You mean, people LIKE me? (Or..."F-bomb warning.")

I'm sitting here amazed. People are reading the blog.
People I KNOW are reading the blog! And so are complete strangers. Some of which like what I say enough to start following my crazed ramblings. Wow. That means I need to get interesting.
So what do I write about? Or rather, what do I write about that I can actually talk about? There is so much going on in my life that, for one reason or another, cannot be shared.
Oh how I wish I could. I've got a regular Mexican Telenovela, complete with all the drama and dramatic background music, that would make for an awesome plot to a best-selling novel. But so much of that drama is off-limits, so I'm left with the boring trimmings.
"We went to Target today and I bought a few new skirts!"
Or...
"My mother's poodle is driving me insane with the constant barking at imaginary shadows. Maybe I'll feed him to the coyotes and pretend to be upset when he turns up 'missing.'"
Or...
"Buttercup said her entire ABC's for the first time this past week! Even the "Next time won't you sing with me" part!"
And of course we can't forget about...
"Hey world, who wants to read my breath-taking description of waiting for my nail polish to dry?"
Right....that's exciting shit. No wonder you keep coming back to see what is up in the oh-so-tantilizing-adventures-of-Pauline.
It's not that I don't want to share. It's just that well, there's a real fear of completely opening myself up to friends and family. Strangers? Yeah...that's ok with me. I don't know you so I don't mind sharing that on my first "date" with my hubby after five months of him being gone for work, he decided to point out the incredibly long chin hair that magically morphed itself onto existence somewhere between applying my lipstick and getting into the mini van. At least he was gracious enough to let me run back into the house so I could grab the tweezers and take care of the little bastard while en route to see our movie.
And then there's the subject of my ever-expanding ass and apparant disregard for my health. Yeah, I know wishing the cellulite to go away and making deals with the Devil to suck 35 pounds of still-here baby fat off my once-trim thighs and belly aren't doing me any good. I know I need to eat right, work out, and stop burying my "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret"-type feelings under layers of cheesecake and hidden chocolate bars.
But knowing and actually doing are two different animals. Doing and continuing-to-do-so are even more so. And sometimes, it's just easier to pretend the bigger clothes I am buying were just mis-labled than to dig up the energy to give a real damn about myself, ya know? (And chocolate is just so fucking good!)
Shit like that is fine for strangers to read. People I know? That's where it gets weird.
The funny stuff? Sure, email me. Text me. Call me and laugh. Because that "Hey sweetest, you might want to take care of that chin mullet before we get to the movie theater" moment was priceless.
But the inner-most thoughts shit? The diary-like entries where I contemplate my place in the world and what kind of person I am and if I'm ever actually going to figure myself out? Can we just pretend you didn't see that? That I'm not someone you know and instead just some kick-ass writer you happened upon while blog-hopping?
The written word is me naked. And expressing myself on the world-wide web is akin to walking outside to get the mail in nothing but my toe nail polish. It doesn't matter who sees me, or if no one is there to wonder what the hell I was thinking. I'm still standing there, naked, wondering why I didn't think to grab my robe on the way out front door.