Spring has sprung, and young women's thoughts turn away from weblogs

Unlike some Philadelphia curmudgeons, I welcome the arrival of spring with open arms (and fewer weblog entries). Baseball season begins in a few weeks, as does the Philadelphia Film Festival. Friend Type E has promised to give me tennis lessons, and my rollerblades are ready to hit Kelly Drive. Saturday marked the first day of reading on the deck and sitting outside at the local coffee shop*, and soon it will be time to haul a picnic, a blanket, a Frisbee, and a stack of magazines over to the Azalea garden. Soon after that, I can start to harass the produce guy at Reading Terminal Market. Good Grief! has never affected my social life, but I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t impacted my quality of life. Last week, as I made colcannon for Superwoman’s annual Irish dinner,** I glanced at the spice rack and realized that it’s been a damn long time since I cooked a real meal. And then I thought about the stacks of unread books that collect dust as I sit at the laptop. Not to mention the dark circles around my eyes, a recycle bin full of unread Economists, and a shower full of soap scum. Not all of the above is weblog-related, of course. However, because this site isn’t strictly a journal or other stream-of-consciousness format and because I’m a compulsive editor, almost everything I write here has been revised about five times, even the shortest entries. Add time for getting links and clipart and for reading and commenting on everyone else’s sites, and the whole “blogging” hobby starts to eat up some serious hours. Though I love writing and love how weblogs can unite people with common interests, the time has come to lay off the Internet a bit (just a bit!) to better enjoy the business of real life. Because real life is pretty damn sweet right now. *The coffee shop, located across the street from Eastern State Penitentiary, is called Mugshots. Get it? **Featuring many wonderful dishes, the best of which is bread pudding with a caramel whiskey sauce. OMFG, as they say.