Talking to Myself

In efforts to try to get this blog off the ground, I started thinking about why I'm blogging. I enjoy writing (most of the time), but I finally realized that I do this because my longest conversations are with an 8 month old baby. That's right, people, I'm a loser with no friends. Not really, but we made the bad decision to stay in the town where we went to college. I realized long ago that this wasn't the best decision for my mental health. All of my college friends eventually moved on to "real" cities that don't see an cornocopia of teens and twentysomethings in flip-flops, sorority t-shirts, cigarettes and backpacks on a daily basis. This town has a very weird dynamic; the population is a mix of upper class doctors, lawyers, professors and the like juxtaposed against some pretty severe poverty. I'm talking about welfare system abusers that live in 30 year old trailers with five children who haven't had baths in two months. Throw the college students in the pot and watch the hilarity ensue.

Yes, I have a husband. Yes, we talk. He also has two, sometimes three jobs to keep us in our stylish Wal-Mart wardrobes and drinking non-generic Kool Aid. I see him about three times a week, two of which he is usually glued to his computer.

The "mommy scene" around here isn't exactly working mom friendly. I went to the public library the other day to see what kind of programs they had for babies in hopes to meet some other moms, and every single baby and pre-school program is during the week. I can't take time off work to lug my kid to the library so he can clap his chubby hands to the sound of a mediocre guitarist in a hippie t-shirt and sandals. I could sit through it on Saturday morning, but apparently working moms are too evil to deserve a Saturday morning lap-sit.

So, for lack of a better solution, I write. It may suck and nobody reads it, but it keeps me from sliding my toes to the edge and looking down.