Not much, really. It just sounded like a catchy title.
Sometimes blog posts come easy—words just flow from my fingertips like honey flowing from a plastic bear’s head. Which begs a question: why is honey sold in a teddy-bear-shaped bottle? I mean, I get the whole “Pooh” connotation, but honey comes from bees, right? Honey is made in a hive, right? So wouldn’t it make more sense to shape the bottle accordingly? Someone needs to write to the honey-making people to complain.
Anyway, sometimes words come easy. Other times, they don’t. This is one of those days. It doesn’t help that for the past thirty-six hours, I’ve done next to nothing. So little, in fact, that it didn’t make much sense to blog today at all.
Like, what was I supposed to write about?
Let’s see… I cleaned my toilets. That should make for interesting conversation. Except no one wants to hear about bowls that looked worse than a truck-stop bathroom because of boys who can never seem to hit the mark. What is it with boys? For that matter, what is it with men? And truck stops? Gross.
How about…I made meatballs. Twice. Because my kids had them one night, complained that I didn’t make enough, and so I made them again the next night. That’s riveting.
Or there’s this: I’ve worn the same pair of sweatpants two days in a row, because I went absolutely nowhere the first day and only to left pick up the kids from school the second. With that kind of limited visibility amongst the human population, why waste laundry detergent? Why ruin a perfectly nice pair of jeans? For that matter, why wear make-up? Take a shower? Get off the sofa for anything more than a handful of pretzels? Glad you share my logic.
And then I could tell you…my microwave broke. I mean, really. I made a bag of popcorn one night—didn’t even burn it or start a fire or anything—then ate it while watching television, Then I went to bed. Then the next morning I woke up and…nothing. Zilch. Nada. The light is burned out and the numbers don’t work. The interior is cold and completely, utterly dead. Technology. Whose idea was it, anyway? I realize it makes life easier, but sometimes I think we’d all be better off if we still had to cook with a mortar and pestle and an outdoor fire. It would make microwave popcorn a pain the butt to prepare, but you get my point.
Or we could talk about…Lost. Okay, this part gets kinda interesting, in my opinion. Why didn’t anyone tell me how good this series is? I mean, I realize it won a bunch of awards and was consistently critically acclaimed and it used to grace the covers of all the national magazines, but…Why didn’t anyone tell me? Y’all, I’m hooked. I’m sunk. I’m sorta creeped out by the strange guy who appeared in tonight’s episode that is currently stalking the pregnant girl. Who is this guy? Where did he come from? Why did the census-taking guy think his name was Lance when it was actually Ethan? I realize the episode I’m referring to is eight years old and maybe none of you guys even know what I’m talking about. But for me, it’s like they’re new. Like they just happened. Like all the people on this island are real. And I just want to know what happens with Jack and Kate. I want to know, now.
Sigh. What else? Hmmm hmmm hmmm…
Oh. Oh! Apparently some doctor pulled a feather out of a little girl’s neck the other day. A feather. A feather that had been stuck there for months, because it appears that somehow she swallowed it while lying on her mother’s bed pillow, and it decided to work its way back out through her skin. And the doctor’s told the parents, “Be careful what you let her ingest.” I’d say. Who knew you could swallow something one day, and have it come out through your skin a few months later? It makes me wonder about that marble my daughter swallowed when she was two. Or the erasers I swallowed when I was six. Y’all, if a tiny ball of decades-old pink rubber comes out of my neck next week, I’m gonna be so ticked.
And that’s about it. See, not much to blog about. And all that talk about honey got me in the mood to watch “Winnie the Pooh.” So I think I’ll grab my daughter, curl up with her on the sofa wearing my stinky, old sweatpants, and watch it.
And then blog about it next time. Lucky you.
Have a great weekend!