Today I got the sweetest parking spot in the history of ever at the grocery store. (No, I did not park in the handicapped parking. How rude of you to ask! Bad hair is not considered a mobility impairment.)
It was the uber-dy bestest parking spot in all the land and there we were, me, Vinny and the munchkins. I didn’t want to get out of the car. In fact, with a spot like that, I pretty much decided to make the Grocery Mart parking lot my home.
You may be asking yourself, “Why do I care that you got the best ever-living should-be-reserved-for-the-mobility-impaired parking space EVER?”
I’m asking myself the same thing, “Why do these people care about my parking spot? Or how many blankets it takes to suffocate Magoo? My kids’ poop? My post partum drama? What my husband and I talk about when it’s WAY too late at night? How we got the train? My fish?”
Blogs are weird.
Why do I care that Shannon needs to get out more? That Blackbird‘s kid just got his braces off? That Beth has a mom you wish you lived next door to? Or that Mel had the best Christmas Card photo ever?
Is it ridiculous that I really want to know how Angela or Jessica met their husbands? If Regina really looks bad in hats? How old Katy actually is? What kind of scary MacDonald’s Lou attends? (can you say “attends” when you’re talking about a fast food joint?)
And yet, I can’t stop. Heck, they wouldn’t post it if they didn’t want me to read it, right?
Blogging keeps me connected with friends old and friends new. It lets me think I can write, giving me confidence to carry on with other projects. It gives me a void to send my thoughts out into and sometimes I get a response that affirms me or encourages me to do a 360.
It’s a show-and-tell, a therapy, a vice, an art-form, a documentary, a support group and a venting session all rolled into one.
Blog on, my friends.