Archive | March, 2013

There are 500!

21 Mar
Photo: Real Simple

Photo: Real Simple

Just before I published the following post, I checked the stats on my site. There are 500 of you! Five hundred followers! Five hundred people who want to read my irregularly published ramblings. I am gob smacked. Thank you for your kind support and for giving me the opportunity to use “gob smacked.”

This post is dedicated to you, my faithful followers.

Bless Me Followers for I Have Sinned

Being a blogger seems to me to be kind of like being a Catholic. When a Catholic sins, she goes to confession, recites her sins, does her penance and rides her bike home feeling all shiny and new.

I did confession like a good little Catholic girl for quite a while. Every Saturday, I’d go to church, tell the priest the horrible things I’d done and go home feeling shiny and new. One Saturday, though, I didn’t really feel like I’d done anything really wrong. Hadn’t fought with my brother. Wasn’t snotty with my mom. Didn’t swear, talk back to my dad or even stick my tongue out at my sister.

“I have nothing to confess,” I told my mom.

“You have to have something to confess,” she replied.

“No, Mom. I don’t.”

She said something about no one being perfect and there must be something I’d done that I wasn’t proud of and I was going to confession whether I had a sin to confess or not. So, I went to confession. And I made something up. I made it believable, like I was jealous of my brother or I coveted by sister’s Barbie, though I really liked my Barbie best. The priest did his four-thousand-words-a-minute blather, gave me a couple of Hail Marys and told me to go forth and sin no more.

That was when I had my first ethical dilemma with the Catholic Church. How, I reasoned, could I sin no more when I had to make up sins to confess every Saturday? Wasn’t confessing my sins making me into more of a sinner than I would have been had I not been forced to confess sins? A year later, I learned that no matter how much I wanted it, I couldn’t become a priest. That was when it was all over between me and the Church.

But recently, I have become a sinner. I have sinned against my followers and, to make my soul whole again, I confess the following.

I have not responded to you.

The Blogma states that new followers should be acknowledged and thanked. Following being Freshly Pressed recently, I strove to respond to every new follower with heart-felt thanks. I was rapidly overwhelmed. (I just scourged myself for bragging about being Freshly Pressed.) So, I created a folder for Follow follow-up. I haven’t followed up.

I have deleted you.

As a recovering Catholic, I admit to mountains of guilt over this. There were just so many posts and comments—hundreds every day—and so little time coupled with so little energy. (I’m fasting right now for mentioning the Freshly Pressed thing again.) The first time I deleted, I started with a comment and I closed my eyes before hitting the button. Soon, though, it became easier. Then, it became cathartic; I deleted not just comments, but entire posts. Eventually, there was no more backlog and I heaved a guilt-ridden sigh of relief. Please note: I never deleted all of any one blogger’s posts. I have some sense of decency.

I have failed to pass on blogging awards.

I’m honored when a reader passes on The Versatile Blogger award, or the Inspiring Blogger award. I’d even be honored to receive the Makes Too Many Self-aggrandizing References Award. (Forgive me, more bragging. Just put on a hair shirt.) I haven’t passed them on; I’ve wallowed in my “I’m too busy”-ness.

I haven’t published regularly.

Oh, I’ve posted a new “my kids are funnier than your kids” story every Tuesday, but other than that? I’ve been kicking back, taking it easy, neglecting my bloggly duties.

It’s been more than forty years since my last confession. Regardless, the feeling following is the same. I’m all shiny and new, ready to get back on my blogging bike and ride.




Birds, Bees, Beer

19 Mar

images-6My daughter’s been learning the facts of life at school lately. Naturally, she’s had lots of questions, most of them about the workings of male-female relationships.

“Mom,” she asked me. “What happens when a man and a woman get married?”

Before I could answer, my son jumped in.

“When a man and a woman love each other very much,” he said, “they get married and then the man can’t have beer with his friends anymore.”

This is what it’s like

13 Mar

I often feel  people who know me don’t really understand what it’s like to have bipolar disorder. Sometimes I don’t even understand, but I’m starting to work that out.

Here is a post from another blogger with bipolar disorder that very accurately describes one aspect of living with bipolar disorder. I hope you’ll read it, especially if you are close to me or are close to someone who is bipolar.

More humor from my son that’s fit to print!

12 Mar

I’m paying more attention to my son, for a number of reasons, but one big one is to find humor nuggets from him that aren’t completely obscene. Here’s one:

My daughter loves to play board games. My husband loves to sit alone in front of his computer and play hearts. My son loves to play video games. I like board games in principal, but they bring out a competitive spirit in me that makes Lance Armstrong look like a pansy. I don’t like to sulk for three days after losing Monopoly, so I avoid board games.

One day, my daughter was looking for a board game partner. She asked me but I graciously declined. She asked her brother, who ungraciously declined. Indignant, she huffed, “Then, I’ll ask Daddy.” My son responded, “He’s playing with himself.”

Happy International Women’s Day

8 Mar

My gift to you this IWD are the following tweets, in the order they appeared in my feed. This is by way of amusing you (I hope), demonstrating my lack of dinosaurosity (I may be old, but I know a hashtag when I see one), and putting together a really quick post so I can go back to recovering from the chaos that is home improvement and writing about my miserable childhood (to be published some day, perhaps soon).


Around the world, women spend 200 hours a day cumulatively collecting water. #internationalwomensday


Wishing all women around the globe a happy #internationalwomensday.

I’ll leave you with the happy image of women, water jugs on their heads, tottering through the third world in their Jimmy Choos.

There’s no day like a snow day

5 Mar

snow_woman_352_352x470This morning, at 5:30, I was woken by the call I most dread, the one from my school district with the joyous news that my children will be home with me . . .all day . . .bored . . .and whining.

My daughter bounded up from the breakfast table, into her snow pants and out the door to make snowmen. Yes, they are still called snowmen; snow people just sounds so wrong.

We live one suburban back yard away from a huge barren depression in the landscape retention field where the neighborhood children sled. My daughter started her part of the snowman in our back yard; her friend started the other part in her backyard. The intent was to meet in the field for assembly.

“How’s your snow man?” I asked my daughter on her return.

“Oh, by the time I got to the field, my part was so heavy we couldn’t lift it, so we just left the parts next to each other and made snow boobs.”

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