Category Archives: Everyday Life

Unknown's avatar

The Dog Ate my Homework

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“Let’s see everybody’s homework today.”

Uh oh… I did something. Something that I had never done before. “What could it possibly be?” you’re wondering. Snake handling? Speaking in tongues? Hamster juggling?

Well, it’s really more like something I didn’t do. My homework.

I DID NOT DO MY PHOTOGRAPHY HOMEWORK.

There. I said it.

Maybe this photography thing is going to me more difficult than I thought. The assignment was really difficult and my pictures sucked. What was the assignment? I had to take pictures of four different types of motion. It’s harder than it sounds.

No way was I going to share my suckiest-suck-that-ever-sucked pictures so they could be used as examples of ‘what not to do’.

When it was time for show and tell, my stomach twisted into knots and my heart pounded. Confession time. Once I laid my soul bare, the instructor moved on like it was no big deal. Huh. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal. I paid for the class so why would she really care if some bored suburban housewife wanted to waste $130?

Why do I get myself so worked up? It’s a curse.

Then, the instructor turned to Mr. Picture-Perfect and said, “I’m sure you want to show us your pictures first.”

Background on Mr. PP: For our first class he shows up with a kick-ass camera, a camera backpack, multiple lenses, a tripod, etc. Either he’s an overachieving geek (like me – I was ALWAYS the kid that always showed up with all of my binders, books, pencils, erasers, rulers and protractor on the first day of school) or in the wrong class. This class is called Fundamentals of Photography which, I guess,  is better than Picture-taking for Idiots.  It’s designed for those that need help turning their cameras on. The first class is mainly devoted to labeling all of the buttons on your camera, including the ON/OFF button.

As the class progresses, I realize that he knows way more than he should for a Picture-taking for Idiots student. I’m starting to get suspicious. Then, the instructor gives us our homework assignment and she stresses that she does NOT want us to edit our pictures. We should “edit” our pictures as we are taking them. Basically editing = cheating. That seems fair.

Then, Mr. PP says, “I only take my pictures in RAW.”

Musings flying through my head at the speed of thought: Did I hear him correctly? He only takes in pictures in the nude? Why is he sharing that? It shouldn’t really have an impact on the assignment. Oh, wait. She does want three pictures taken outside – I guess taking his pictures in the RAW could be a stumbling block for this part of the assignment unless he has forgiving neighbors.

Observing the Say What? looks on our faces, the instructor proceeds to explain that RAW is a format setting on our cameras. Only professionals use this setting because when you take pictures in this format, each picture needs to be edited separately and you need to know what you’re doing. Okay, that’s cool. Hey, wait a doggone minute. What is this guy doing in our class and taking up precious class time on non-beginner stuff? Now I’m just irritated. At the least the instructor shut him down and told him that he would have to slum it with the rest of us and let the camera process his pictures. Take that Teacher’s Pet!

Now, back to the original story:  He blushed and shyly said, “Sure. I can go first.”

Whatever.

Okay, his pictures were awesome. Yes, he’s a good photographer. My point is why is he in our novice class? To make us feel even worse about our camera abilities? He should be in a couple of classes ahead of this one. He’s the fun-sucker. I know, I know. I need to just grow up, put my big girl panties on and act like I’m happy we have two instructors instead of one. More bang for the buck, so-to-speak. Yay!

Once the show and tell of the movement pictures was completed, our third lesson began. Aperture was the topic. We were going over the aperture setting on our cameras and I had trouble locating mine. She looked at my camera and found it for me. Then, I’m like “What’s this number four over here to the right? It doesn’t seem to change.” I offered her my camera, she studiously looked at it and then shrugged her shoulders. Without asking, she shared my camera with Mr. PP and he looked perplexed. Then, lightbulb! They conferred in secret and clearly uncovered the mystery. I looked at them searchingly and  they both blurted, “You don’t need to know that.” What? It’s my F@%$ing camera! Will you have to kill me if you tell me? Is the information over my head? Why does Mr. PP get a say in what I need to know?

