A Pointless Post

Before So You Think You Can Dance starts and I fail to write about anything apart from jazz hands and sequins until August (and a shout-out to Erin that I indeed will write about our favorite dance show this season!), I decided I better write something—at this point anything—to satisfy my readership, which in the world of blogging translates to a quick boost in my ego knowing that within 24 hours after I post this, 17 people will read my words and all of my self-esteem worries will disappear. For at least 15 minutes. I mean, isn’t that the fundamental purpose of a blog, so you can check on those stats and feel like somebody is paying attention to you, even if it is only repeated visits by your mother? So I tried writing this post about a pair of really unflattering hiking pants that I wore over Memorial Day weekend, and I was even going to include a close-up photo of my mid-section so that you could all share in the horror that I felt when I downloaded the photos and realized that I looked like a 50-year-old school bus driver from Davidson County—not that there is anything wrong with that. However, I am not yet 50 years old, and although I am from Davidson County, I made a life-long commitment to never wear pleated pants of any sort but particularly the sort that accentuates a woman’s abdomen in the world’s most unflattering way—and you all know what I’m talking about. That commitment I have kept because the hiking pants in question did not have pleats, but they might as well have because everyone who passed me on the trail wondered why someone of my age already had a subscription to Good Housekeeping magazine. Although I admit that at $7.97 for 12 months, it is a tempting offer.

But then I read that story and realized it was boring and that I didn’t have the courage to post a picture of my fully clothed crotch on the Internet.

So then I thought I would write about the weave we found in our front yard a couple of weeks ago. You read that right. You see, back when I was a little girl, I dreamed of many things for my future—getting married, having kids, discovering a portal through which I could travel through time, meeting a real-live extraterrestrial (only one of these has so far happened, but I still hold out for my extraterrestrial encounter)—but never did I dream that one day I would find a giant—and I mean GIANT, as in useful for swaddling a large first-grader—weave in my front yard, but it happened, and Jason and I are sure that somebody in Durham is really missing their hair. (And if it happens to be you, I would check with the local landfill because after a weave spends a few days on the side of a busy road, the landfill is the only logical place for it to go from there.) But then I didn’t have anything else to say about that either.

So I offer little but a rather rambling and pointless post. But have no fear, I stand of the threshold of spending 4 days with almost all of Jason’s American family, and, as we all know, time spent with in-laws guarantees the following two things: (1) there will be stories (although it may be best for family relations not to share them on the Internet), and one of the stories most certainly will be about (2) the imminent failure of my gastrointestinal system due to an away-toilet situation aggravated by time spent with 15 non-blood relatives in close quarters. But no worries, I’m taking along dominoes, Betty Blue, and a few bottles of wine. All will be fine.

Comments

[Lola]

None of your posts are pointless! And I will be quoting "a 50-year-old school bus driver from Davidson County" for quite a while, thanks to the Chronicles. Really, thank you for that. I recently thought the same thing about myself upon viewing a photograph of myself in what my grandmother would have called "pedal pushers." Indeed.

[Michelle]

Glad to have you back. We'll have to do a SYTYCD night before Kaysi high-tails it to Colorado!