I had the best idea for a blog post as I was lying (or is it laying–I don’t feel like Googling it) in bed last night. It occurred to me to get up and make a note about it, but it was such a perfect idea that I was sure I would remember it.

I didn’t.

I want to say it had something to do with my mom, or motherhood, or being a queen, but I could be totally off. Maybe it had to do with the importance of reading to your children or how the Yankees threw last game so they could win the Series in their new stadium. It might have been a treatise exploring the finer points of a frozen Snicker’s bar or a PSA about not drinking six Diet Cokes during the day if you plan to sleep at night.

Hell if I know.

Most of my profound thoughts really can be conveyed in less than 140 characters–not that I share all of them on Twitter, but it makes me a little hesitant to throw them out there and count them as a post.

Maybe I should start carrying around another Moleskine just for my incredible thoughts and ideas and then I can serve up a bunch at a time for your viewing pleasure. What’s one more Moleskine, right? I mean there’s the one I have for work, the one that has my older random notes and Christmas lists, the one I’m using for current journaling and then another small one that found it’s way in my bag. Shit. I have a Moleskine problem.

I guess that’s better than a mole problem–or a skin problem.

Actually I have a skin problem, but you’re probably not interested in my eczema or the latex gloves I wore at work the other day so I could apply the prescription ointment I have for said eczema so I wouldn’t rip all of the skin off my hands nor get the ointment on my keyboard. No one seemed to notice them until I began to use hand gestures during an emotional conversation with my boss at which point she stopped in her tracks which was actually a good thing because the conversation was getting way too heavy for the both of us and we needed that moment of comic relief–you know like when Olympia Dukakis offers up Shirley McLaine for Sally Fields to hit during the funeral scene in Steel Magnolias. I mean every damn time I watch that movie I’m a sloppy, snotty mess as Sally screams that it was supposed to be her in the casket and then here comes Olympia. Thank goodness straight guys had the innate sense never to watch that movie with me, because the boogers… Though that did seem to work for Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally–well at least until the uncomfortable silence when it was all over.

Hmph. Nope. That wasn’t the idea for my post either.