The problem with waiting so long between posts is there’s so much to say and not enough time to say it. There’s no logical way to string together an essay combining stories of my plane rides to and from New York, my slow introduction to suburbia, the weird thing happening to my right boob, and assorted family drama involving a shared BLT and false accusations.
Also PROMPTuesday.
I need to catch up on so many PROMPTuesdays.
As in do my own.
But for now, I’ll just say, I’ll be back soon.
With stories.
And once again, although it’s annoying to say over and over, I do extend apologies for laxing on my blog reading and commenting. The kids all day thing, work in between, and unpacking everything in the world has really eaten my brain.
Take your time. Give the boob issue priority of the blog… though I am intrigued to hear about the BLT : )
What Shana said. Boob first. Then BLT.
I’ve been disjointed and had fragmented computer time for the past few months too. Life, kids, boobs… they all come before the reading and writing of blogs! [I feel anxious about it, also. I understand.]
Oh god! The unpacking!! I feel for you. It kinda feels like Christmas though huh? Opening all the boxes up. No? just me? ok.
Maybe you need a schedule–boobs on Monday, plane on Tuesday, BLT on Wednesday . . .
Totally feel ya on this one. I feel even more angst these days than I did when I was a John Hughes’ film watching tween/teen. My time is being SWALLOWED faster than I can say Long Duck Dong so I just can’t find time to write anything worth a darn or read any of the things I want to. But here I am, visiting you, so that is a start. I vow to be better at the blogging thing in the fall–when the sun stops staying out for so long and all the damn family members stop visiting (but then I will miss them, and that will lead to a different kind of angst). Anyway, I’m feelin’ ya girl!
I agree. We click; we look; we click back later. Hope you get a lot done and there’s not a problem with the boob. Doesn’t quite sound like a well-wish, but it is! honest!
I’m up in Hollywood at the SCBWI national summer conference. You should absolutely be up here! I think next year we should organize a bunch of San Diego writers to carpool and share hotel rooms. We would have a blast and learn a ton. ;)
I know how that goes. I can scarcely manage to focus on any single thing this week because there’s so much I’m supposed to be doing. Of course, being up all night, sleepless, you’d think I’d actually accomplish something in those hours. NOT!
Hope the boob is okay! I’ll be praying for it. (Does that sound weird?)
With everything still going on and on about Michael Jackson, I finally lost it.
I listened faithfully every night to the newscasters, trying to figure out the true meaning behind Michael Jackson.
Why did he grab his crotch like a pit bull sucking off the smell of last nights prime rib dinner?
Why did he wear that sequined covered glove like a proud little girl getting ready for her first dance recital (sequins included)?
Did Michael really die of a drug overdose due to a chemical addiction that falls back to the days of Oh My Hair Is On Fire?
Does Michael know that Debbie Rowe is still a pig?
Are Michael and Elvis popping pills together on a carosel, singing about Hound Dogs? What does Michael’s hound dog cry sound like anyway?
I’m sitting in my padded room, my arms are tied behind my back, as I rock back and forth on my butt, which is now as sufficient as my grandmother’s rocking chair.
All of these questions and they lock ME up because I think I may be the mother of our beloved Prince Michael II (aka BLANKET???)
I might be crazy, but I really think it’s the media imposing into my delicate, Michael Jackson dead brain…so let’s just Beat It