I don't see why, when it's my very own blog, that I get so much editorial advice, but I suppose that is the price of authoring great literary works. I, flawlessly aware of what makes a good quality reading experience, would not have subjected you to these pictures, but my mom insisted. Demanded, even. I knew you would not be interested.
I needed to make 10 dozen chocolate chip cookies on Monday. Take my advice. Don't try it. Just don't. At first you're happily munching away at the dough, rhapsodizing on how wonderfully you make cookies, but by the end you never want to meet another cookie in your life. Or at least until the next day. I didn't want to get any of my hair in the dough, so I tied it back with what was handy, in this case a dish towel.
There's nothing wrong with that. Nothing. But for some reason, my mom felt driven to take some pictures of me and tell me that they'd better show up on my blog. The very idea of telling me what is print-worthy! However, after the photos of my mom skiing were somehow leaked to the press (I suspect Wikileaks myself), I felt I shouldn't make too big of an issue of the matter.