About writing. Or not writing.

Usually Uriah and I spend our evenings discussing the intricacies of his job and I'm fine with that because, you know, he brings home the paycheck and all; I just cash it and spend it.  I'm a trophy wife like that. I'm happy to be supportive and pass judgement and tell him how to do his job because I don't actually have to do his job (although I could.  How hard can it be to cook for a bunch of people?  Actually, don't answer that.  We got in a huge argument over that statement one night.  I guess it's harder than I give him credit for. Allegedly.).

Last night, however, we talked about my job.  Or lack there of.  Or dreams of.  Or whatever.  I don't really have a job.  Raising kids is a job, yes, I know.  But I don't get a paycheck or my 15 minute break.  I don't accumulate vacation time and I sure as shit can't take any sick days. On the plus side...1:30pm and I'm still in my jammies. Without a bra. I guess that's what one would call a fringe benefit. Anyway, I told him that once again I felt unfunny, that life has dealt some nasty blows lately and I can't seem to find the humor in my days, even though I know it's there. I felt that nothing I had to say had merit; that when I sat down to write, there was a big, fat blank screen staring at me.  If it had a voice, it would be British and it would probably heckle me.  Also, it would look like my sister-in-law's cat while it heckled me because I think that cat does, in fact, hate me. It probably doesn't help that I whisper to him every time I see him that he'd make a great pair of fluffy slippers.

But back to last night...I told Uriah that my kids are annoying.  Abby is lazy and Finn can't clean up his own messes without a major meltdown.  I hate it when he takes all of the cushions off of the couch and jumps on them, regardless of how many times I tell him not to.  I don't really care about the cushions, we need a new sofa, anyway, but it's wrong to send the message that jumping on furniture - no matter how crappy - is okay.  So I tell him to put the cushions back up and then he cries and flails his arms and bemoans how nobody likes him. When I suggest things for either of them to do, I get eye rolls and angry huffs of air, and "Seriously? Why is your cure for boredom cleaning?" and "But I don't want to do that!"  You can guess which kid says what, but that's actually a trick question because their responses are interchangeable .  And really, who wants to read about someone's annoying kids?  I mean...I like to read about people's annoying kids because it makes me feel less alone, but maybe I'm the minority on that one. And for the record, my kids aren't always annoying.  Sometimes they're funny and delightful and precious. And that time is bedtime. Just kidding.  But not really.

So I sit down to write and...I don't write. I do anything but write. Like right now, I feel like sweeping and dusting the stairs and the banister and all of the baseboards and woodwork in our whole house because they are so amazingly disgusting.  I notice that kind of stuff when I'm sitting here, staring off into space. And when I was on Pinterest, I pinned a "towel refresh recipe" whereby you use hot water and vinegar and then an extra rinse and voila!  Suddenly your towels are back to their original fluffiness and are not filmy and gross. You can go here to get it. You're welcome. The thing is, though, I didn't really notice that my towels were filmy and gross, but now I think they are and now I think I should take all of my towels out of every closet and drawer and refresh them.  Even though I just washed a load of towels on Saturday.

That's the kind of stuff I do when I'm writing but not writing.

My New Year's resolution is to try not to care so much.  Uriah hit the nail on the head last night when he said that I care too much about what people think about what I feel I have to say, even though people probably are giving my writing less thought than I think they are. (Holy crap that was a very long, run-on sentence that might not make the point I wanted it to.  But I'll leave it anyway.) He also said that once Abby figured out that I write, and sometimes about her, I immediately censored all the things that I write.  That is a fact. And I'm having a hard time with that, because let me tell you...teenagers are hard to raise - and raise well - and sometimes a lovely vent in the form of a haiku about annoying teenagers is in order.  But then my conscience kicks in and I think: Will she be offended?  Will she understand the undercurrent of sarcasm in this post? And so I stop writing about what it was I was going to write about.

The fact is, I could write a million little posts about how not to teach a tween to shave her legs, how not to react when your kid tells you her friends are "engaged," and especially the right and wrong ways to tell your husband that aforementioned kid's friends are going on birth control. Father's tend to have strong feelings about daughters and boyfriends and shit like that and when sharing news that could potentially be upsetting, approach with caution. Do not, under any circumstances, share startling news via text message. Anyway...all that to say I think I need to refresh my blog because this one has gotten old and a little stale.  Sort of like my towels.  It needs to be rinsed back to its original fluffiness.  And by fluffiness, I mean, funny, cheeky stories about our somewhat boring and irreverent life.

The thing is...our kids say and do funny stuff. Uriah and I say funny stuff to each other all the time.  We are constantly making each other laugh. Last summer I told him that I would be commandeering our neighbor's yard because I didn't think they'd last very long during the zombie apocalypse and I obviously would need a spot close by for my horses (I'm certain when the zombie apocalypse happens, there won't be cars anymore and I will need a mode of transportation: hence, the horses).  He was appalled, not because of the demise of our neighbors - he agreed with my assessment, actually - but because he didn't think I'd know how to take care of horses.  To which I responded, it's probably a lot like cooking...how hard can it be?

We dream of having a radio show, but it would have to be satellite radio because I don't think our penchant for using cuss words, sarcasm and strong Minnesota accents would be appropriate for most audiences.   So, in lieu of an uncensored radio show where I read the local DNR report in my best Minnesota voice...more of that weird uncensored blog stuff that makes up our life coming soon. Or maybe a vlog (that's a blog video, in case you were uninformed) of me reading the news...oh, the possibilities...