Blogging for me is a lot like going to the gym - I like doing it (mostly), I think it benefits others through enjoyment (fat thighs = repulsion) and it's time spent just for me (mostly me and those muscle men doing the ab machine in the weight room that I spot). I feel guilty most times doing anything that tears me away from more meaningful, responsible tasks. Like bathing my children. Or washing my hair. Or sleep. But I manage to intertwine these responsibilities into my day-to-day and that helps. A little.

I actually started this blog awhile ago. If you're new here (welcome, I'm sorry if I insult you) - I tend to write blogs sporadically when I have a few free moments here and there. Once upon a time, I was actually able to write blogs at work (on work time! For shame!!) but now I'm all forced to take care of people and do "state regulated" paperwork, blah blah blah. So my blog (and etsy shopping) time has somewhat diminished. For you, this equals disjointed prose and haphazard, lackadaisical writing that sometimes doesn't make sense. In order to understand my stuff, you have to be willing to look past all that and not be one of those "normal" sorts who wants things in life to flow. My shit don't flow. (That would be a good name for a Rap Album. Maybe it already is one. Let me go google it and see).

*A google search of "My shit don't flow" resulted in a number of numerous rap lyric websites and (oddly) the suggested search of 'don't poop on my face'. I'm not sure how these are related, Google but no thanks. I'm definitely not searching for that.

I'm moving this month and trying to get acclimated from taking all the innards of my tiny apartment and putting them in a home that's the biggest one I've lived in, to date. I'm not even sure what to do with all this room - well, besides run around naked in each one of them shouting 'my nipples aren't touching the walls!', which I will probably do as soon as I get some heavier curtains on the windows. Or more self confidence, whichever. The latter of which I've been steadfast in trying to discover now for the last, oh - 34 years. But seriously, my cheesy college-esque IKEA furniture looks lost in here. I need a big, soft velvety couch (and bean bag chairs...oooo and a lava lamp!) so I can be all grown up and everything. Whatever that means. I am excited that my children will finally be free to play and run around and make noise and I don't have to worry that any crazy landlord types from down below will come a'knockin'. I also am free to yell at them as often and as clamorous as I so desire & also sing Air Supply loudly when cooking breakfast. You know - *if* I wanted to. I'm not saying I do that. I also do not, in any way, dance around the room with my Swifer pretending it's Graham Russell.

There is no central theme to this entry and for that I am apologetic. You could have spent these last 4 minutes catching up with an old friend, waxing your ears. or listening to that self-help book on CD - but instead, you spent it here with me. I'm forever grateful.

I promise to blog more, if you promise to shower.