I am going to lose all my friends, and my husband. All because of this blog that I'm still not sure I'm okay with anyone reading. Why?
Well, Whit (aforementioned husband) is currently five states away (okay, three, but they're big states) playing golf, drinking beer and watching basketball with twenty of his old fraternity brothers. It sounds wild, but it's such a ridiculously middle-aged trip: they have steak dinners and wine and caddies. No Animal House antics there. As far as I know.
I, on the other hand, am home with the kids. And the pork-chop devouring dog. And the homework, and the art fair, and the fart jokes, and the activities, and, of course, my dad ("How's pot roast for dinner?" "Eggs." "What?" "Just a dozen." Insert quick phone call to my sister to see if she thinks my dad is officially nuts or just screwing with me for fun). So when, during the headache phase of Thursday, Whit texted me to say, "Hi, sweetie, how was your day? How are the kids?" I very grumpily texted back, "Read my blog."
I know this man very, very well. And I know that he took a deep breath (and a biiiiiig sip of beer) before responding, more patiently than he wanted, "Well, since I'm not in front of a computer, maybe you could just tell me." I made him wait a few hours. Somehow I don't think he was tortured by the wait; rather, I think he was saying to himself, "Wow. What a bitch." Then, "Another round, anyone?"
Next a very close friend asked me if anything cute happened with the kids on St. Patrick's Day. I happen to love writing these blog entries -- come on, why else would I make myself such an easy target? -- but I really do put a lot of thought into what I write (by which I mean I actually reread it once before posting). I n.e.v.e.r. put an ounce of thought into what I say (yeah, that doesn't always work out so well for me). So after I've carefully described some event in my life, I don't really want to retell it. I write better than I speak, so it's just more interesting if you read it. Cut to the point, this friend was quite irritated that she had to read the blog to hear the story about Caroline's note to the leprechaun. And it made me realize I'm in trouble. I'm a little obsessed.
So I'm slightly worried that I am going to become one of those really weird people who doesn't sleep and sits in front of a computer all night and doesn't have any friends and howls at her own oddly disjointed mental jokes. Seriously. I'm going to go from being a nice, normal suburban mother having a mild to moderate midlife crisis to a nutcase who can't communicate unless it's via blog. I'll be some virtual freak job locked in my (currently tastefully decorated, but just give it time) office with no human contact.
(No. I am never accused of hyperbole.)
(Or excessive use of parentheses.)
I guess I'll save that drama for my "3/4 of the way through it" crisis. I don't have time for it now, and that buys me a good twenty years. In the meantime, if you've got to talk to me and you can't get through, start a blog. I'll probably answer you immediately.