Fine. Whatever. Uncharacteristically, I just let it go. It’s in the manual somewhere and I will find it.

The instructor may have been subliminally trying to convey to me that I needed to go back to using my awesome Kodak Disc Camera that I got in high school (and still own) because I will never be able to use a real camera. But, I’m going to ignore it.

Don’t worry. The fourth (and final) class is next week and I’m going to do my best to take some ass-kicking pictures. I will update my Flickr account with them so you can check out my awesomeness.

Take that, Mr. PP!

Unknown's avatar

No More Pretending

by

I’m wallowing. I’m sad and I’m tired of pretending like I’m okay. Why do we have to pretend? I’m sick of it.

My firstborn, my baby is graduating high school this May (in about 6 weeks) and I feel like I’m drowning.

Oh, okay. I see how it is.  I’ve lost some of you already. I can tell by the sighing. Well, good riddance. I didn’t need you anyway.

For those of you that have chosen to stay, I’m tired of hearing:

“This is a part of life.”

You mean like dying and taxes?

“We all go through it.”

We all went through puberty and I don’t remember that life experience being all that great.”

“You will be fine once she leaves.”

Huh?

“It’s what you’ve been training her for her whole life.”

What? I don’t get this one. You train for a marathon, not life.

“You’ve done a great job with her, she will be fine.”

Again, what? She’s not a dog I’ve trained to win ‘Best in Show’.

I worked full-time outside the home until 2005, so I know the twisted torment of dropping off your kids to be cared for by others. That internal struggle of wanting a bigger life for myself while also wanting to do the best for my kids was a battle I fought every day. I had finally come to peace with it until Rachel entered first grade. Nothing prepared me for her first day of school.

She was so cute with her backpack, her bob haircut with bangs and her big, trusting blue eyes. The elementary stood there glaring at me – it was the very same elementary I had attended (better memories was my hope for her). We stormed through those doors with purpose looking for Mrs. Baker’s class. After a few minutes, we found it.  A little anxious for Rachel, I began to fawn over her by messing with her backpack and asking her if she was okay. Then, we found her classroom. Without pause, she looked at me and said, “Mommy, here is my class.”

And, off she went. She marched into that classroom and never looked back. She left me dangling in that hallway with my reassuring mommy wave and smile. It was wasted because she never turned around. No hugs, no kisses, no formal good-byes. She was ready and I was not.

Trying not to look devastated (I had braced myself for clinging and some drama), I gave a nod to the other parents hanging around Mrs. Baker’s door. This nod attempted to convey these thoughts:

“I meant for her to do that.”

“My parenting is clearly without equal.”

“Just look at her, she is so ready for school.”

“She will leave your kid in a dust cloud.”

I sobbed for the entire commute to my office. However, I eventually recovered and moved on because, well, I had to. She adjusted beautifully and there was really nothing I could do about it.

It seems we did a helluva job with this one because, in addition to being a mature and loving young lady, she is graduating with a 3.6 GPA and a sizeable scholarship from the college of her dreams.

Despite myself and because of my husband, we actually have raised three kids that like being near each other and have fun together. All five us eat dinner together at the table whenever humanly possible and it’s wonderful and very Cleaverish. Ray has the goofiest sense of humor, tells stories that are only funny to her and eats everything I cook no matter what. Like the front tooth that disappears from a child’s smile, she will leave big gap at the table. We don’t know how to be a family of four.

Chicago in August will be tough. When we drop her off at her at her freshman dorm, she will very likely say, ” Well, here’s my room” and confidently walk into that new life without looking back.

And, I will sob all the way home.

Unknown's avatar

Pictures in My Mind

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Do you like? Thanks! (pretending you said, “Yes!”). It’s part of my assignment for my photography class.

