Monday, June 30, 2008


I really should not be typing now. There’s a lot of work that needs to be done.

I picked blueberries this morning and came home with 16 quarts (my girlfriend Laurel helped me pick after she got all that she wanted for their family, bless her heart) that now need to be picked over, canned, frozen, and dried.

I need to bake chocolate chip cookies and make tuna salad. I need to pick potato bugs (the kids like them fried in butter with sea salt sprinkled on top—just kidding), hoe the beans, pick some rhubarb, weed and mulch the rose bed, mow the yard.

And this evening I am planning to go pick cherries (sweet, wax, and sour) and buy some apricots, too. Then there will be more jam and drying and canning. I will not get near everything done, but I bet you’d be impressed if I did.

About the blueberries, I’m wanting to can some—does anybody have any advice about this? I’ve never done it before. Just put them in jars with water and sugar and process? And how does freezer blueberry jam turn out? Or is it better to do cook jam?

Sunday, June 29, 2008

Patting Myself On The Back

I don’t consider myself a Fun Mom. I don’t play games with my kids; I don’t laugh at all their jokes. I say no a lot. I have lots of rules. I demand manners. I make them do work (at least I try to—this is a hot topic, ie. I’m constantly pulling my hair out over this one, and I’ll blog more about it later). I don’t have body piercings, wear a bikini, drive a flashy car, etc. In other words, I’m traditional and boring.

But when Yo-Yo Boy asked for a Mohawk, I said yes.

I may not have said yes if I hadn’t lived through the whole Mohawk craze, twenty years ago, a la my brother. The one that’s now bald. That brother begged and pleaded for a Mohawk. He made a sign and hung it on his door: The Mohawk War. All to no avail. My mother later admitted that she should have let him have one. What could it hurt? And now it’s too late.

I buzzed the sides of Yo-Yo Boy’s head and then used mousse and manipulator to make the middle part stand up.

He was thrilled.

I spiked his hair for church on Sunday (it wasn’t till we got there that I realized how much the hair stood out) and when he went to the dentist and to a friend’s house. But after a week or so, he started saying no when I offered to fix it. He said he didn’t like it that he couldn’t lay his head back... And that was pretty much that. He hasn’t spiked it for several weeks and now the sides have grown out and he just looks like he has a butch haircut.

I’m rather sad to see the end of the Mohawk. Yo-Yo Boy's ability to go out in public like that was kind of beguiling and sweet.

However, yesterday he went to Bible school, intentionally wearing one brown sock and one black sock, and this morning he used a flashy gold belt from the dress-up trunk (I held my tongue and didn’t let on that it was a girl’s belt) to hold up his pants, so I have an uncomfortable feeling that over the next ten years he will present me with many opportunities to be strict and boring. But when he does, I’ll be able to point out that I was a Fun Mom. At least once, anyway.

Burn-y Drink

We don’t drink much soda. I usually have some in the pantry—Sprite (for a sick kid), root beer (for the occasional float), and once in a great while a Coke. I don’t really like the stuff, preferring to spend my calories on something else (though an ice-cold Coke with corn chips hits the spot, especially when I’m pregnant. Which I’m not). Mostly the sodas sit there and get dusty and loose their zip and then I chuck them.

So a couple days ago when Yo-Yo Boy asked to use a soda to do an experiment, I said yes. The experiment flopped, and I was left with a bottle of pop and four kids clamoring for a taste. We passed the cup around and this is what they did.

Then I dumped the rest down the drain and nobody complained.


Barbara Kingsolver inspired me (via her fantastic book Animal, Vegetable, Miracle) to buy some heirloom seeds to plant in this summer's garden. I bought a mixture of lettuce seed from Seed Savers, the names of which are almost as beautiful and tasty as the plants: Amish Deer Tongue, Australian Yellowleaf, Bronze Arrowhead, Forellenschuss, Lollo Rossa, Pablo, Red Velvet, and Reine des Glaces. The plants lasted a long time and provided us with a solid base for many a chef salad, but now, alas, they are going to seed.

