I didn’t have a chance to read the piece til last night, when Sophie was taking a bath and therefore confined to a small space. I skimmed Emily Gould’s latest confessions from atop the closed toilet seat.

She’s a better writer than my snarky friends who’d already read the piece had said. (Yes, they do deliver the New York Times in Phoenix, and there are a few people who read it, although most of the people I know are like me — they get the Sunday Times but rarely have a chance to read beyond the front page of the Style section. The last time I really read that paper, I was in college, and therefore didn’t understand much of it. But I looked cool with it spread out before me at the Motley coffee house.)

I’m two weeks in on my own blog thing, and I still haven’t learned to link or size pictures, but here’s the super-arty shot I took of the NYTM cover:

Yeah, if I’d seen that before I committed to my year of blogging, no freaking way would I be on here right now, typing away for no one but myself. (And possibly my mom. Thanks, Mom.) I will never get the hits that chick got because I’m not going to write about my sex life (nor would you want to read about it, I’m an old married lady) and the most titillating thing I have to say on the topic at all is that my greatest hope for Sophie is that she grows up and falls in love and has great sex of her own.  Which will be a challenge not for the obvious reasons but because neither of my girls will ever be allowed to date. (Ha. Tired joke.)

The thing about Emily Gould is that she was ahead of the curve. She has, of course, now slung-shot herself past it, and has probably already joined the advertising firm that hired Ruth Shalit. (There’s a name from the 90s for you. Squint. You’ll remember.)

I will continue to blog, and I will try to forget that I figured out how to check my “blog stats” on wordpress.