Some days, life is good. Some days, not so much. And some days… well, some days you end up starting a blog.
For the record, I blame my sister for all of this. Not that she’s a bad person or anything, but she is the one who started all of this, what with her going on about how I should sign up for Facebook and be mainstream and bite the bullet because everyone’s doing it and why am I so reluctant anyway. So instead of doing the laundry, which was threatening to invade the kitchen after it fully conquered the hallway, I turned on my laptop and started wandering around the blogosphere like some drunk kitten.
And this could get bad. I mean real bad. And not in the Michael Jackson sort of way, either. There will undoubtedly be parenthetical digressions, there may even be sub-digressions imbedded in said parenthetical digressions. There will be ridiculously wordy stories, painfully long run on sentences (which will, in all likely hood, contain the afore-mentioned parenthetical and sub-parenthetical digressions (which, really, could be called rants; non-soapboxing rants maybe… but wouldnʻt that be orange crating?)which may or may not relate even remotely to the original thought because squirrel!!), repeated use of .50 cent words when a .03 cent word would clearly suffice… and did I mention gratuitous use of ellipses and semi-colons? I will make up words while ranting about the decline of actual, established dictionarial (toldja) words and the addition of words like “selfie” to said dictionaries. In fact, the ranting will most likely be so ridiculously rampant that people will actually stop reading and go search for something involving kittens. Or auto-correct. Or both.
You see, they call me mom. And that I am, but oh so much more… (or possibly less. it really depends on the day). I am the Consummate Kidlette Wrangler and possibly the WorstMilitaryWifeEver. I am sporadically briefly ambitious with occasional delusions of grandeur, and often distract-ooh! Shiny! I am not a domestic engineer, domestic goddess, wonder wife, soccer mom, pta mom, or whatever the cool kids are calling it this week, but the older I get, the more I kinda wanna be. Go figure.
So consider yourself warned, casual blog reader, and donʻt shoot the messenger. Or the help.