You know what I just discovered about the weekends? Besides how much it hurts to wake up at 6:30 a.m. when you can remember back to a magical time a mere four years ago when you could sleep until whenever you bloody well felt like. How four years ago, you only saw 6:30 a.m. on days you were paid money to see 6:30 a.m. When it wouldn’t have matter that you stayed up until 1 a.m. watching violent Pay-Per-Views because no one was going to mind if you slept clean through until Monday because no one had a wet diaper that needed to be dealt with tout de suite. Besides that?
Yes, I’m tired. Why do you ask?
Well, I discovered…not really discovered, as I came to realize it quite early after I started blogging…that people don’t really read blogs on the weekend. Or at least not mine. Yesterday, given a perfectly debatable post regarding the elimination of an extremely popular Olympic event, my site was visited by less than half it’s regular number of readers. And looking at the length of time spent, most of them accidentally stumbled here looking for pictures of tornadoes and Harry Connick, Jr and were sorely disappointed.
But I guess this is ok. People need a break on the weekends. I suppose most people read blogs at work, keeping one tab open to something work-relevant, like the newspaper or something, so they can quickly toggle back and forth if someone important walks by. Or so I’ve heard. And then on the weekends, people spend time with their families doing family stuff that probably doesn’t include blog-stalking with the kiddies. Whatever. That’s fine.
This discovery, or acceptance, led to the conclusion that I should save the good stuff for Mondays and I could probably just post whatever I want on the weekends because who’s going to see it anyway?
Ok then. Here’s a useless confession. I’m afraid of large animals. What? You too? Weeeeird. Especially whales. I love all of God’s furry, scaley, cute, ugly, loveable, creepy creatures, but the big ones make me skeevy. I also can’t look at any large gathering of animals, no matter what the species, without wanting to toss my lunch. Spiders, kittens, babies. If there’s more than, say, three of anything living, I’m about ready to puke.
Speaking of puke. This post was written in two parts. Pre-being barfed on by Avery and post-being barfed on by Avery. Because I was holding Avery, standing at the kitchen counter, hoping to pop this thing off in ten minutes or so, when Avery yacked all over me, the counter, the dishwasher, the floor, and into the sink. The recovery process involved a lot of paper towels, anti-bacterial soap, and bleach. Luckily it didn’t land on the laptop. Close, but it remains splash-free. And *sniff, sniff* I thought I had temporarily sufficiently washed my victimized pants, but I can smell that they’ll require proper laundering.
So I should probably stop obsessively proofreading this and take care of my fragrant pants. Besides, I think I’ve done enough damage here and there’s no one reading this anyway.