Black Labs Make Excellent Pets

My Kid's A Freak

Yo-Yo Boy delights in looking odd, grotesque, and weird, especially for the camera. Is this just a male thing? How long does this last? Judging from his father's pictures, maybe forever. But judging from what other's tell me, there will come a time, for several years when he's a teenager that he will stare blankly, even hostilely, at the camera. So I'd better stop fussing and just enjoy what I have.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

Tearin' Up The Town

So we went to the play last night and it was fantastic and totally made me want to become an actress. Maybe in my next life. After the play Mr. Handsome and I did what every sensible couple does when they are out on the town without children—we ran errands. We stopped by Home Depot (I hate that store) because they have a bistro table that I think would really improve our table-less deck and I’m trying to convince Mr. Handsome that we ought to buy it. But the store was closed. So we stopped in at Walmart to get a box of diapers, a can of Pringles, and a box of microwave popcorn. We had told the kids that if they were good they were to put out their shoes, which meant that we then had to buy a treat to put in their shoes. We decided a pack of popcorn per child would fit the bill—a novelty (we normally eat boring, pan-popped popcorn, so my kids think that microwave popcorn is totally cool), and not loaded with sugar.

Then Mr. Handsome got it in his head that we ought to go see a movie. He had heard rave reviews for Wall.e on NPR. Our conversation went something like this.

Me: What’s so great about it?
Him: It’s about a trash compactor.
Me: A trash compactor?
Him: Yeah, it’s an animated cartoon.
Me: An animated cartoon about a trash compactor? (Rude guffaw) Anything else? Is it about something?
Him: Um. I dunno. But there’s not even any talking for the first hour. It’s supposed to be really neat. The reviewer was really excited about it.
Me, slowly: You want me to go see a cartoon about a trash compactor and there isn’t even any talking for the whole first hour?
Him, grinning sheepishly: Yeah.
Me: Alright, let’s do it.

We got to the theater just in time for the ten o’clock showing (it was good, though a little hard on the eyes what with all that barren landscape and trash, but I would recommend holding onto your $18.50 and renting it when it comes out in the video stores) and got home at midnight. I collapsed in bed, plum tuckered out from all my gallivanting. Being footloose and fancy-free sure is exhausting.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Book Suggestions

I hate going to the library and randomly choosing a book to read. There is so much trash out there. Plus, I can’t focus too much on anything when I’m in there—four kids running in four different directions... I much prefer to have a list of books in hand before I walk through the three sets of glass doors of the downtown library. I want the books to be well-endorsed before I spend my time (and overdue library fines) on a piece of literature.

So, what do you recommend? What are your oh-my-goodness-I-can’t-believe-you-haven’t-read-it books? (You can see from the side bar the types of books I like to read, but I’m open to expanding my mind.) And not just for me, but also books to read aloud to my children?

Plant Mysteries

Can anyone out there identify this plant for me?

I think it's an herb, but that's as far as I got.

A Fallacy

Mr. Handsome has, over time, come to learn that numerous people (who don’t know him very well) think he’s always angry. I’m here to squash all rumors. They are unfounded. Mr. Handsome, while quite handsome...

...can be a complete and total goof ball. Here’s the proof:

Uh-huh. He sure is some angry guy, don't you think? Insane, crazy, loco, a Bloomin' Piece O' Work is more like it.

And boy oh boy, do I ever love him.

Two More For You

Writing one granola recipe made me realize that there are two more granola recipes I must share with you (this reminds me of If You Give A Mouse A Cookie—one thing leads to another and another and another). The granola recipe I gave you last time is our most basic, no-frills recipe. I especially like to have it around in the summer time because it’s a great base to which we can add all the fresh fruits that make their way into our kitchen. But during the winter I like to make what I call Fancy Granola, and then, for a treat, I’ll sometimes make French Chocolate Granola.

Fancy Granola
This is called "Kris’s Granola" on my recipe card because my friend Kris gave me the recipe. The recipe below is hers, with a few of my changes. Don’t be afraid to change it around yourself. Make it your own. Granola encourages creativity, so don’t be shy.

18-20 cups rolled oats
3 cups raw sunflower seeds
2 cups almonds, ground in the blender
2 tablespoons, and then some, if you wish, cinnamon
1/3 cup blackstrap molasses
1 1/4 cup maple syrup
1 ½ cup canola oil

Mix the dry ingredients together in a big bowl. Put the wet ingredients in a saucepan and heat until warm and well-mixed. Pour the wet ingredients over the dry, and stir well. Spread the mixture on two large ungreased cookie sheets that have sides and roast at 275 degrees for three to four hours.

After the granola has cooled, add two to three cups of chopped nuts (English walnuts, pecans, almonds) and about three cups, or more, of dried fruit (raisins, craisins, dried cherries, dried blueberries, dates, etc.). Store in large glass jars.