In my search for a hobby that will distract me from my cares and woes of the day, I’m now trying on photography (after cooking and oil painting). I’ve had two lessons so far and I’ve learned only one thing. Photography is complicated.

It’s definitely going to take some serious practice. Our next assignment involves motion – my pictures need to show motion. These next pictures will be interesting!

I’ve posted a link to my Flikr account on the home page of my blog (top, right) if you want to check out my progress as a photographer.

Unknown's avatar

A Spoonful of Nothin’

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I’m insane and I’ll be the first to admit it. To borrow an exclamation from Cam of Modern Family, “I can’t turn it off. It’s who I am!”

It will definitely be the inscription on my headstone. I’m cool with that.

To put a more accurate label on that, I’m a neurotic control freak. I’m not of the highest order, but I’m damn close. I’ve actually met a few freakier than moi. Hanging out with those nutjobs is really nice because they make me look easygoing and carefree.

Anyhoo, this installment of “What’s Your Crazy?” involves my kitchen. I am one with my cooking space. I know everything that is supposed to be in that space and exactly where to find it. Of course, items don’t always get returned to their proper spaces when others clean the kitchen.

My husband does like to screw with me in that he puts the drinking glasses and coffee mugs back willy nilly on purpose. It’s his little rebellion against law and order. What he doesn’t realize is that it’s really cruel. I could just let the cabinets be. I should just walk away. But. . . . . . .the obsession over the disarray and anarchy going on in my cabinets would eventually make me catatonic. And, what would that solve?

Being a master at regimen and structure is a blessing and a curse. I know he secretly likes having an orderly house, a good credit rating and his underwear folded just as requested (I do this because I love him – clearly, it does not go both ways).

Back to the kitchen – something very, very strange is going on in this room.

Our spoons are disappearing. Not just any spoons, our teaspoons. I’m seriously losing sleep over it. I think about the missing spoons as I go to sleep and as I wake.

The Flatware Tally - See anything strange???

You will notice the following:

Dinner Forks: All accounted for plus 1 (did I steal someone else’s?)

Salad Forks: Missing 2

Dinner Spoons (aka big spoons): Missing 2

TEASPOONS – missing 11

Knives: All accounted for.

[And, YES. I did take inventory today (just for this post) when my family was gone and couldn’t watch me! So what!??!?!?!]

I brought this heinous situation to my family’s attention this weekend and what response did I get?

The Hubs:

“What’s the big deal?” 

“What do you mean, ‘What’s the big deal?’ Where the freak are all of the spoons – the small ones? You don’t just misplace spoons. Your keys? Sure. Your favorite pen? Sure. Your shoes? Maybe. Your car? Temporarily in a parking lot maybe. Your children? No. Your spoons? NO.”

 “We never had that many spoons to the begin with.”

Now, he’s in denial (in the beginning, we had 12 big spoons and 12 little spoons). He just wants me to shut up about it and talk about something else (which, of course, I can’t because I’m obsessing at the moment).  LISTEN UP, PEOPLE! In the span of about 2 weeks, we’ve misplaced 16 spoons! Spoons that we’ve had for yeeaaarrs. Isn’t he the least bit curious? Doesn’t it make you wonder? Can’t he indulge me a bit? No wonder he doesn’t like mystery shows. He just doesn’t care. Cest la vie. Que sera sera. (If I ever go missing, I’m hoping that some of you will notice that I’m gone and come looking for me because I don’t think the hubs will. Cest. La. Vie.)

The Madster (my 15 yo):

“Mommy, (as I’m going to the computer to order more spoons) can’t you wait to see if they turn up? Why are you acting crazy? They’re just spoons.”

Huh? Turn up? Sixteen missing spoons are just going to turn up. Like. . . . . .in the car? In the office? In the freezer (we have found keys there before)? In the pantry? In your underwear drawer? In my closet? In your daddy’s gym bag (ewww, I’d have to buy new ones anyway)? In the couch cushions? Wait. I have found spoons there before (the hubs eats ice cream and somehow the spoon lands in the cushions without him noticing. Don’t ask me.)

