Why I blog.

Around this time of year, bloggers get nostalgic, thinking of their ten most poignant moments of last year, writing about the joy, the immense clarity and amazing community they get from blogging. What they get from blogging is so much more than they give.

I probably would do that too, if I were poignant. Or if my readers weren't also emotionally stunted adults obsessed with all things genitalia and laser pointers. (Genitalia and laser pointers: the original chocolate and peanut butter, friends.)

Blogging does fill a crucial need in my life, and not blogging is no longer an option. New Year's Eve was an opportunity to see old friends. A good friend was having a party, and PHubby and I would see people we haven't seen in years. Fun, right!?

Until I opened conversation by asking if it was too early to tell everyone about the time I tried to make PHubby look like an ass sex fiend in front of the surgeon who was about to give me a colonoscopy (cute anecdote), and then went right into the Dr. TwoFingers story. That's when my cheeks burned and I backed myself into the corner next to the bar and drank a full cup of beer before engaging more than one person at a time in conversation.

The next morning, driving home, PHubby and I were talking about how great it was to see everyone and how we should see these people more often. I told him how I'd embarrassed myself and how, if I had been blogging, I would have gotten all impropriety out pre-party, so as not to spark a night of conversation with details about my birth canal and asshole.

PHubby said he came up with a great new sex move no one had ever heard of -- and when he had the idea, he couldn't express it well enough in person. It needed a blog post. "Oh, yeah? Let's hear it," I said, and rolled my eyes, bracing myself for another generic football-testicle-man-humor joke every man thinks is original and that has never once made someone laugh.

"OK," he said. "You know the Dirty Sanchez?"

"Of course," I replied, because I have self respect.

"How about the Amish Sanchez?"

"Ummm, no."

"Right. So. It's like a Dirty Sanchez, but instead of drawing a mustache, you run your dirty dick along the length of the jaw line."

And with that one sentence, he both reaffirmed my love for him and drove me into the arms of Naked Cupcakes.

New Year's Resolution: return to the blog.