You are going to love this blog. It’s called Brooklyn Mabel and it captures the many moods of Mabel, who is funny and shy—but not that shy. She’s also introspective and oh-so-neurotic.

She even wrote about birthing the blog:

Push………………………..!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Puuuuuuuuuuuuuushhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!! Just
one more big push and she’s out!!! Congratulations, you’ve just given
birth to your first blog. Oh, my god, now what do I do? Do I have to
take care of it? Feed it? Pay attention to it when I’m tired and just
want to space out?

Why do people write blogs anyway? As soon as
I made the decision to write this blog it started freaking everyone
out. My 10-year-old son Trevor was stressing out, "Are you going to
write negative things about me? If I get in trouble are you going to
post it on your blog?" Trevor asked in a worried voice. I think he’s
scared that the whole frigging world is going to know about his self
conscious prepubescent life.

When I told my sister Wanda I was
writing a blog, she felt threatened. "That’s so selfish, why do people
write blogs? They should spend more time outside getting some exercise.
You’re just going to sit inside and be a shut in? What are you going to
write about? You want everyone to read about your life, your private
business? I hope this isn’t going to cut into our chatting time."

But Brooklyn Mabel is determined to blog. She comes from family of journalists and majored in journalism in college—and hated every minute of it. She even worked in public relations and advertising post college, which she detested.

But she’s a born writer and her blog covers many things, ncluding painful and honest stories about her mom, who has Alzheimers and lives in nursing home.

Most times when I visit Renaissance Gardens, my mother and the
other residents are in their wheelchairs in front of the television.
Their eyes are not looking at the screen, but at some random spot on
the rug or the arm of their wheelchairs.

Today when I walked
into the activity room next to the dining room, I scanned the back of
the heads of the patients to find my mother. One woman looked like her
and I had to stare at her a few times to make sure that my mother’s
appearance hadn’t changed drastically. No, that wasn’t my mother, just
someone who resembled her.

I walked to her room, and she was laying in her bed.  I thought she was asleep, but she wasn’t.

"Hi
Mom! Happy Birthday!" I said. "Happy Birthday!" my mother repeated. She
often mimics what is said to her and doesn’t initiate much conversation.

Vagina World, a post about her family’s visit to WACK!: Art and the Feminist Revolution at PS 1 (closed May 12th) is certainly worth a read

As I walked into the feminist art exhibit last week, there was a
painting of people entering an art show through a giant psychedelic
vagina. As you walked further down the hall, there was a huge piece of
red fabric resembling the vulva and clitoris. This was Vagina World.

My
son Trevor and husband Kevin were not really digging the exhibit. "I
guess I can’t really relate to it," they both chimed in together. Well,
they could still support female power even if they weren’t female.

My
parents Ruth and Phil considered themselves liberated feminists. They
had a couples women’s lib party. They thumbtacked slogans written on
cardboard on the groovy corkboard wall in our living room. The only
saying I recall was, "Herstory not History." I remember my mother
wearing a purple psychedelic dress and holding a gin and tonic.

Brooklyn Mabel, welcome to the block. You can bet that we’ll be reading