Oh how this "work" thing interferes with my blogging. Not only do I not have much time to write anything, but I'm completely zapped of any type of creative energy. And non-creative energy, for that matter. I'm lucky if, by the time I get Eric in bed, I have enough energy to sit on the couch and do sudoku puzzles until my eyes are so dry that it's painful to blink. Sometimes, though, I just sort of sit there in a daze thinking of things that I could do if I were only more ambitious. Like that hat I started knitting right after I knit that one hat that one time, and then immediately realized that it was too itchy to wear. (I've never knit anything besides that hat. In the knitting patterns book I have, it says something like, "Don't attempt this hat until you have a few easier projects under your belt." Ha! I showed them.) Anyway, so, there's hat no. 2, which currently looks nothing like a hat, but more like maybe an inch or two of knitted yarn. There's also a plethora of scrapbooking stuff that I've bought and fully intended to use for Eric's scrapbook, which is great, and so cute, and also one page long, with that one page containing only his name. And most of the stuff I have for his scrapbook is stuff I bought before he was even born and, oh, have I ever mentioned that he's almost TWO AND A HALF?
So, what is my point, you ask? My point is this: before I worked full time, I had so much more time to think about knitting and scrapbooking and how snapshots of my life could more closely resemble a Pottery Barn catalog, if only I had infinite time and money, and well, desire to make snapshots of my life more closely resemble a Pottery Barn catalog. If I wanted to, I could've sat around for hours (where by "hours," I'm referring to 4-minute intervals) and planned out how I would make caramel corn balls, wrapped in wax paper, tied with a little black ribbon and decorated to look like a ghost, which I would then give as Halloween treats so the other neighborhood moms would think, "Oh, how darling, she's really got her act together," and would then go home and promptly throw my concoction into the garbage, because, let's face it, how do we *really* know it's safe and razor blade free? BUT INSTEAD, I don't even have time to properly punctuate, which in my book, ranks right up there on the embarrassment scale with incontinence. So, there you have it, folks. No time for punctuatin', plenty of time for rampant lunacy.