So this is easy, right?  Doesn’t everyone and their mother have a blog these days?

(As an aside, I really can’t imagine my mother having a blog.  My father, maybe.)

So I’m sallying forth: looking to pave new trails, explore uncharted horizons, etc. et. al.  I got to thinking this afternoon as I was pulling the 23rd zucchini from my vegetable garden, there is NO WAY anyone chronicles THIS kind of shit.  Oh, wait.  Huh.

Ok, well, fine.  Forget gardening.  Hate it anyway.  My next idea hit me upside the head as I was pouring my maimed zucchini into my ridiculously glorious KitchenAid (thank you Teresa and Jeanette) mixer.  There is NO WAY anyone writes about their kitchen escapades.  Hold up.  Really?  Martha, is there anything you HAVEN’T touched, you selfish bitch?

So the running gag is over now, I swear.  The sad truth is, I spend approximately one third of my day reading about other people and the very exciting, glamorous activities they are a part of.  But here’s the kicker: I SWEAR the other two thirds of my day is spend doing equally exciting, glamorous, domestic-type things.  Especially now that I’m jobless and stay at home all day taking care of the chickens (more on that later).

A couple housekeeping notes: I have never professed to be much of a writer, and as I’m reminded often by my friends, my humor comes in waves, corresponding with…well…certain acts of a possibly sexual nature.  Please don’t ask.  I am also not yet famous enough to merit an editor and fact-checking staff.  I’m working on it.