Where? Where would they turn up? Seriously. I want to know. BTW, in answer to the question floating in your head, I have checked under all of the couch cushions.

Spoons don’t travel like keys or pens or phones or books, etc. Spoons leave the silverware drawer to be placed on the table when you are dining, get transported back to the kitchen to enter the dishwasher, and then leave the dishwasher to rest in peace in the silverware drawer until they are needed again at the table!!!!

Then, during my rant, Madster goes upstairs to her room just to placate me and get me to shut up. Then, she sheepishly comes downstairs with 3 of the 16 missing spoons (all big ones). [So, I’m not quite as loony as she pretends I am. HA!] She is a teenager after all. God knows what else is in there. I don’t look anymore.

So, the count is now 13 missing spoons instead of 16. Ok, that’s better. NOT!

Is there a black hole above our house? Are the spoons with the missing “other” sock that mysteriously disappears in the dryer? Maybe. IF I acually put my spoons in the dryer.

Since no one else cares but me, I guess I’ll have to shake this one off, let it go unsolved (I may need some Xanax to get me there).

I’m a little reluctant to order more – what will happen to them?

Unknown's avatar

Great Expectations

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Am I an indulgent parent? I really don’t think so, but I rarely say, “no” to a reasonable request. It sounds like a contradiction, doesn’t it?

We have worked  diligently on managing expectations – the kids have figured out what will and won’t fly. It’s not perfect though. The system still breaks down. They are children and they have an obligation to push back.

But, it breaks down more frequently with one of my children in particular. She talks like she gets it, but then……..Bam!

She understands: 

“Yes, you can have a stuffed giraffe. No, you cannot have a real giraffe.”

“Yes, you can have a pair of Converse in every color. If you want them, you buy them or ask for them as birthday/Christmas gifts.”

This and other similar examples are where we have successfully managed expectations.

Where has it broken down? She thinks I’m her personal chauffeur just sitting around awaiting her next instructions. (I have absolutely nothing else to do.)

In response to me saying, “no” to taking her to the mall at the last minute: “When you have kids, that’s your job.”

In response to me being agitated with her for not helping me find a lacrosse carpool (practice every day M-F during dinner):  “Why did you even have kids?”

After grabbing my head to stop it from spinning and separating from my body and after popping my eyes back into my skull, I mull over these statements of hers and determine that her sentiment can be summed up as such:

“In having kids, you are explicitly entering into a binding contract which means you will do the bidding of said kids and give up any chance of having a life of your own until such time said kids can manage on their own which could be until they’re in their late 20s.”

Holy crap! Why did I have kids? Now, I’m not sure. Maybe I was young and stupid (I clearly did not read the fine print). Damn you, biological clock and propagation of the species!

Regardless of the reason, we have them and we can’t send them back.

Where did I go wrong with this one? I’m befuddled. Maybe I should have encouraged her to join the Girls Scouts (see prior post) – she could use a healthy dose of feminism.

Then, I had a brainstorm when I was talking with one of my friends. When I’m at the age where I can’t tell the difference between the TV and microwave, who am I going to call for help? Yep, you’ve got it!

“Honey, I need you to come over and pick me up RIGHT NOW and take me to my hair appointment.”

“Can you drop what you’re doing right this second and take me to the grocery?’

“I need you cancel your schedule for today and take me to my bridge luncheon and then take me to the doctor so he can evaluate that mysterious rash I’ve been telling you about.”

“Will you come over and do my laundry? I need clean underwear TODAY.”

“I’m really hungry. Can you drive over and make me a sandwich?”

“I’m getting bedsores. You need to come over STAT and roll me over.”

“I can’t find my teeth and it’s your fault! You brushed them last.”

