The other day, my mom asked me if I worry about people reading about themselves in my blog. Obviously I don’t because if I did, I wouldn’t have created a website and it wouldn’t be all over my Facebook page. Next thing you know it will have an Instagram account, a Twitter handle and a Pinterest board.
All of this ridiculousness needs an outlet and I figure that the people I write about could use the self-awareness, free of charge. The likelihood of any of them reading it is slim to none because to say that I am estranged from them all is an understatement. There is a block feature on cell phones for a reason. And let’s talk about that feature for a minute… With the increase in telemarketing calls and people telling me the IRS has a warrant out for my arrest, I am far more liberal in using it than I ever have been before. Not to mention the messages left in other languages that are probably telling me that my entire life has been hacked and I should send money to a Nigerian prince immediately. It is just better not to know.
I guess it is good that I have my mother to keep me in line except she told me that I am not allowed to write about our family. How is that fair? There is so much good material! I come from a long line of nutters. To say we are an eccentric bunch only skims the surface.
Do strangers care that my very macho Australian Dad wears night shirts (DO NOT CALL THEM NIGHTGOWNS) to bed that say things like, “The Cat’s Pajamas” and are covered in dancing cats or “Let Sleeping Dogs Lie” with a bunch of dogs all over it? He also puts on his nightshirt and robe when he is ready for dinner guests to go home. You know it is time to call it a night when Dad comes out fully dressed for bed.
Maybe the truth is that Mom doesn’t want me to write about her but everyone else is fair game. I should probably figure that out before I say too much and get disowned. I would hate to be written out of the will and lose the chance to inherit her flamingo collection…