It's all baloney

I am eating a bologna sandwich. I can't tell you the last time I had one. I might have been ten. No, I was nineteen. I remember this now, because I was incredibly poor, and bologna was cheap. So were pickles and grape jelly. Our fridge was interesting. This sandwich is good; I put butter on it, along with the mayo, by the way. I always do, because my mom always did, and my grandma always did, and beyond that, my grandpa put butter on anything edible. And he lived to be 98.

Butter and mayo and bologna and bread. And let's just get it out in the open, I think it's stupid that "bologna" is spelled with a g-n-a at the end. So in the title, I spelled it "baloney." It works out better that way.

I'm eating this baloney sandwich and blogging, about nothing. About the sandwich, so far. Earlier this week, a female acquaintance of mine commented on a post I made on Facebook. She said I ought to write a blog; what I have to say helps her prepare for the future in raising her own children. (They're babies, still, and I've been there and done that already). Of course I told her I already do write one, and she should follow it. If she wants. Not that I'm an expert on child-rearing, but because sometimes, it's easier to deal with your own life if you can see that you're not alone. It's better than going to counseling, see, because you can read it and either say "Ahhh, well, there now, I'm not that crazy," or (and hopefully not) "Good grief, I'm in trouble." Self-diagnosis.

Anyway, after reading this acquaintance's suggestion, I asked myself, why do I write a blog?

For one thing, the computer doesn't talk back. It doesn't question. It allows me the freedom to "talk and talk" and it never rolls its eyes or pretends that I'm interesting.

I know there are other moms out there who must experience the same things I do. Life's trials and tribulations, moments of ultimate frustration with kids and husbands and family, along with moments of indescribable joy. My life is plain, yet it is never dull. We aren't rich or fancy, we don't take lavish vacations, and I can't, honestly, even remember the last time I ate dinner out somewhere. Unless you count Pizza Hut family night. So, I can't write about red-carpet-worthy events. I can write about my love for stuffed-crust, however.

Each blog is a snapshot of my mind at a current moment. Some days I am contemplative, some days nostalgic, and some days, I'm just writing because I need an outlet. A listening "ear." So I sit (with or without a baloney sandwich) and click the keyboard. I note that I'm getting crumbs on the keys.

There's this feeling of disbelief that people are actually reading what I write, yet they say they do. People have even said they like it. Perhaps they have related to something. Some blogs are a little pointless, like this one, maybe.

I don't know if you have ever experienced this, readers, but sometimes, when your mind seems to be flooded with thoughts, the last thing you could do is put them in writing. The thoughts are transparent; you cannot grasp them and nail them down. And they're so overwhelming, you'd love nothing more than to be able to do just that. Because if you could line them up, you could prioritize; make a plan. But you can't. Or I can't.
I keep hoping that by writing things down, eventually, things will sort out. They typically do.
So I just blog.

And develop wrinkles in my forehead.