. . . . . . . .Oh, you’re still here. I’m sorry, I was daydreaming (maybe drifting off is a better phrase?).

Anyway, in the meantime, I suppose Mike and I have to get a little more creative in our lessons on “Reasonable Expectations”.

Onward and upward…

Unknown's avatar

Those Five Little Words

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Do you know what can make me go from absolutely fine to insanely crazed faster than you can blink?

“You just need to relax.”

It doesn’t matter who says it either – my husband, my dad, my friends, my kids, etc. If you’re in the mood for a fight, then just go ahead…….

Who said it this time? Let me backtrack a bit.

My sweet husband bought me a coupon from Living Social for a 3-hour art class. You see, I had a painting that’s been half done for about a year and it’s been haunting me (and others, apparently). Since I’m not a trained artist (I’ve created a total of 2.5 paintings in my entire life), I got stuck and couldn’t move forward. Simple as that.

I finally decided to go to this instructor to see if I could be helped (wait, I know I can’t be helped, but maybe my painting can). How did it go? Just let me say that I’d rather have hot pokers stuck in my eyes than go back to that class.

Let me give you some samples:

“Um, are you happy with your sky?” {He was subliminally trying to get me to say, “No, I’m not.”}

Yes, I LOVE my sky.

“You know, I offer classes on just mixing paints and brush techniques.”

Really? Well you can kiss my ass. It’s not rocket science and I think my mixing is just fine.

“Don’t be so rough with the brush. You want long smooth strokes.”

Again, kiss my ass.

“You just need to relax. Painting should be fun.”

Aaaarrrghhhhhh! Did you just say, “Relax?”  You want me to RELAX? Then quit sitting across from me staring at me haphazardly mixing my paints and roughly smacking the canvas with my paint brush!!!!

{Shit, has it really only been 45 minutes?}

“I absolutely don’t let anyone paint flowers for their first painting.”

Huh? I didn’t realize this was a dictatorship.

“You need to add more black.”

Got it.

“You need to add more black.”

I heard you the first time.

Do you really like oils?

Yes, I like how you can smoosh (It’s a painting term. Look it up.) the colors together. {Clearly oils are wrong and acrylics are right.}

Meanwhile, in between his blurts stated above, he shows us another one of his paintings (ooh, aah), visits the three other painters-in-training and murmurs helpful hints. Then, one of these murmurs catches my attention.

Artiste: “Would you like a glass of wine? There’s only enough for one glass.”

Huh? What about the one that needs to relax?

Mrs. Flirty (sitting behind me): “Sure.”

Then, I hear, “How did you end up in the Midwest?”

It’s a legitimate question. I mean how could a bunch of unrefined, dumb hicks ever appreciate his sheer acrylic brilliance? They don’t even offer Art Appreciation class in Indiana anymore because we all flunked it. There is an ugly rumor circulating that all the cool stuff hits the coasts first and then eventually trickles inward to us poor Midwesterners. I personally don’t think that’s true. I just heard a new band on the radio – Hootie & the Blowfish. Ever heard of them? They. Are. Awesome!

It continued:

Mrs. Flirty:  “You should be in New York or an artist colony somewhere.”

Artiste:  “Blame it on the wife (wives can be such bitches!). She wanted to live in the Midwest so we moved here.

Wow. Wow. Wow. When is this class going to end?

When I finally got home, I was so wound up that Mike was confused (because I was supposed to be relaxing) and then eventually amused by my irritation.

The only true bright spot during the entire ordeal occurred at the end of class. The sweet 14-year-old student sitting next to me looked at my painting and said, “Wow, your painting is way cooler than the actual picture.” Take that, Artiste!

Unknown's avatar

Who Wants to Get Married by Elvis?

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Maddie: “Mommy, you know how you always say that you want us to elope and then come home for a party (reception)?”

Me (uh oh): “Uh, yeah.”

