Oh! The Pressure To Write So That I Can Become Famous!

On WordPress, I read about David McRaney, a WordPress blogger who garnered a book deal based on his blog.

I thought, Yay! Good for him!

Then, I read on msn.com about a writer over at cracked.com who wrote a piece about Hollywood’s inaccuracies about the work place. The piece garnered much attention, enough to be mentioned again on msn.com.

I enjoyed both articles. But it got me thinking…..

Oooooo. What if something I wrote got noticed by someone big?  How cool would that be? Oh, the hits my blog would get. I wonder how many new people would find me? How many would click that handy-dandy little subscribe button so that they could read what I’ve written every single time I post?

Every.

Single.

Post.

Oh God. They would click back here and expect another stellar piece. What would I do then?

I enjoy this writing outlet. I love sharing my inconsequential thoughts on the controversial and the mundane. But the majority of my posts are pretty boring and only interesting to a select few (other nuts) out there. And I have typos. And grammatical errors a plenty. Shoot. I’m willing to bet my former English teachers roll in their graves every time I click publish.

But I’m famous now. And I have a public to appease. So I’ll agonize and write and delete and write some more. I’ll spend hours searching the internet for new post ideas and the perfect picture to illustrate my point. The laundry would pile up. We’d eat Chef Boyardee or take-out Chinese every night. My kids would start going to school with mismatched socks and lollipops stuck in their hair. The dog would never get a walk. Dust bunnies the size of tumble weeds would turn our breakfast bar into a wild, wild west saloon.

Nope.

I can’t do it.

You’re stuck with the mostly average and the occasional stellar blog post.

So, go away you fancy, schmacy editors, you.

I just can’t handle the pressure.

Help! I’m Buried (Under *#$@!) And I Can’t Get Up!

I have decided that should I ever go away and trust the running of my home to anyone else, other than myself — it’s not worth going.

I mean it.

Never again.

If I should have the opportunity to take a trip and leave everyone else at home again? I’m not going.

Ok.

I’ll go.

But everyone else has to leave the house, too.

I took my daughter on a Girls-Only-Mother-Daughter-Extravaganza. We had a blast. And I realized about 2 hours into the trip that this was the first time in 18 years that I’ve gone on a vacation and not had to pack/plan/take care of anyone else but myself. About 12 hours into the trip, I realized, Hey! I’m going to bed. And I just have to brush MY teeth, wash MY face, put on MY pjs and then hop into bed. (My 18-year-old daughter can do all that for herself now. Joy!)

When I woke up the next morning?

Same.

Thing!

I woke up. Got showered and dressed. Grabbed my things and we were out the door.

Heavenly.

I didn’t have to comb anyone else’s hair. I didn’t have to set out clothes for anyone or find missing shoes or tie anyone else’s shoes. I didn’t have to make sure we had all of “our” stuff. I didn’t have to hear “Hun, did you pack my swim suit?” or “Mom? Why can’t we have a maid at home?” (Uh, ya’ do!) I didn’t have to shush anyone 112 times down hotel hallways.

And then?

I came home.

Poof.

My utopia vanished.

And they tricked me! That’s what really gets to me.

About 4 hours from home, I called from the road. In the background, I heard the vacuum cleaner. “We’re getting ready for you to come home,” my mother-in-law said, “Your husband said he wants you to come home to a clean house. Where do you keep the cleaning rags?”

Awwww. I melted. What a gem of a family I have.

So, for the rest of the drive I had visions of gleaming floors, folded laundry, shining bathrooms.

Nope.

Dust bunnies, or should I say tumbleweeds, the size of my head. I’m not kidding. We have a golden retriever and he chose the week I left to shed at least two coats of fur. We could make another dog. When one tumbleweed wafted by as I opened the door I tried to ignore it.

What about the vacuum cleaner I heard?

“#2son knocked over your plant on your bedside table. I hope I got it all out of the carpet,” says sweet husband who insisted on white carpet in our bedroom because it will be our oasis, away from the kids and they’ll never be in there.

Hampers are overflowing. Escaped socks and damp towels are trying to make a break for laundry room.

“I didn’t know how you liked your laundry done,” says sweet mother-in-law.

Clean, I think to myself.

The bathrooms? I’m too embarrassed to even think of a witty description. I’ve tried. I sat here, mouth agape, trying to be clever. Besides my mother-in-law, there were two grown men and two small boys making their presence known, if you get my drift. Disgusting is all that comes to mind.

I’ve been home a week and I’m just now coming up for air.

Nope. It’s decided. Go on a vacation, by myself, and leave my home in someone else’s hands?

Never.

Again.

(Disclaimer: My mother-in-law is, indeed, a gem. She plays with the boys, she takes them on adventures, she cooks and bakes and keeps the kitchen sparkling. The zones described above were, apparently, out of her jurisdiction.)