It had devolved into What I’m Cooking For Dinner and I just — I was boring even myself, and I usually think I am way more interesting than I actually am. So.

Here it is, the blog, and here it is, my perpetual writer’s block. I  started a pseudonym twitter account to deal with my audience issues but I can’t even think of anything to write in there. I wonder sometimes how creative I could be if I weren’t wiping counters, noses and butts all day, but then I think back to college, when all I did was sleep and smoke, and I wasn’t very creative then, either, so, guess I’m just born this way. An urge to say something, but nothing to say.

I just felt like I shouldn’t leave y’all hanging (HA HA HA “y’all” when I guess I really mean “my mom”) so. Here it is, a wrap-up post.

Hey look, I know some people think airheads have it so easy. Well, let me be the first to correct that assumption. We flakes, ditzes and space cadets may appear to be just floating through life without a care in the world, but we really …

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Where was I going with this? Hmm. Hey listen, I’m going to the kitchen, do you want anything?

Pardon me, I appear to have run out of excuses. The laundry is running, the floors are swept, the baby is sleeping and the preschooler is making art up in his room. Guess I can spit a little something out here.

I was thinking the other day that another reason I can’t write is because I can’t tell stories. All writing, fiction or not, is about telling stories. It’s about what happened, why it happened, what is going to happen. Term papers, science journals, newspapers, romance novels, cereal boxes, all of it is telling a story. And I suck at telling stories.

I once took a fiction writing class in college. Oh, what a waste of money. I mean, I read some great short fiction by real actual writers in real actual anthologies, but whatever the prof was trying to pound through my head about Plot and Conflict and Setting just went whizzing past my left ear instead. I remember writing a horrible little piece about a girl (ME) who worked at a grocery store (MY JOB AT THE TIME) and dated a boy who also worked at the grocery store (MY BOYFRIEND AT THE TIME). Nothing happened in the story unless stilted dialogue counts as “happening.” It was embarrassing to turn in. I am glad that it wasn’t one of the ones that went to critique — or if it was, I am glad my brain mercifully blocked it out. The professor got paid to read that tripe but hardworking students shouldn’t have to burn their eyeballs on it.

When I discovered blogging about four or five years later, I was super excited. Hooray, I thought. Writing that doesn’t have to have a plot, a thesis sentence or even much of a point. Perfect.

Too busy meal planning, list-making, grocery-shopping.

Too busy chopping Monday’s roast chicken for tonight’s black bean casserole (aka Mexican Lasagna) and making three different lunches.

And so here we are.

The pork was delicious.

Molly FishFace says hi.

So do the dishes.

G’night!

I voted today. What, is that not enough for you people? Jeez.

Too busy making Parker house rolls and roasting a chicken and washing two loads of laundry. And then I have a sexy sexy Fill Out Flexible Spending Account Forms date with my spouse after dinner.

I was too busy waiting for the Steelers game to finish so I could put our paper to bed.