meal. I don’t own a single cable knit scarf or cashmere cardigan, and I kind of hate Betty Draper.
I could, however, almost guarantee that my kids will not grow up to be little assholes, and I do mix a damn good Sangria. I consider the perfect marriage of profanity and sarcasm to be a real art form, and I DO have a real job. My wardrobe consists of nothing more than Old Navy flip flops, yoga pants and multiple sets of scrubs. The only cardigans in my household belong to my husband. That man can really rock a cardigan.
So, what am I doing here “blogging” if I have no valid anything to offer the world? Well, first of all, it’s cheaper than therapy. Second, I’ve got endless amounts of opinions, and I value my husbands current fondness of me, so I am projecting my thoughts onto the world wide web, rather than his short attention span. And third? Well, because- my kids are napping and I’m feeling nostalgic. So, why the heck not join the intrawebs and participate in the over sharing?
And so it begins…