I need to get paid

The other night I was jotting down ideas in my brand new fuchsia-colored (or "falusha" as my 4-year-old pronounces it) journal that I had gotten at Target earlier that day when my husband looked over and goes, "Oh my God, is that new?  You are taking this blog way too seriously."  So I respond by quacking, "I keep forgetting my ideas.  What do you want me to do?"  Then he starts giggling and says, "Um, the LAUNDRY."  The entire family was on the bed and we all dissolved into a puddle of laughter. (Full disclosure because so many moms keep getting arrested:  My two older ones have only read the first blog and filmed the video.  They know about the blog but are not allowed to read it anymore as I have explained that it is "inappropriate like the tv shows and movies Mommy watches when I put you to bed."  OKAY?)

I mean, how ridiculous is this blog?  I created this job for myself that pays me nothing, yet it has all of the pressures and insecurities that go along with regular employment.  Not only is there a lack of heath insurance, but any insurance that anything will come of it.  So I tell myself that at the very least I will have 365 stories and "guidance" to leave to my three daughters at the end of all this.  (This is in lieu of the three incomplete baby books I am leaving them, as well.)  I should be OKAY with that, but I'm not.

I would be lying if I said that I have not fantasized about being on Oprah.  My dream sequence starts with being interviewed for the Arlington News, then I am on that really boring Columbus morning show and then somebody notices me somewhere and my star is skyrocketed right into Oprah's Book Club. (In case you were wondering Oprah and I get along swimmingly because obviously we have a lot in common.)  All of this culminates into the paparazzi sitting outside my house, blinding me as I leave for my nationwide book tour wearing something insanely fashionable.  I will have a new car, too, because I can't be filmed getting into my filthy, outdated, kid-damaged Honda Pilot toting my Hermes Birkin Bag over my shoulder.

So, here's the deal.  You are not CRAZY if you are aware of the fact that you are crazy.  "So I've got that going for me, which is nice." (Caddyshack - Bill Murray holding the pitchfork against the young caddie's neck describing his meeting with the Dali Lama).  All I want to do when I have a moment alone is write a post.  When I am not writing,  I am marinating some idea as I go about the business of being a stay-at-home mom.  I got the journal because whatever "passage" I am working on escapes from my brain the minute someone asks me for a snack or to check their homework.

Now, I am constantly searching for my journal (which is usually where I left my coffee) and have recently begun entertaining the idea of a belt holster that houses my journal like people used to have for their pagers and cellphones.  It would contain a snap or velcro mechanism which would be falusha to match my book.

I digress, again and again and again with one run-on sentence after another.  Remember?  I have no editor because this is not a real job.  I have nothing to show for all of my efforts except the constant smirk I have had on my face since this blog's inception.  I have never been happier "professionally" in my life.  I have actually uttered the words, "Now go on...Mommy's working."  How scary is that?  I feel SURE that if I were to go and get a psych eval, they would bestow upon me a diagnosis. 

I guess if I were to analyze this myself, it began with the whole full day kindergarten movement.  That would give me one more year with my youngest and if I don't start working on reinventing myself   now then I am going to be in a bad place when my all of my kids are in school.  One incarnation I have come up with is to be on some sort of game show where they would put 5 minutes on the clock and I am forced to run around Target and create an entire outfit from all the departments.

But then I discovered THIS and writing again.  I am not going to pretend that I know what THIS is besides me running my mouth and getting people to read it.  There is a "monetize" tab on the Blogspot website where I would solicit advertising.  Can you imagine the seedy establishments that would be interested?  No go.  So then there is the publishing world. "The New Yorker" is something to aspire to, but the only thing I really know about New York is that the Kardashians just crashed it.  Besides I have tried to read it but the only articles I can relate to or fully understand are by David Sedaris, natch.

Finally, there is YOU, the public.  I am averaging about seventy-five hits per day and (using my outstanding mathematical skills) if you were each to send me one dollar each day I can get a live-in cleaning lady who does laundry and cooks all of our meals.  This would also fund my "expense account" so that I can live in the manner that I plan to get accustomed to.

Seriously, the only magazine that I truly respect besides US Magazine is GQ. GQ is witty, hip and unapologetic.  Check it out.  I think you will agree with me.