Your husband is telling you to get off the damn computer. And I’m a f**king psychic.
No, I didn’t come up with that one. I only wish I did. It’s the work of the muchly funny, muchly swear-ly The Bloggess, bless her heart. Forgive the reblogging, but it had me nearly wetting myself laughing (and after two very quick childbirths, I mean that quite literally. Hmm. Too much information, perhaps?).
The man, much as I love him, just does not get this blogging thing. I like to tell him it’s an art form. And just as productive as him tinkering with his car. Have I mentioned his dilapidated ute that takes up one side of our double garage, and the multitude of tools that take up the other, so both our cars have to be parked out on the street? No? Well, there you go. That’s because I block it from my conscious mind. Sad, really. It’s almost like he’s having an affair. With a one tonne piece of steel. That actually costs him more money than I do.
He has his car. I have my computer. The only problem is, we can’t both do our things at once, until our children are old enough to entertain themselves, we can afford to hire a nanny or they make it legal to lock them in small, air conditioned and fully equipped cages for most of the day. Never mind free-range babies, I wanna blog!!
Whatever. The Man needs to read that book, Women Are From Bras, Men Are From Penis. Or that other one with a similar but less amusing title. Blogging, building a community, that’s my biological right as a women. I can’t help it. It’s controlled by my hormones. Just like PMS, boobie milk, discharge and all that other fun stuff.
So ner, Man. It’s my blog and I’ll write if I want to.