Barriers to Blogging

Holy s***. I really hate it when I don't get to blog for a week or so. It causes mental log-jams. Then there's no way to get going again aside from verbal vomiting. I will try to quell this impulse with a list. Let's call it "6 blogging inhibitors".

1. Weather. I have been SO BUSY building an ark. Utah is soon to return to its original state as an inland sea. I lie in bed, listening to the relentless drumming on the roof and think, "Where is my desert? Where is my searing heat? Where are my evenings on the patio with a drinkie after the kids go to bed?" Why blog when I can fret about the future of my tomato plants?


2. Childcare. There was a time when I loved the daycare where my children go after school. That was before the Reign of Terror: Heather, the officious, pompous, haughty teenage (well, almost) daycare director has decided that after-school care is no longer in keeping with the mission of her establishment. Sara's last day there is tomorrow. Nathan can stay for the summer; but after that, it's just going to be a preschool only. Now my time is taken up with calling other centers run by teenagers and asking how many years long their waiting lists are. OR I could start the Sisyphean task of persuading our local elementary to offer after-school care. OR I could try to form a co-op with other parents. OR, our children could become latchkey kids. Instead of blogging, I sit slumped at the kitchen counter, drinking endless cups of tea and arguing with my husband about what the hell we are going to do.


In –laws. Here they come again! Ah, the joy! The ecstasy. Every June! All June! My job is to cook delicious meals and look at Si as if I think the sun shines out of his ass. No opinions, no talk about my job, no music. In the meantime, I'm busy hiding the sex toys and contemplating the appearance of the spare room. Maybe I SHOULD iron that duvet cover... Definitely getting in the way of blogging.


Hormones. Well, I can't be expected to concentrate on blogging over sex, really. Last weekend, we had a little get-away to Park City. Simon had traded favors with the general manager of a resort over there, so the guy offered us a room. It turned out to be this suite with (get this) three fireplaces, private deck with hot tub, giant plasma-screen TVs, jetted tub, fancy shower with three different shower-heads. I spent about half-hour just pushing buttons and saying, "Wow!" I was in awe at how the other half lives. I guess they must just have sex all the time. Their hotel rooms are certainly conducive. Which is good, 'cause I was in the kind of mood in which my idea of foreplay is to close the door. Now, though, the pendulum has swung. Last night, I amused Simon by demonstrating all my techniques for keeping his hands off my boobs. You know, the subtle ones, like reaching down to scratch my knee, thereby sealing up the bottom of my shirt; or the less subtle hand-slap. How can I blog when he's pawing at me?


Book work. I have made a vow. Each month, at the beginning of the month, until I have completed certain tedious administrative tasks, no fun may be had. No workouts, no blogging, no movies, no novels, no laughter, no joy.

Dim sum. My steamed buns generated enough interest that some friends and I concocted a Dim Sum Pool party. Basically, everyone brought some sort of Asian-inspired appetizer (egg rolls, spring rolls, samosas, pot stickers) and then we all played pool. No way can I blog with a samosa in one hand, a gin and tonic in the other, and a pool cue clutched between my knees.