French Chocolate Granola
From Orangette’s blog

At first I was turned off by this recipe. I’m not one who likes my granola sweet, especially not with chocolate. Those little containers of store-bought yogurt with an additional see-through topper of granola and chocolate chip mix-ins makes me wanna gag. Granola is supposed to be wholesome and fortifying, not a dessert food. But then I made this recipe and about died and went to heaven. Then I called up a handful of my friends and insisted that they make it, RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE. Several of them did, most likely in a desperate attempt to get me off their backs, though I choose to think it’s because they know I have fantastic food sense.

Always double the recipe. In a twelve-hour period my family ate all but one cup of a double batch: bowls of it for a bedtime snack and bowls of it for breakfast the following morning.

3 cups rolled oats
½ cup raw almonds, chopped
½ cup coconut
2 tablespoons white sugar
pinch of salt
6 tablespoons honey
2 tablespoons canola oil
½ cup finely chopped bittersweet chocolate (I use the mini-est chocolate chips I can find)

Mix the dry ingredients, all but the chocolate, in a large bowl. Heat the oil and honey in a saucepan till warm and then mix with the dry ingredients. Spread in an ungreased cookie sheet that has sides and bake at 300 degrees for 20 minutes till golden and crunchy. (When I think it’s done enough, I turn the oven off and let it cool in there—it gets crunchier without getting too brown.) When it’s totally cool, stir in the chocolate bits, and store in a large glass jar.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Odd Sleeping Configurations a la Miss Becca Boo

My daughter apparently has some issues when it comes to sleeping. What could this mean? She's terrified of letting go? She's scared of the dark? She likes to sleep in corners? She likes to be warm? Really warm? We might want to warn her future hubby because I imagine this could become a pretty big issue between them.

She's in there. If you look hard you'll see a tuft of hair sticking out of the blankets.

What does she think she is---a nun or something?

Brown Bread

This is my catch-all bread recipe. I like to clean out my fridge and cupboard, adding the lumpy cream of wheat from last week’s breakfast, maybe the dregs of the molasses jar, the last bit of cornmeal from the bag, or, ooh---those sesame seeds would certainly add a nice crunch. And so on. Sometimes I make it earthy and dark with lots of freshly ground wheat, and other times, for a special treat, I use mostly white flour. Be creative with shaping the dough, too. Make sweet rolls or buns. Dust the tops of the loaves with seeds or oats. If you have a loaf that flops, tear it up to make bread crumbs. And then try it again. The whole process should take about six hours, from start to finish, especially now that it’s so toasty warm outside.

Brown Bread

Put 1 cup of warm water and 3 T. of yeast with a pinch of sugar in a smallish bowl. Mix and let sit till foamy (5-15 minutes).

In a large bowl:

½ c. fat (butter, oil, etc.)
1 c. sweetener (white or brown sugar, honey, molasses, etc)
2 T. salt
a mixture of about 3-5 cups of whole grains (oats, cracked wheat, cornmeal, rye, spelt, flax seed, leftover cooked cereal, whatever strikes your fancy—this is the fun part, but don’t overdo it or your bread can get heavy and crumbly)

Pour five cups of boiling water (you may also use milk, or whey from cheese making) over the mixture, stir, and let sit until lukewarm. Add the yeast mixture. Add several more cups of whole wheat flour and then enough bread flour to make a knead-able dough. Knead till satiny and elastic, adding more white flour when it gets sticky. Flour the dirty bread bowl and plop the dough into it. Sprinkle more flour overtop. Cover with a towel and let sit till double.

Cut the dough into four pieces and shape into loaves. Place in greased bread pans and let rise until nearly double. Gracefully slip the loaves into the oven, which has been already heated to 350 degrees, and bake for 25-35 minutes, or until the bottoms are golden brown and sound hollow when tapped. Dump the loaves out on a cooling rack or a cut-open brown paper bag, and, if you want, you can put the loaf pans away without washing them.

To store the loaves, wait until they are completely cool, then bag and freeze them. But definitely keep one loaf out to eat for supper.

Love Note

Tonight I got a love note from Mr. Handsome. He sent me an email (from my computer, while I was working in the kitchen—I wasn’t allowed to look) and this is what it said:

I ordered tickets for “Trouble”, or something like that for tomorrow night. I also have acquired experienced childcare for the evening, so you and I can go out. The end. Love, The Rooooofer

Is that not dear? I was so wanting to go to that play, but getting childcare for four kids at 7:30 in the evening is nigh impossible. (Okay, so he had some encouragement from my folks, but still.)

