I Don't Know Enough Stuff

These days I am intimidated by the huge number of blogs written by smart people.  For the homemaker, there is Pinterest, with its fancy pictures, luring us to click on a link to a better life,  and leading us inevitably to someone's blog.  Someone who knows how to clean burner pans without scrubbing, who knows how to make a skirt out of a man's shirt, who has used paint and dishtowels and her new baby's footprints to make a one-of-a-kind quilt, who can whip up the perfect chocolate mousse with two ingredients and 15 minutes, who knows how to paint a masterpiece using only rubber bands and coffee grounds.  Someone who is the MacGyver of homemaking.  And I read these blogs, amazed that someone not only took the time to come up with this recipe or craft, but that they tirelessly photographed every single step and explained their every move in great detail.  Then I think to myself "I am not that bored smart".  I don't know enough stuff.

Next there are the opinion blogs.  People that have opinions about everything.  Now don't get me wrong, I have opinions (lots of them, in fact), but not so much about politics or current events or anything that requires knowing too much about a particularly uninteresting topic.  These people blog about ministry, presidential candidates, finance, and they quote startling statistics to accompany their opinions.  My problem is, even if I did find something to be opinionated about, I don't necessarily want to have to defend it if someone comes along and disagrees with me.  A younger me would have.  Younger me was always ready for a debate, even if it meant that I was proven wrong halfway through.  I would never accept defeat.  But now, not so much.  Nothing is as black and white as I used to think.

Then there are the "I Have a Million Things Going on in My Life But I Still Find Time to Blog Almost Every Day" people.  Almost always women.  I have several friends like this.  They are clever and well-read and funny.  They are moms, and they still manage to find time to crank out the stories and reviews and favorite links with stunning consistency.  In my head, I imagine that these women don't get up from the computer.  Ever.  But it can't be true because their children survive, and they actually have pictures and stories and they have something to say.  Kind of always.

But me, I have a blog of stories.  I tell them because they are what I know, maybe all I know.  I can't give you my sales pitch for the best presidential candidate, but I can tell you about this one time that I came out of the bathroom with the back of my dress tucked up into my panties*.  I won't wow you with my knowledge about ministry and new ways to reach people that no one else could have ever thought of, but I can tell you about the time I went to Chicago and got stuck in the airport because of the snow and had to take a train downtown and roll my luggage for an entire day down a snow-covered Michigan Avenue, in and out of stores.  I can't (or maybe I just won't) tell you how to make my super famous homemade salsa, a recipe handed down to us O'Dell girls by our mother (who might have gotten from a pastor's wife who got it from a restaurant), but I will tell you about how when you store that salsa in a plastic container, that container must forever be dubbed "the salsa container" or you run the risk of your leftover roast tasting just like salsa.  And I can't tell you how to make your own wedding dress without using a sewing machine, but I can tell you about our wedding day and how everything went wrong and it was so hot the cake melted and no one was on time, including the groom, and except for the fact that I got to marry Jake and I got to eat Mexican food that night, it was kind of a bad day.

And while I do know some things, like...

• how your 12-year-old** should not have a boyfriend or a girlfriend no matter how innocent or cute you think it is 
• and how you should never ever attempt to bake cookies without parchment paper and I don't know why no one told me this earlier in life because it would have salvaged a lot of cookie dough
• and that credit cards are evil
• and Splenda is always a bad idea in baking, no matter how good the picture looks

I will probably not tell you about these things.  Except for the 12-year-old thing.  I am still considering this blog, which should upset quite a few people (which, of course, is never my intention, but sometimes does and so I weigh it carefully beforehand).  And yes, I know I don't have children of my own, but I have a brain and so that qualifies me to speak out on this subject.  I will leave other parenting topics to the actual parents of the world.  

My job is technically part-time.  My house, at least my bedroom, is always at least a slight mess.  I am not particularly dedicated to the gym.  My calendar is not incredibly busy, and I try to keep it that way.  So really, my lazy once-a-week-if-I-think-of-something blog writing habits are not really excusable. But for those of you who come back once every week or so to read my stories that are lacking in real knowledge and usefulness, I thank you.  And for those who add to the stories by telling me of their own problems and experiences, I love it.  Let's keep the stories coming.

*If you laughed because I said panties, we are bosom friends (and if you laughed because I said bosom, then we will be best friends forever)

** I would extend this to 13 and 14-year-olds, too, but then I would just be asking for trouble, really.