because blogging is cheaper than therapy
I've been feeling a little random lately, what with all the talk about shoes and shopping and my ass. I apologize for the incredible shallowness here at Friday Playdate, but here's the deal: there are a lot of things going on these days, at my house and in my head, but a substantial portion of them are not bloggable, for various reasons. And the things that are fair game are stressing me out so much that the mere thought of writing about them makes me want to poke myself in the eye with a fork. And post some pictures! Ha ha ha, wouldn't that be fun! No, not really.
I wander through my day thinking about all kinds of things I could write about (Henry's field trip, for instance, or the birthday party we went to on Friday, or the man at the grocery this morning who got in his car, lit up a cigarette and put his oxygen tube on). But then when I sit here to actually write, the only things I can make coherent sentences and paragraphs about are shoes and my ass. So there you have it.
While I feel bad about blathering on about Stuff I Want to Buy (But Won't, Ultimately, Because of the Mommy Guilt), writing--anything at all--takes my mind off of all the other stuff. And doesn't cost as much as, oh, a new pair of shoes, or a visit with a therapist. And you all are such troopers, playing my crazy Leave A Comment game and resisting the urge to mock me for lusting after YET ANOTHER pair of ballet flats in the exact same post where I point out that they are not flattering on me. Because really, who cares? But you all do, and I thank you.
And now, in a good-faith effort to entertain you, I leave you with this thought: what kind of pooper scooper do you think it takes to clean up after Clifford?
I'm just wondering.
I wander through my day thinking about all kinds of things I could write about (Henry's field trip, for instance, or the birthday party we went to on Friday, or the man at the grocery this morning who got in his car, lit up a cigarette and put his oxygen tube on). But then when I sit here to actually write, the only things I can make coherent sentences and paragraphs about are shoes and my ass. So there you have it.
While I feel bad about blathering on about Stuff I Want to Buy (But Won't, Ultimately, Because of the Mommy Guilt), writing--anything at all--takes my mind off of all the other stuff. And doesn't cost as much as, oh, a new pair of shoes, or a visit with a therapist. And you all are such troopers, playing my crazy Leave A Comment game and resisting the urge to mock me for lusting after YET ANOTHER pair of ballet flats in the exact same post where I point out that they are not flattering on me. Because really, who cares? But you all do, and I thank you.
And now, in a good-faith effort to entertain you, I leave you with this thought: what kind of pooper scooper do you think it takes to clean up after Clifford?
I'm just wondering.
13 Comments:
Ack! My comment got eaten.
I need new shoes, too. My feet are growing. Stop laughing.
A hefty bag? Scary. I am not sure I want to know.
Paired With Ice, Dewars Can Refresh.
A Super Duper Pooper Scooper.
Not sure I can insert a link into a comment (I know it can be done, I've seen m&co. do it.)
http://jplan.com/cgi-bin/tractor/viewPhoto.pl?userid=domogala
Well, there, that's Clifford's pooper scooper for ya.
Since this is therapy, we have to ask: what does "pooper scooper" represent to you?
I don't know and I'm not cleaning up HIS shit, too.
Ramble on!
Geez, Susan--Most of my life isn't bloggable. But writing about whatever you can is great therapay. It's fun to read whatever you write, and thanks to you I want that Old Navy jacket, too.
A back-hoe.
This post explains exactly what is going on in my head - give or take a few details. Can you paste it on my blog?
Clifford: Big Red Shovel
Geez. Never thought about the Clifford thing. I would think it takes a bulldozer.
Don't apologize for being random! I've been extremely shallow in my blog for about a month now--- for the same reason. I usually write when the kids are screaming in their cribs (aka "napping"). It's my way of taking a BRIEF break from it all, sticking my fingers in my ears and screaming "LALALA CAN'T HEAR YOU!!!!"
By the way, I'm not writing while I leave them in their cribs for hours. I'm not negligent, just a fast typer.
Damn you for the J Crew flats. I want them badly. Is it really a rule to feed the kids, or can I spend the grocery money on shoes?
Spend the grocery money on shoes. Those kids are going to eat you out of house and home when they are in high school. It will all come out even.
And KatieK--you're so funny. I'm glad you're here.
The unbloggable parts of life. I have a ton, too, and I keep wishing I could start, like, another blog where I could, you know, talk about more of the real stuff, only there's always that risk of getting real in public, but, geez, there has to be some forum for me to work stuff out in writing (which is how I DO that), and, oh. Yeah. It's called a diary. Right. How low-tech is that?
Well, I can certainly relate!
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