I am NOT funny, ok?

I froze up creating these blogs because I felt that what people would expect of me when they read them was that I would be funny.

Sometimes customers who meet me at shows look at my stuff and say things like; "I bet you are HYSTERICAL."

Ok, sometimes I AM hysterical but it is usually because my son has his finger in my daughter's nose while the roast is burning, the phone is ringing, and the cat is throwing up on the rug. (There is little humor in constant cat vomit, BTW, ask my husband.)

So I am aware that because I occasionally paint things on pottery that make people laugh that there is the underlying expectation that any blogging I do would have to include some witty remarks or wry observations. I hope readers will lower their expectations. Lower. Lower. Don't forget: blondes have more puns.

Natasha, our wonderful new PR person explained to me today that anybody reading this blog is interested in who the "real me" is. (We obviously pay Natasha a lot of money to say things like that.) Meanwhile, what I want to know is how do people who write these blog things erase the memory of a brother breaking into your sixth grade diary? And why was the lock on those old diaries so ineffective anyway~when most of the girls in America had them? I mean, we BELIEVED those tiny little keys were actually going to protect our deepest secrets. Meanwhile, your mother, your sister, or, as in my case, your brother, could open them with the flick of a bobby pin. And then before you knew it, the secret crush you had on Mark Gaipa and the ponderings of what french kissing really entailed, is public knowledge and revealed after a fight over whose turn it is to do the dishes. Can you ever really recapture the relationship you had prior to that with that little square latched book with the pages edged in gold?

Post traumatic diary syndrome: the bane of any blogger.