Hi Empty Air. Miss me? Did you wonder what ever happened to your non-blogger? I was taking 12 credits at Old Dominion University and 4 credits at Tidewater Community College. We were trying out the 'one car lifestyle' and my body was adjusting to having a living, growing, feeding life inside. Finally, December 15th, school ended and then the holidays came. We left Norfolk to visit family in Maryland and in Blacksburg, Virginia. Finally, January 3rd, we arrived back at our little home to unpack and resume our normal schedule, minus my attending school. I was 28 weeks pregnant when we returned (6 months for people who don't care to do the multiplication) and had to purge my closets of non-basketball hiding clothes. I was also dreadfully tired which I believe is partly a pregnancy issue and partly from non-stop going for the entire fall and winter.
Fortunately, between Oct. 19 and now, I have had some time to think about what I wanted to write about and decided that first I must address the whole "blog thing." If I am going to be "blogging" but claiming that I'm not, then I must decide why I detest the word, "blog".
I figured it out one night while I was folding laundry. Folded laundry, by the way, is a very comforting thing once it's done, as it promises clean warm clothes, but the actual act of folding is one of my chores that I abhor. It's a process that never ends. Wear the clothes and then when the clothes are too stained, smell too bad, or are covered with kitty cat hairs (or doggie hairs as Rory doesn't want to be left out), put it in the washer. Then out it goes, wet, so it must be put in the dryer. Tumble a little, pull out, fold, put away, and then what? It's time to wear it again and the cycle starts over. I guess a person who is single would wonder why I would waste brain cells to think about this, but once one is married and has children, it's no longer seven shirts a week to wash, fold, and put away. It's seven shirts times the number of people in the house. I often chuckle over how the public fawns over Angelina Jolie's little family of 6 kids. Do we really believe that she's washing 42 shirts a week, 42 pairs of socks, 42 pairs of undies (assuming they change them every day), in addition to her own and Brad's? The phrase, "with money comes privilege" should be changed to "with money comes maids" because that's the trick. Have a cleaning lady to do the laundry and then you are free to adopt as many kids as you want. I know there are other families that have more children than 6, but since Angelina Jolie's name is like saying "Coca Cola" because it's so well known, I've decided to use her as the example. I could use the Duggar family as an example as well. If there are 19 children, that's 133 shirts to wash each week. I could pretend that a shirt can be worn twice, but most children managed to spill at least two different items per day on their shirts and can be considerably unsightly.
Ah, see, this is a blog. There's no doubt about it. It's a journey into my musings and thoughts about life. There are so many blogs about everything now that I could probably look up "paw prints on couch" and find a blog written about it! Yet, the very word, "blog" in itself, is the part that I have a problem. I don't care if a person has a blog. I finally decided why I don't like the word "blog" and refuse to call myself a blogger and do not want to openly acknowledge that I have a blog. Who came up with the word "blog" anyway? It's a terrible word. Blog. I understand the word, "log" or "diary" or "journal" but I don't understand why the letter, "b" was attached to the word, "log". It's a terrible blah sounding word.
In Wikipedia it states that the word, "blog", is "web log". Instead of spending the time paraphrasing the article I found, I would recommend reading it for yourself if you wanted the whole scoop.
I think I fell asleep a little while I was reading it, but as a quiet linguist, I actually like word origins. I think that we could call it "journaling", "keeping a public diary", or something else besides trying to say, "blop" and messing up the last part of the sound by adding a "g". Blop. That's a great sound when something wet hits the floor. Playdoh makes a sloppy blop sound when it hits the floor. It's like something fell from our brain and onto a website, "bbbbllllloooooppppp." Then someone said, hey let's call it "blog" instead of "blop".
Maybe I'm reading too much into this word. Or maybe there are other people out in this world who think the same thing.
The good thing about have a "blog" is that technically, it can be a networking device, a connection to others of the same thought, or more importantly, a way to write ones' thoughts and get it out even if it means it's not a published article in a newspaper or journal. If I was a dedicated writer to this blog I could conceivably build up a following of readers. Unfortunately, this would not happen, at least not now. I have a son who has interrupted me every 30 seconds for the last hour that I have tried to write this one entry. It's a no-no for me to think that I could sit and write down anything at the computer while there are people awake in this house. I had thought that with the whole family being out, minus my son, I would have an opportunity to write. Alas, I always forget that the best action packed movie will only hold my son's attention if he knows that I am off doing housework. The moment I sit to type he is by me asking me questions, begging me for attention, creating a small mountain of mess in the other room, or cutting the cat's hair off with a pair of scissors that I forgot to lock up. This is when I remind myself that I could very well wait until the school week when he's in school. I have the opportunity to write between 8:45 and 11:45 but so far, for all of January, I have used this time to catch up on the backlog of items I wasn't able to touch last fall while I was in school. Or sleep. Those promised 3 hours go fast as I use them on napping, errands, and endless "cleaning out" of stuff that had accumulated over the months while I was busy at school. Then, the next opportunity to write would be after my oldest daughter goes to bed. This would be sometime after 9pm but by then my brain is fried and I barely know my name, especially these days, with every brain cell being kidnapped by my unborn baby.
Wow! That was a whole 6 minutes before my son came in to yell "duh" in my face and tell me how he's not going to take a nap. His red jello covered lips are so red in comparason to his bare chest; he insists upon not wearing a shirt even though it's only 65 in the house. I must go put the little guy down for his nap for it's going to be a very long day otherwise. We're without a car and it's snowing. So we're a bit confined to the house for the day which isn't an easy feat with a preschooler who also happens to be a very active boy who doesn't like to play with his toys for very long.
I'll end up falling asleep next to him, naturally. He did, after all, not realize that he could sleep in past 6 as it is a Saturday. Still, last night was bliss as I slept a whole 8 hours not counting the 3 bathroom breaks and 1 time to check that the alarm was on. Emma, my unborn daughter, likes to jump on her "water bed" which is in medical terms, called a "bladder".
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