So tomorrow night I’ll be footloose and fancy free. Whoa baby! Watch out!

Note: While Mr. Handsome does roofing, he is a carpenter first and foremost. I'm not quite sure why he signed off The Roofer, except that it was fun to type Rooooofer. Maybe?


Since this blog is about the minutia of my life, I’ve decided to add recipes for the food that makes up the backbone of our daily diet. It’s more exciting to write about the new and unusual things I’m cooking rather than the everyday fare, but the everyday grub is important, too—it gives us a solid diet baseline from which I can experiment and it prevents me from ending up with starving (or bloated) children. And besides, the everyday grub is pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.

Adapted from the Simple Granola recipe in The More-With-Less Cookbook

Note: this recipe is also posted here.

I ate it as a baby, my mom says. She just soaked it in hot water and then put it through the food mill. Mr. Handsome mixes it with homemade yogurt and jam for his morning break. Yo-Yo Boy is learning to make this all on his own. We eat it a lot. This recipe lasts us about a week.

14 cups oats (I use half quick oats and half rolled oats)
2 cups sugar
2 cups whole wheat (or cracked wheat if you want more of a crunch)
2 cups raw wheat germ
1 tablespoon salt
1 ½ cups canola oil
1 3/4 cups water

Mix the dry ingredients together and then add the wet. Spread the mixture on two large ungreased cookie sheets that have sides. Bake at 250 degrees for several hours, stirring occasionally until golden brown and crunchy. Cool completely and store in glass jars.

Yield: about five quarts.

Warnings and Apologies

1. Now that I’m writing this blog, I’m realizing that there really is a lot of minutia in my life. There is so much I want to say. And I’m going to say it, too, by gum. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

2. I’m apologizing, in advance, for my camera and for my (lack of) photography skills. I really like my camera, and it’s nothing to sneeze at, but I can’t take close-up pictures. But I’m still going to try. So forgive the blurriness. If anyone wants to give me tips, they can, but they can’t involve me purchasing anything since we’re trying not to spend money right now.

3. I’m from the ice age when it comes to computers and the internet. We don’t even have high-speed internet (because of where we live, not because I’m refusing to get it—internet is not the same as TV, in my book). So this blog is a work in process. A lot of the work is waiting to happen till my Balding Bro comes to my house and straightens me out on a great deal of things, like what on earth is wrong with my HMO, HMTL, or my BLT, or whatever that thing is. So please be patient and don’t poke fun at me.

4. I’m going to try to post every day, so that you get to see something new and exciting every single time you check this blog. If there is anything you want me to write about, say so, and I’ll see what I can do about it.

The Spit Rag

Since she was little (nine months? a year old?) Sweetsie has carried around a spit rag. Actually, she had one before that, but it wasn’t something that she had any control over. Mr. Handsome and I, whichever one was holding her at the moment, had to carry it around, slung over our shoulder to protect us, the furniture, a passerby from her copious quantities of spit-up.

But then, somehow, she got attached to the foul cloth, which was really just one of her cloth diapers. It couldn’t be just any of the cloth diapers, however. By the time she came along we had at least four different kinds: the simple weave that we had bought back when Yo-Yo Boy was born, some pre-folded ones that some friends handed down (I did my best to ignore the decade-old brown stains on them and they worked just fine), some thick, flannel ones, and some bird’s eye weave ones. Sweetsie decided it had to be the ones from Yo-Yo Boy's time. Those diapers had been hand-washed for their first ten months of use, so they were quite worn out and were falling in action on a regular basis. Thankfully, they were interchangeable.

But now we only have three left. If more than one is laying about the house, she will sniff each one to find out which is the oldest and dirtiest, and that’s the lucky winner. It’s gross. Several weeks ago, one of remaining rags developed some big rips, but instead of going the way of the trash can like all the others, it made it’s ways into G-mommy’s hands and she sewed it up with red and blue stitching.

The spit rags have an important function: they enable Sweetsie to suck her thumb. She curls the corners and then holds it in her left hand (she only sucks her left thumb) and using her index finger she rolls the curl back and forth over her upper lip. Only once in a while, or in a state of desperation (and often it’s Mr. Handsome and I that are the desperate ones, frantically encouraging her to just try), she will suck her thumb without her rag and then she looks naked.

(Those are The Baby Nickel’s jeans, really. I don’t force my children to wear their clothes until they are totally worn out. I’m not that kind of a mother.)

