Blogging Housewives and Writer Muscles

Do blogging housewives dilute the power of the medium? And, despite being a professional writer, am I also a blogging housewife ('cause I'm a housewife, too, despite severe inadequacies in the cleaning and laundry areas)? Bartleby's Quotations is certainly soon to add any number of phrases alluding to the fact that "any idiot can have a blog." And that can't be a good thing, can it?
I have recently been writing marketing materials for a novel set in a slightly futuristic, computer-oriented world. While learning a ton about code, probability theory, and online gaming--and enjoying a pretty lively thriller along the way--I find myself thinking hard about the role I play in the cyber world.
I use the internet to receive and send work, to do preliminary research, and to correspond with colleagues and friends. And I blog. Why?
I began blogging shortly before a staged reading of one of my plays as a kind of publicity stunt. What I can't quite explain is the continuation of this odd string of commentaries. Any agnostic will admit that extra proof of one's existence on earth never hurts. But, really, why blog? I am not on any sort of political tirade, nor do I have immediate work to promote. This morning I face almost limitless paying work to do, yet here I am holding steadfast to my vow to post, if not routinely, at least often.
It is definitely cool that even I, with my limited technical ability, can keep a blog up and running (even with pictures) but it is not a particularly useful site--not the kind of place one visits for information updates or funky links. Maintaining a blog with actual vital information requires a ton of responsible research, the kind I've got little time for right now. No, mine is just a collection of musings that like-minded writers-on-the-side might find diverting. In postings, I often find myself encouraging readers (if there are any--and here's another questionable point) to get back to their own keyboards and create their own work.
So, does my droplet of a blog, absorbed into the great sea of indiscriminate internet information, dilute the medium? Or should the question be whether the act of blogging makes me a better citizen, or at least a better writer? Because on days when I don't manage a single line of playscript or fiction text all day, if I blogged at least I flexed the muscle. And that, perhaps, is the point of it all. To open your cyber-mouth and sing. Just because you can.