People in my family are suspicious of technology. My hungarian, gypsy grandma swears that going to the doctor makes people sick (which was true, perhaps, when consumption was a public health concern), my father didn't invest in DVDs until 2003, and my mom's demands only a cellphone "that makes calls". So, in the grand tradition of those who probably would have labeled automobiles "a fad that can never replace horses", I am just now getting turned on to blogging, fashionably late to the dotcom party. My decision is partly at the behest of my hilarious friend, Katie, who has an amazingly funny blog that I hesitate to even try to emulate. So, um, I'm not going to.
Let me be the first to say... I don't have much insight to lend to your life. Frequently, the most exciting part of my day is discovering that I've gotten through it without dribbling spaghetti sauce or coffee on my shirt. I don't have any special skills--I can't offer knitting advice or let you know the best way to find a car online--and while I'm a pretty good cook, my boyfriend still doesn't fully trust me not to burn the chili mac. In the immortal words of Sandra Bullock in "Miss Congeniality," all I have is sarcasm and a gun. Minus the gun. I do have a taser, which my then-boyfriend gave to me as a Valentine's gift instead of flowers. Again, this is not going to be an insightful blog in the vein of Julie and Julia. It might be closer in caliber to poetry written by middle school girls on the back of their notebooks. But, if you're anything like me (I know you are, because if you're my ''follower" you are either a close personal friend or one that bestowed at least part of my DNA--Hi, MOM!), sarcasm goes pretty far. So here it is, Confessions of a Cashew. You're welcome, America.