And if she’s wearing a diaper and doesn’t have a rag, she get’s pretty creative.

Sometimes she breaks free and lives life on the edge.

But only for a little.

So why does she suck her thumb so avidly? Someone once suggested that it was because she was a third child and she got no attention and so she had to find some way to self-soothe. That’s probably it. I have so many kids that I don’t know what to do with them. I totally ignore them. They definitely don’t get any attention. Come to think of it, I don’t either. So why am I not sucking my thumb? Hmm. Maybe I’ll give it a shot. It might help.


I excitedly informed Yo-Yo Boy and Miss Becca Boo that I had ordered some math books for them and they should come in the mail in several days. Yo-Yo Boy said, “What’s math?” I suppose I should’ve been scandalized and embarrassed, but instead I busted out laughing. I guess it’s high time we do some figuring, eh?

Going Overboard

I can be rather grandiose at times. I mean, I like things large. Flamboyant. Especially if it involves sugar and fat and chocolate.

Several years ago I made a chocolate cake for a family gathering at my house, and also in honor of one of my cousins who was having a birthday, though the real reason was the gathering. I don’t remember all the baking details, but what I do remember was that it was a four layer monstrosity with mint green frosting between the layers and chocolate icing on the sides and top. I chopped up Andes mint candy and sprinkled them all over the top. It was a towering confection. When I went to cut it, the handle of the cut-co knife disappeared into the cake and I had to use my bread knife (I think I’m remembering correctly).

The other day I made this cake.

I got the recipe from a Gourmet magazine, and it’s called Mile-High Chocolate Cake. The contents of the icing are almost unprintable, but I’ll try. The icing includes a cup of sugar, some flour, cocoa powder and unsweetened cocoa, milk, vanilla, and the main ingredient which is—um—butter. Six sticks of it. For real. I know it’s obscene and completely unnecessary and inappropriate. But I had never made an icing recipe calling for that much butter and I figured that I could probably learn something from it: either the recipe sucked, or it was fantastic and I’d been missing out on good chocolate icing my entire life.

And then we ate it and it was okay. Good actually. But definitely not fantastic. And definitely not worth all those calories. I cut the cake up in chunks, piled four large pieces on a plate and delivered them to a friend and wrapped the rest of them in plastic wrap and stuck them in the freezer. Every now and then I pull a chunk out and cut it into slivers and serve it. The last time I pulled out a hunk, I gussied it up with strawberries from the garden and whipped cream and served it to some girlfriends. I didn’t tell them (well, one of them anyway, since the other one had been the receiver of the plate of cake slices) what was in it till their plates were scraped clean.

I think I have one more hefty slice of chocolate butter in the freezer. Want to come over? I’ll make you coffee to go with it.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008


My mother thinks I’m weird because I bought gruyere cheese and love it. She claims it tastes like dirty socks. My daughter says it smells like cow poop. I think it smells strong and tastes marvelous. Sorry fam, I can’t help it that I’m more cultured than ya’ll.

My husband, Mr. Handsome, thinks I’m weird because I’ve worn these blue shoes to church. Actually, he was mortified. I think he thought I was going to hell for wearing them to church. However, the sermon was on hell, and I don't think I'll be going there, besides I'm pretty sure it doesn't exist, so I just told him to shut his yakking pie hole and be glad that he married a self-confident woman.

Yo-Yo Boy thinks I’m weird, and unreasonable, because I won’t let him wear his flashing sneakers that G-mommy just bought him to church on Sunday. My reason, that we don’t wear flashing shoes to church, didn’t calm him down at all. I’m glad he’s too young to point out my ironies.

Mr. Handsome thinks I’m weird because I’ll nurse my hulking two year old in public. Probably a lot of other people think I’m weird, too. But I don’t really care, though I have exercised some caution as of late, because he’s my baby, my seca leche (translation: milk-drier-upper), and it’s so stinkin’ much fun to nurse a talking kid.

A lot of people think I’m weird because I keep my loud, argumentative, active children at home with me, under the pretext of teaching them. I kind of think I’m weird about that, too...

The general population thinks I’m weird (I mean, they would, if they all had the privilege of knowing me) because I abhor TV and won’t allow it in my house.

I could go on and on. Maybe I will. In another post.


Rocks for sale! Eight Dollars! Rocks for sale!

Painter on the Roof

If I were a rich man. Yubba Dubba Dubba Dubba Dubba Dubba Dubba Dub.

Or something like that.


Bad news, folks. I’m a slow learner.

