Now what?

So I'm told there are something like ten million blogs started every second. Or every minute. Or maybe it was ten million dogs. I don't think I got that one right. I'm supposed to join those masses with my own blog and while I confess this is one act of self-indulgence I have been wanting to participate in, I haven't made the time. And after hearing that statistic (regardless of its accuracy, it really was some huge number) I am at a loss as to what I could possibly say that would interest anyone other than my mom, brother, husband and best friends. If even them. The few blogs I do read I don't visit with any regularity and the ones that interest me the most are liberal diatribes that just exhaust and depress me (with the exception of my BFF, Muriel Puce, who writes liberal diatribes but also about his cats). So now I'm trying to come up with something to write about. Here are some subjects I'm considering:

Rants against the asshats who seem to be multiplying at an alarming rate; these could be aimed, for instance, at the moron with the gigantic pick-up taking up two spaces in the parking lot. The fact that you think your Confederate flag-bearing Ford Attempt to Overcome Some Sort of Inadequacy is entitled to additional space on this earth tells me an awful lot about you.
Rants against the idiocy of this administration and their obsessive need to squander my taxes in hundreds of ways so that my two-year old son is already in debt to the tune of $29,681.29 And so are you. About how they've systematically raped social programs (and they're not finished) with astoundingly ridiculous rationale, dropped our veterans with the speed of a socialite picking up a dog turd on her carpet and think global warming will work out fine if we all just change our lightbulbs.

Things I am currently thinking; why do I read James Patterson novels when I hate them and I am convinced they make me stupid? I read them really fast, as if I'm trying to get some kind of taste out of them. Like the way you might eat low fat cookies, one right after the other as if they could all add up to the taste of an actual real cookie. Luckily I've taken myself off of JP novels and am now reading Bel Canto by Ann Patchett, a lovely novel written by a real writer. I will follow that by something by Dickens as I am ashamed to say I've never read him. I chose The Scarlet Letter over Great Expectations in high school and regretted it immediately. I would have switched but that bitch Michelle Steele already had it and wouldn't budge. Can't really blame her for that.

I could write about my son like other people who go on and on and on about their kids. Little Aiden said Poo today and isn't he cute and brilliant? Isn't Emily a genius because she crawled three feet. Blah, blah, blah. It's like hearing about someone else's root canal.But then my son is a breathtaking miracle with a dimple who makes me glad to be alive every single second of every single day. His little sweet-corn toes enthrall me and when he said, Mama, last week I cried. So I really can't blame those schmucks who love their kids. I'm a schmuck, too, I totally drank the kid Koolaid.

Tell me I'm wrong:




His name is Jason Drew.











I'm not sure what this will evolve into but I am perfectly satisfied that my first blog entry is about what I should write about in my first blog entry. So I think I will just call it a day and finish some work. It's been fun.