I really could never be a drag queen.

That shit is work. Not like, “You better WORK!” work. But, like actual work in prepping my body shaving and manscaping and buying clothes and stuff.

I’ve had the same makeup in my wee makeup bag for the last 6+ months. I have one color eyeshadow, one lipstick that I can’t even find, and one wrong-shade foundation.

That does not a drag queen make.

Not only would I have to slather on pounds of clown makeup just to leave the house, but I’d have to get a weave, take care of my hair, and actually fix it on a daily basis.

I mean, really. That’s just not possible.

I sit here in 3-days-out jeans, a t-shirt that says “I put the     in lazy,” my 4-days-out unwashed hair in a greasy ponytail, with leg hairs so long they’re starting to curl.

I’m pretty much living up to my t-shirt message, but I’m not living up to the challenges of a drag queen girl.

Now that we’re talking about clothes, where does a drag queen buy her clothing? I’m pretty sure it’s not Lane Bryant, Old Navy, or the bottom of my her clean laundry mound. I’m also pretty sure the ladies don’t wear frayed jeans and fluffy socks with their Sketchers.

OH! and the music. I’m definitely not up on club dance music. (Remind me to get a few Gagas, Lamberts, and something featuring Akon.) My teeny tiny rotation of 90s music will not be good enough for the club kids and/or hag crowds when up Doin’ My Thang! on stage.

The most important key to a drag queen’s success that I’m lacking? A fab name. My nickname in high school was Fro (dumb), and since then, I’ve not had any good nicknames and I don’t have the brain power to come up with a catchy drag queen name.

See? I’m a total drag queen fail.

Double fail? The shoes. I live in pretty much Sketchers and gasp Crocs*. Shoes with heels hurt like a mo’fo. Shoes with a heel AND platforms? Forget it. I’d bust my ankle in under 2 seconds.

It’s just not in my nature to be a drag queen, so please, let me live in peace as the schlumpy housewife mommy blogger barf that I am.

And then there’s the whole penis ordeal.

I have drag queen penis envy.

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What? I only wear the Crocs to Disney during the summer months. Don’t hate. Plus, I have foot issues. Back off, eh?

The examples of my laziness are infinite.

Truly. They’ll go on for.ev.er.

**I still haven’t fully unpacked from BlogHer. I’ve been home 10 days and my suitcase is still in the living room. It’s becoming it’s own focal point of the room. I think it adds a sense of worldly adventure.

**My girls have a talking USA states puzzle. They played with it in Claire’s bed this weekend (and really, what better place to play with a 45-piece* puzzle than in a bed?) and brought the puzzle out to the living room. The puzzle is now missing at least 4 states (I’m sure I’ll find them when I wash her sheets next month-ish week), so the puzzle is now talking to us. Every time the clouds move, it tells us a state and its capital. Every time the dog walks by, we hear, “Nebraska; capital, Lincoln.” Turn a light out, and you can hear, “Florida; capital, Tallahassee.” I’m now thinking of leaving it here in the living room as an educational center. The girls will learn their capitals one state and one shadow at a time.

**The massive stack of business cards collected from BlogHer are still sitting on the floor next to me. I’m waiting for my magical assistant fairy to be made to help me.

**I haven’t washed my hair in 4 days. Maybe 5.

**I MAY re-post this for Aiming Low.

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*I realize there are 50 states, but luckily, those smartypants puzzle makers mash up those semi-important New England states so Rhode Island and Vermont don’t end up in the business-end of a diaper.

I’m a self-proclaimed Lazy* Perfectionist** with a blog named A Whole Lot of Nothing. That pretty much sums me up in the social media world.

A good day for me starts after 9am, I find clothes out of the laundry room, it continues with DVRd shows to watch as I Twitter, and ends with clean towels in the linen closet.  A normal day would be up at 8:30am, lucky to find clean undies, watching Noggin shows with my girls making a mess, and ends without a shower.

I do not cook. I do not clean. I do not claim to be any sort of housewife other than the kind that succeeds at surviving the day with semi-happy children. I am lucky enough to have a husband that understands my low-achieving lifestyle and suffers through my inadequacies.

My accomplishments in life include my two girls, an abnormally high knowledge of crap TV shows, my semi-successful online store, Good for the Kids, and I somehow earned a Master’s degree along the way.

*I wrote this as a bio for a super secret, don’t ask don’t tell, upcoming site. Don’t ask me what it is or I’ll have to kill you.
I hate it when people keep secrets.

**Lazy Perfectionist meaning: if I can’t do it perfectly, I don’t do it at all, so nothing gets done.