I should write a book!

You have no idea how many people, when they find out I'm a writer, tell me, "I should write my life story. That's a book right there."

Honestly...I'd have to say it's most of them.

I smile, and nod, and say, "I'll bet," but inside I'm thinking, why don't you, and everyone's life is a story, you know and, sadly, oh my gosh, another one who thinks they're so interesting everyone else would want to know all about it.

Although I only think that when I'm feeling cranky or depressed. Because really--yes--everyone's life has the potential to be interesting. They don't even have to be famous people, or have done anything unusual. Think about the diaries kept by pioneer women as their families made their way across the country, a few centuries or so ago. Or letters kept by men and women during world wars. Or even blogs, like this. Fascinating stuff, the bits and pieces of one's daily life, for future generations.

One thing I really enjoy reading is gravestone markers and obituaries. Now don't go all oogy on me; there's some awesome stuff there. Some stones themselves are works of art; especially in cemeteries from the Victorian era. (In fact, I think I'll do some picture taking and story finding in future blog posts...maybe this fall. I love walking through cemeteries when there are bright yellow and red leaves crunching underfoot and the air smells crisp and full of change. So stay tuned for that.) And in some colonial-era cemeteries, there are poems, Bible verses, and even telling pieces of the owner's life story carved into the stones. Lost at sea is a common one here in Rhode Island. There's one stone in Cumberland that tells about the person's last moments, drowning in a mill pond. Things like that make me think of those left behind, mourning, wishing to hold onto a piece of their loved one by telling their story, showing their significance, and how much they were loved.I think I'm going to use this when I decide to write "the big book". Kinda sorta. I'll change things, of course, but the idea of it is just delicious. Imagine being either woman and NOT knowing about the other? Talk about a twist in your life's journey. 

At any rate, I think this is why I was particularly intrigued by the following story. You'll have to click on the URL for the details, but it caused a story to start spinning. http://www.littlethings.com/two-obituaries-leroy-blast-bill/?utm_source=shemarm&utm_medium=Facebook&utm_campaign=obits

I hate starting blogs.

Actually, blogging in general isn't my favorite thing to do, either.

In part, that's because no one reads my blogs. Except me. And that's probably a good thing because in the end, it makes me realize several things:

1) I'm not as important as I think I am

2) No one else is as important as they think they are

3) It probably doesn't matter how clean my house is, because no one ever comes over, anyway

If you've been paying attention, you might be wondering how number three fits into the other two. Let me explain.

My husband (of twenty-three years) is a neat freak. Like, anal about neatness. I, on the other hand, enjoy a neat (and even clean!) home, but am not about to go ballistic if a dust bunny rolls out from under the bureau and attacks my foot.

Instead, I'll vacuum the crap out of out it and call it a day. But whether the dust bunny expires at my hand or my husband's, the point is--no one cares about either my blog or how clean my house is, except me. And my husband, who is convinced that I should be worried about how clean the house is because it's my job (or so he says) to take care of it. It should matter to me, he thinks, because someone important might drop in and demand my hospitality at any moment. Which is ludicrous.

I don't know anyone important.

But let's say I did. Let's say my someone important was, like, the Pope. Because...well, he's pretty important. Here is a picture of what Bill probably imagines he'd do when he popped into our home:

The dust bunnies. The dust bunnnnnnnniiiies! O-di!

Serves him right, in my opinion. Who pops into anyone's house without calling ahead? That's just bad manners. And if you're going to pop in, you get what you deserve.

This makes me realize something else: There are two types of people in the world--those who think someone important, like the Pope, is going to drop in any minute (and therefore, the fate of the universe depends on the state of dust bunnies in one's home) OR those who really don't give two toots about the state of the dust bunnies (but who can, in a pinch, conquer them without a lot of fanfare and holler.)

So this leads me to another realization: There is a third type of person in the world: my neighbor, Steve, who hoards things to sell at yard sales and flea markets, and who doesn't care who pops in because he loves his boxes and piles of crap. Personally, I think the Pope and anyone else would probably clutch their throats in horror at what they might find in a house like Steve's, whether they called ahead of time or not.

Here is a photo of something Steve couldn't sell at either a flea market or a yard sale, so he left it out on the curb for whoever might want it. (Probably not the Pope):

Please pick up after your futon.

Personally, on the great scale of clean, I'm the zero. Rather, the norm. You know, because I clean when I need to, and don't clean when I'm doing something else--like writing. Or, in this case, blogging.

I'm not sure where Steve lies on Great Scale of Clean. It's possible he fell off of it, completely. At any rate, welcome to my blog. It's messy. But at least, it's never boring. Not that it matters--because no one will visit anyway. Not even the Pope.

Oy-vay.