Zen and the Art of Motherhood

I think I'm back.  For reals this time.

While I was a tad obsessed with tweaking my design, many of you have offered me a wonderful suggestion.

"SEEK PROFESSIONAL HELP."

Yeah, if I had any active synapses still firing, I would have heeded this wise warning.  I still might, but in the meantime, I just needed to figure out how things worked.

Why must I inflict pain on myself in this manner?  Good question.

I realize there's something inside of me that is just  too curious.   I can't seem to leave well enough alone.

There was the time I was determined to paint the house myself.  Why hire a nice, tidy painter, when I could do it myself.  How hard could it be?  Two years, a hundred cans of paint and a whole set of professional painter supplies later, I realized the error of my ways.  But I am a damn good painter, if I do say so myself.

Or how about the many pieces of junky furniture I've lugged home from yard sales because I was certain that I could transform them into works of highly creative, inspired art.  Part of my collection still graces our garage, while most have gone on to live out their useful lives in some thrift store or another.  Whenever my family sees me making my way down the street -- the trunk of the van ajar, holding my latest find -- they just shake their heads and smile.

Too bad I never seem to learn.  My inquisitive nature may offer a challenge or two, but when it comes to results, I'm no Martha Stewart.  Instead I'm sporting an eerie resemblance to our furry monkey friend, George.

After a few weeks spent developing a totally uninspired, average design, I've come to a decision.  When it comes to a creative outlet, I'd better stick to writing.

 Intelligence is Overrated,