Sometimes I Write Stuff

So, when people haven't written on their blogs in some time they feel the need to apologize and make promises that a myriad of brilliant posts are forthcoming (and you know what, Thoreau used the preposition "of" after myriad...so, you grammar snobs can just untwist your underpanties). However, by this point no one is reading this blog anymore. So, sorry, Internets...I'm sure you've missed my brilliance.  What? You couldn't care less? That's cool.

So, my point in making a writing re-commitment is three-fold (that's a fancy way of saying there are three reasons).
1.) I miss it.
2.) The nagging thought that one day, most of Whitney's therapy sessions will deal with the fact that her horrible mother wrote posts to her treasured older brother, but hers are sparse and isn't that just HORRIBLE? What kind of mother would show favoritism that way. She's totally going to buy a motorcycle just to spite me AND listen to smooth jazz.
3.) I'm not good at much, and I think I am a decent writer. And if you disagree, then go away, fool.

So, why the long absence you didn't ask? Well, navigating the terrain of Mom With Two Kids has been challenging. I've actually had a REALLY hard time with it. I have had a hard time with learning to manage my time and sleep training my youngest and making sure our house doesn't get condemned due to all the grossness and our archaic computer that moved with the speed and agility of a dead sloth and not working outside the home and realizing I have no marketable skills and then came Pinterest with all it's annoying reminders that I'm, in fact, not creative nor a DIYer and there's the knowledge that Beyonce and I will probably never meet.

I wish I knew Beyonce.

So, I haven't wanted to write because it would have ended up being all dark and whiny and Thoreau-y (two Thoreau mentions in one post...I'm so smart). Also, by the time I DO get Whitney to sleep at night, all I want to do is eat carbs and watch reruns of witty comedies.

But, I've read a couple books lately that have inspired me to write.  Because, honestly, I'm not making a bookcase out of some old milk crates I found down at the docks, thankyouverymuchPinterest, and I just finished watching all three seasons of Arrested Development on Netflix and I'm trying not to eat after 9:00...okay 10:00...okay 11:00 and we have a new fancy computational machine AND I read this recently:

I think God gives us each a gift or two so that we have something special to offer others. But sometimes we make the mistake of assuming the things we're good at are common to everyone. ... I think sometimes we get confused and believe that our gift must bring us money or success or fame...The only thing a gift needs to do is bring you joy. ... We are each an island, but he [God] gives us gifts to use as bridges into each other's lives.  -Glennon Doyle Melton

I've tried to embrace baking and crafting and athletic endeavors (stop laughing) and DIYing and basket weaving; but, Internets, these things do not bring me joy (I'm looking at you, basket weaving). And quite frankly, they usually cause me to break out in a severe case of the back sweats (I'm looking at you, hot glue gun that I forgot to unplug that one time.) I enjoy writing. I enjoy writing humorously. Maybe I'll make a bridge to someone else through my funny writing, because I'm definitely not doing it sitting on my bony bum watching reruns of Golden Girls (well done, TV Land). 

And maybe Beyonce will be on the other end of that bridge.