To any of you who were in doubt as to what exactly this here is, let me explain. This is a blog. It is not the next great American novel. It is not a collection of writing that has been thoroughly edited by multiple sets of eyes. More often than not it is edited by my own eyes only moments after writing it. Needless to say, a lot is missed. This blog is not aiming for perfection. If you are looking to read posts that are completely free of typos, grammatical mistakes, and unique wordage that comes about after a glass of wine while writing and another while editing find another blog…or better yet, write you own damn blog. No one is asking you, let alone forcing you to read my humble, poorly edited ramblings about life.
And now here is a shout out to all of you mothers. All of you who care enough to pay attention to exactly what buttons to push on your offspring and exactly how to push them and when. It is a talent, it truly is. I commend all of you for your hard work. And now a word from someone who happens to have a mother, STOP pushing those buttons. Remember that post from a few weeks ago? “I’ve got to go mom…I’m going to die soon.” I am fervently urging all with mothers to implement this. So beware. That old saying, “If you don’t have anything nice to say come sit by me.” This does not mean if you have nothing nice to say about those you birthed sidle on up next to them (or call them) for a chat. If you don’t have anything nice to say to those you carried around for nine months then painfully expelled from your bodies DON’T call them or pull up a chair next to them if you are lucky enough to live close enough to see them regularly. It is mean. I know you all think it is your job to correct every wrong in your children, and you think it is your god-given right to push those buttons whenever you damn well please because we invaded you bodies than became ungrateful teenagers for what probably felt like ten years, but you do not. Well, maybe you do, but you should work on keeping it to yourselves. It will prevent the phrase, “I’ve got to go mom…I’m going to die soon,” from being uttered regularly.
One last thing, if you find any editing mistakes in this post feel free to tell me at a time when I am not exhausted, in the middle of something else, or stressed out. (This only applies to those whom I do not share a last name with.) Or you can print the post and mail it my mother she seems to be itching to break out the old hot pink ballpoint pen she used to use to markup everything I ever wrote.