Maddie: “Well, somehow the topic of  weddings came up and I told Mrs. Friend’s Mom about what you said. She was really shocked and really kind of surprised that you would say anything like that. She just couldn’t believe it.”

[Oh, greeeaaaat. Mrs. Friend’s Mom, who is really a very nice person, now thinks I’m crazy, cruel and/or un-American. Sometimes I can relate to Christine in the New Adventures of Old Christine especially when she is trying to fit in with the moms in her kid’s school.]

Me: “Really? Hmmm… “You know I’m kidding when I say things like that, right?”

Maddie: “It doesn’t sound like you’re kidding.”

Am I kidding? Well, kind of. When did my kids actually start listening to me anyway?

Sometimes I forget Maddie is very black and white, very literal (the nuances of what is being said can get lost in translation). The other two usually roll their eyes and ignore what I say when it sounds silly or unreasonable. Not that girl.

And, Maddie also stores everything I say in her little “shit my mom says” brain vault for use against me later. She never regurgitates the “good” stuff for the masses (I have spouted some valuable words of wisdom, haven’t I?).

Back to the nuptials, don’t you think the craze of these uber-expensive weddings is insane? “That’s not real life, you know that, girls. Right?” ” Daddy and I didn’t have a wedding like that and we’re still happily married.”  Blah, blah…

Girls: Yes, Mommy dear.”

One summer, my hairdresser (God, how old am I? I meant to say, “salon technician“) was in 5 or 6 weddings and well on her way to 27 dresses. I kid you not! Well, two years later, over half of these marriages are over with a capital O and a capital VER. And, some of these weddings were over-the-top even by my Technician’s standards (not just mine). All I kept thinking was, “Those poor parents. If that were my daughter, I’d kill her!”

Yeah, I know. That’s not a very compassionate attitude toward my lovies so I won’t share that with my kiddos (just you guys). I don’t think they read my blog.

My methods may be unorthodox (jokingly encouraging elopement), but I’m trying to keep my kids grounded in the real world. Raising kids in our community along with the crazy media images makes the goal of raising grounded children difficult.

Speaking of weddings, I would like to report that the hubs and I will be celebrating two milestones this February:  the 30th anniversary of our first date and our 21st wedding anniversary! (Yeah, I know, 9 years of dating. It was a process, but I finally talked him into it). 🙂

Happy Anniversary, Baby!

Unknown's avatar

Infested

by

thud-scurry-scurry-pitter-patter

What was that noise?

scurry-shuffle-scurry-shuffle-thud

Was that the dog? Looking at him (see pic), I determine that it’s not the dog.

Is it my keyboard? After abruptly silencing the keyboard, I hear the noise. It’s not the keyboard.

Oh. My. God. You may be seeing us on a future episode of Infested! on Animal Planet.

It sounds like a huge critter – chipmunk? squirrel? possum? raccoon? Believe it or not, we’ve had run-ins with all afore-mentioned critters with the exception of the squirrel (yes, we have squirrels, but none have been so bold as to enter our house).

Possums:

In our previous house, we had a h-u-g-e one (it was the size of a beagle) die under our deck a week before we put the house on the market. Didn’t we notice that our nightly visitor hadn’t been seen in a couple of days? Sure, but we didn’t realize that he had met his maker under our deck until the stench of rotting flesh permeated our house. Needless to say, the hubs and his dad had to tear up the deck to remove the dead possum. We did get the house fumigated, the deck repaired and the house sold within a week of the possum’s demise.

In our new house, we had baby possums dropping from our ceiling in the basement. That was fun. Our first home improvement project? Replacing the drop tile ceiling with a drywall one.

Raccoons:  In our very first house, we had a detached garage and there was a very large raccoon living up in the rafters. Eeeeek! It didn’t stay long, thank goodness.

Chipmunks:  Check out the story here.  It’s worth the read – it’s one of our family favorites.

