You may not have noticed, but I have not been feeling the blog much lately. I know what you’re thinking. “What does that mean, exactly, Madhousewife–‘feeling the blog’? Have you been sampling your own wares?” No, kids, I was just banking on you accepting that sentence and not analyzing the syntax too closely. I am really just tired, and, frankly, uninspired. I’m getting old and my memory is failing. I’m sure my family has been engaging in amusing antics, but I’m either too overcome with dementia or narcissism to remember what those antics might have consisted of. So no funny conversations between me and the husband or between the kids or anything like that. Sorry to disappoint, but aging is something we all must do. (Narcissism, technically, is something one should grow out of, but does that moral imperative apply in cases of dementia? I don’t know.)
Yes, this blog has always been the ultimate expression of narcissism, and yet narcissism seems to be failing me these days. I know, say it isn’t so! Friends, I wish I could, but alas. This is where we’re at these days. I am just plain out of stuff to write about.
I try to keep up with the news of the day, but I find it increasingly more difficult to blog about current events. Politics–feh. If you wanted the rantings of an overfed white woman, you’d…well, you’d probably end up right here. But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m having difficulty finding news stories that meet my political blogging criteria, which (I’ll remind you) are a) it’s trivial and b) it involves stupid idiots.
The other day I found this story about the NAACP demanding that Hallmark pull a “racist” card. The card in question is one of those talking cards and it happens to mention “black holes.” It’s for graduates and it talks about how they’re going to take on the world, but not just the world, also the universe, including those ominous black holes. Well, apparently some people heard “black holes” as “black whores” and before you knew it, the NAACP was denouncing the card as racist.
So–okay. This article reads like an Emily Litella sketch, only it’s missing the punchline.
“Emily, that card says, ‘Black holes,’ not ‘black whores.'”
“It does? Well. That’s different, isn’t it? Never mind.”
The fact that Gilda Radner already did this joke thirty years ago sort of takes all the fun out of mocking these people. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. Where’s the challenge? I suppose the good news is that real racism is no longer a problem in this country, if the NAACP has time to spend on crap like this. But where does that leave my blog, hmm? I’m asking!
So yeah, I got nothing, kids. I’m sorry. I wish there were more. I’ve spent the last several days decluttering my family room. It was a forced decluttering, as my husband painted the family room on Saturday, and we had to move everything that was in the family room into other parts of the house, and as my husband said, it was like a clown car in there. You keep thinking, “There can’t possibly be any more crap in this room. We’ve got to be coming to the end here.” But no, the end never came. He had to paint in a room that was still somewhat filled with crap, just with the crap pulled away from the walls. But I cleaned it. It took me four days and I don’t know how many hours, but I did it. It’s done. I’d tell you all about it, but a) it’s boring and b) it was too traumatic for me to relive. Suffice it to say that I survived to tell the tale, should I have decided to tell it, but I mostly survived so that I could put it out of my mind and never think about it again. Moving on!
Here’s another bit of random news. I went to the eye doctor last week, and I’m going to be getting glasses. Whee! Aren’t you happy for me? I knew you would be. My husband wanted me to get some sexy Sarah Palin glasses, but he wasn’t with me when I selected the frames, so I went with mildly-funky librarian glasses. Eyeglasses are quite the racket, amigos. They cost enough in the first place–but then the salesperson sits down with you and explains all the stuff you have to have done to them so that you can actually wear and see out of them. I went with bottom-of-the-line on everything because a) I’m going to use them mostly for reading and b) the doctor said I’d probably need bifocals in the next couple years, so why spend all this money on fancy lenses now? Oh, and there’s also c) I’m cheap.
So I was at the doctor, and he was telling me how my eyes are very healthy, and my prescription was about what he’d expect for someone who’s been wearing glasses since their twenties, so apparently I have some wicked-strong eyes, but I can only put off this glasses thing for so long, as my eyes have to work harder and harder to focus, and I said, “Yeah, I figured I was just getting old.” And the doctor said, “Well, you’re only a couple years older than me, so I wouldn’t put it that way.”
And it was funny, gentle reader–I had assumed from the outset that the doctor was younger than I was, as he was a relatively-young-looking guy. I’m 39 years old, and lots of people are younger than I am. But to have it out there in the open like that–suddenly I felt very, very old indeed. Even though I’m only a “couple” years older than this relatively-young-looking guy! My husband, who is four years younger than I, has been calling me ancient for years, so I don’t know why this doctor pointing out, quite innocently and not at all pointedly, that I’m (technically) older than he was made me so self-conscious about the fact. If this had been an episode of Scrubs, I would have immediately turned into a white-haired lady in a polyester pantsuit, wielding a cane and asking for my blood-pressure medicine. (My blood-pressure is excellent, by the way. Everyone says so. It’s one of the few things about my body I can be proud of.)
Well, I have some routine chores to fulfill, and I’m supposed to be babysitting someone’s kids today, so I’d better get to it. If you haven’t had more of me than you can stand, you can read my post at By Common Consent. Perhaps I’ll blog more now that summer’s here and the kids are going to be driving me (more) insane. Or maybe you’ll never hear from me again. That’s why you tune in, isn’t it? The suspense! Gentle readers, adieu.