Blocked like a hardened artery

In Kansas they think red beer is Chelada, Budweiser mixed with Clamato. I am not ashamed to admit that I drank some, but I wonder if this is something all the middle states do? It was a lot better than no booze at all, and kind of like a bubbly Bloody Mary. Crisp. Salty. Refreshing in that way where you can feel your extremities retaining water.

I come to this blog often. I want to write you stories of Catholics with ten children and a fantastic sense of humor. How I accidentally mentioned going off the pill to The Catholics and they didn't even blink at me in horror. I want to explain all the ways that Nick's grandfather is Pappy incarnate. I want to tell you about how my daughter is hilarious, how she waves hello to me and wakes up laughing at us getting ready for work in the morning. I want to finally admit that I co-sleep with her and ACTUALLY LIKE IT, despite what our idiot pediatrician says about "encouraging independence". I want to tell you stories about Sammy, the foolish dog who loves me more than I deserve.

Then I get here and I'm staring at the big BLANK and the cursor is blinking and I've no idea how to fit everything that's going on into those weird tubes that go to the Internet. I'm afraid I will clog them up and then Senator Ted Stevens (R - ALASKA) will get pissed at me. I'm afraid I won't come up for air once I start telling my friends and family of the news in my life, which admittedly might seem small compared to having a three ill behaved children or a trip around the world with an older man.

To solve this problem I just ignore it -- it's easier that way. I can't discern between the big stories and the small ones because somehow when you have children those lines blur and you're not sure what's what anymore. How do I explain to a friend the horror of watching an overly aggressive doctor repeatedly attempt to force a catheter into my daughter's vagina while she screams and cries and looks at me like, "Hey lady with the num-nums, WHAT THE FUCK?!"