Okay, so back to the present. What did I do this morning? I did what every normal woman does in these situations – I bugged my husband at work with a problem that he couldn’t possibly do anything about and then got frustrated when he didn’t get on the crazy train with me. I needed a panic partner, not a calm fix-it guy.

[Duh! I knew that I should be calling a professional critter guy instead of you. Don’t you know me by now?]

Why do I do that? I do it so I’m not panicking alone, but then it always backfires on me. Because, of course, the hubs trying to be calm, sensible, and matter-of-fact added fuel to fire by saying, “Well, it probably means ripping out drywall and the ceiling.” 

Great. I’m now on the crazy train alone and shivering with visions of possums living and laughing in the space between our first and second floors.

I only wanted some validation that my gut was right in thinking that I should call our bug guy (yeah, we have a bug guy) for a critter guy recommendation.

Always go with your gut. Call the bug guy first.

By the way, I got a recommendation from the bug guy for a critter guy.  I called and got his voicemail – he sounds like what you think a critter guy would sound like (think “good ole boy” that’s seen a lot in his day). I hope he calls me back………..

Unknown's avatar

Pour the Whine!

by

***Cough, cough*** Whining Alert –  I’ve been sick with something or other since mid-November and I’m really sick and tired of it. I’m now recovering from my third round of illness which turned out to be bronchitis/sinusitis. My morning wake-up cough sounds like an old man who’s smoked for 50 years – gross! A 46-year-old woman shouldn’t sound like that.

I’m on my third round of antibiotics – wish me luck.

Anyhoo, the mokus is why I haven’t posted anything since mid-December. I’m barely getting through the day doing the stuff I have to do (shower, work, laundry, grocery shop, cook, drive kids around, etc.). I’ve been going to bed at 8:30 – 9:00 pm every night with codeine cough syrup as a nightcap. Not very exciting.

Since I’ve been woefully neglectful of my writing duties, I thought I would alert you to a new blog. A friend of my started one about the joy of home ownership and the art of rennovation. You should check it out – Beez Houz.

(BTW, she also has another blog – Writerly.)

Happy Reading!

Unknown's avatar

Come, Follow Me

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What’s been rolling around in my brain recently? An article I read in the New York Times. The title of the article is “Confessions of a Tweeter”. With a title like that, I couldn’t pass it up. If you tweet or blog, I recommend reading it.

I’m not a prolific tweeter as most of my followers know. I’m more of a voyeur because it’s hard to be interesting all of the time. When I first opened my Twitter account, I tried it and just couldn’t manage being quippy and funny even 5 times a day (unlike the 20-30 times a day like Mr. Carlat). I think too much and mull things over too long.

What kind of pressure would feel if you had 25,000 followers? I would feel a huge burden to be entertaining all of the time and could see how that could turn into an addiction.

As I was reading the article, I was thinking about my blog. When I first started it, I tried to blog every day or every other day. It was exhilarating when someone would visit my blog and better yet, leave a comment! “Wow, someone wants to know what I have to say!”

Validation and adulation from strangers! It’s like a drug. I was checking my site stats every day and thinking about my blog all of the time. “What should I write about today?” “Should it be funny or serious, tame or controversial?”

It had begun to consume me. It wasn’t earning me any income, making me any healthier or contributing to my family’s well-being in any way. I actually did have a life, a job, a family. . . the people in my life still needed me to do the things that made their worlds go around. This tug between my new obsession and my life was causing my blog to become a burden, another item on my To Do list.

That’s not what I wanted because I really enjoy blogging. So, now I blog when something strikes me. Sometimes two or three weeks can go by before I feel driven to write. It’s hard to admit, but I can’t be fabulous and compelling all of time!

I’ve struck a balance between my blog and the rest of my life so I’m not ready to give it up cold turkey like the author of the article. I know intermittent posting is not a WordPress recommended way of garnering subscribers, but I’m okay with that. I’m not sure I could I handle 25,000 subscribers!

Has social media hijacked your time? What did you think of the article?