Yesterday afternoon I went out to mow again. I didn’t lock the door. (Don’t ask me what I was thinking.) After a bit, I realized The Baby Nickel was inside. Again. Up on the kitchen counter. Again. Loudly, calmly, responding to my call. Again. I huffed up on the porch, visions of mangled muffins flitting before my angrily squinting eyes, yanked open the screen door, and... But wait—it didn’t open. The Baby Nickel had locked it. Smart kid. Where’d he learn that? The other door was open, though. And he was just finishing up the four gummy bears I had set out for Sweetsies’s wake-up treat. He had only gotten two for his treat, so he was looking pretty pleased with himself.

Mowing and Muffins

Yesterday morning locked all the doors and went outside to mow. But first I dug thistles and hung laundry and then I mowed. The kids were riding bikes and playing some imaginary game. But after a bit I noticed The Baby Nickel wasn’t with them. Where was he? Inside. I must have forgotten to lock a door (or when Yo-Yo Boy came outside after playing his game, he forgot). Anyway, The Baby Nickel was inside, up on the kitchen counter. He had pulled the bread out of the bag, and the one piece was smashed flat in the middle. He must’ve leaned his weight on it, maybe when he was leaning forward to call out the window to me, kindly, boldly, informing me that “I ih’side, mom.” Also, he had removed the heavy lid from the cake plate and taken bites out of the tops of the last three lemon donut muffins.

Lemon Donut Muffins
Adapted from Orangette

Beat 1 ½ sticks butter. Add 3/4 c. plus 2 T. sugar and beat awhile more. Add two eggs and beat more. (Get the picture? There’s a lot of beating going on.)

In a separate bowl, mix 3 c. flour, 2 ½ t. baking powder, 1/4 t. baking soda, and 1 t. salt, scant.

In another bowl, mix 3/4 c. plus 1 T. milk and 2 T. of buttermilk or yogurt. Add the juice of ½ lemon and the zest of one lemon.

Alternating wet and dry, add the mixtures to the beaten butter. But this time, do not over-beat.

Bake in greased muffin tins at 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes. (I use mini muffin tins, so they take less time.) When cool enough to handle, brush all over each muffin with a mixture of 6 T. melted butter and the juice of ½ lemon, and then roll the muffin in powdered sugar (about 2 cups).

One recipe makes 24 mini muffins and 6 regular-sized muffins.

The original recipe called for ½ t. freshly ground nutmeg and no lemon. My next experiment is to increase the nutmeg and add a couple tablespoons of rum to the batter, as well as mix some nutmeg into the powdered sugar. I’ll keep you posted.

And since I really like to eat an entire muffin, tops included, with my coffee, I’ll do a better job of locking the door when I go out to mow.

Update: I got a call from a friend to whom I had given a little loaf of the nutmeg donut muffins. She called to thank me and to let me know that her husband had licked the plate clean. Literally. Just wanted you to know. They really are that good.


I’ll be honest with you. I’m doing a blog because I want to pretend that my life is more interesting than it really is. I haven’t adopted 38 kids and I don’t live on a ranch with thousands of cows. I’m not a gourmet cook and I don’t have any pressing need to communicate with family and friends. Nope. No such noble reasons. Mine is a mundane existence. Husband, house, kids, chores... That I’m needed isn’t enough, I guess. I want to be recognized. Putting my life down on paper, or in cyberspace, will make it all worthwhile, right? Now thousands will flock to read my words. They will be inspired, challenged, entertained, and moved.


So now I’ve put it out there. I’m weak and needy and shallow. I’m bored. I’m a barefoot, lactating mother who shouts orders at her kids. I yammer on the phone with my friends, trying to rise above the minutia of my day. This blog is just one more effort. We’ll see if it works. If it doesn’t, I’ll quit.

There’s gotta be another good reason to write this blog, since I’m pretty certain the above reason will fail. Perhaps, by dissecting the daily minutia and turning it into printable entertainment, the little pieces of my life will gain beauty and interest. And my life will become more inspiring, challenging, entertaining, and moving. For me, anyway.

I could write in a private journal, if that was all I was after. With this, however, there is a sense of mystery and boldness. Someone out there might find my life entertaining. So, this blog is for you, even though it’s really for me (this is turning into a vicious cycle). I’ll write to entertain you, dear reader, to force myself to notice my life more, to make my pathetic life feel a bit less pathetic (I’ll try not to lie and ham it up too much). And if nobody else reads it, I’m sure my mother will.