I don't tell y'all how to make millions in 3.2 minutes on your laptop. I don't tell you how to turn your average mom life into a Martha Stewart experience. I don't craft, I don't advise, and I'm not pregnant. I don't tell y'all how to be better Christians. I don't even tell y'all how to cook. I don't have 101 tips for better relationships or parenting. My parenting skills are such that I probably won't get visits from CPS, but I'm never going to get the Mother-of-the-Year award... EVER... Ev-ar. I don't do fashion or hair or makeup. Wearing jeans means I'm damn-near dressed up. I'm usually lucky to get a shower, and I've really hit the jackpot if I get to feel all sorts of sexy because I shaved my legs.
I just write for me. Not exceptionally well, not grammatically correct, not even incredibly interesting. Just the most boring inane bullshit that comes out of my skull because there are days when I simply have to get it out. Sometimes I manage to make it funny. Sometimes, not so much. Sometimes I don't even know where the stuff comes from, and I have to call my sister so she can stroke my fragile ego and reassure me that I'm fantabulous and the post was hysterical cause it's been one of those days and I need a, "Ya did good, Kid." that I can't get anywhere else.
And this, y'all, is why surfing the net can be so dangerous. Because I sporadically approach this blog as a business. I want good rankings, I play with my SEO and all that technical crap that can make you cross-eyed. So I go around reading these business sites and blogs and I've come to the conclusion that I don't have a value to promote. I don't personally sell anything. It's not a serious business. It's a blog without a company. And that's big time bad in the world of marketing. Showtime is NOT going to buy my blog and make me an instant millionaire if I don't have a theme and a purpose and a reason and a complete marketing strategy. And normally, who gives a shit? But, honestly y'all, I so don't want to go back to work. Work is a four-letter-word. And job hunting is hideous. So is moving. The only thing that makes one worse than the other is that whatever you are currently doing. And I really don't want to do either.
I want to keep watching Harry Potter DVDs at midnight with my two year old and hubby, while we eat fresh pancakes and the munchkin acts out the movie on the living room floor. Then we all go to bed by 3 am and wake up at noon. It's awesome. It's what I would totally be doing if I were a millionaire. Although, if I were a millionaire, I'd be doing it in a larger living room and having the maid cook the pancakes and clean the kitchen, but I digress...
The bottom line is that I hope I'm wrong about this blog not having value. I hope my silly little writings do somebody some good sometimes... I mean aside from me. I hope I'm the reason for a smirk that makes the work day a little more tolerable even though the boss is a wretched troll-monkey who needs to be punched dead in the nose. I hope I'm a little laugh that escapes the lips of a mom who is white-knuckling it through another day of chasing kids who put bubble-gum on the dog and painted their bedroom walls with peanut-butter. I hope beyond hope that I'm causing someone an unexpected guffaw when they would've sworn that they didn't have the energy left for one. I would love to be the person responsible for someone chuckling to themselves as they drift off to sleep.
Cause, to me, that would be the best blogger-pay in the entire world.
...not that I'd turn down that offer from Showtime either.