Wednesday, August 6, 2008

The Eleven People I Think of Before Posting

I was just about to bake up a post about how sorry I am feeling for myself tonight because So You Think You Can Dance is coming to an end and because I couldn't really tell if Chup liked my hot tortilla soup tonight because he just said "I think I might go get a Hot and Ready . . ." then added " . . . it's not because I didn't like your soup." Which leads me to believe that it was because he didn't like my soup.

But just before I got all wound up and ready to spring, I thought about my sister-in-law Lisa who doesn't even have a husband at home to hate her soup. He's in London (or Paris) making jolly and eating sandwiches. Though I must say, she is an exceptional wife and seems to handle her household with aplomb, which includes her Hughie who reminds me a little bit of Rocky from Rocky and Bullwinkle.

Then I started to think of all the people I think about before I post every night. By my calculations there are 11 of them, all sitting in my subconscious before I write to the world what my heart has to offer. Think of it this way: I've got my own board of directors. Only, they don't know they are on my blog's board of directors. And absolutely no one is getting paid. All this sweet Google Adsense cash is MINE! MINE! ALL MINE!

Of course, I write for myself first. But sometimes when I write iffy stuff I mentally consult my BBOD (blog's board of directors) and think before publishing. Like "will so-and-so get that joke?" or "have I already told so-and-so this joke?" And as a last reminder, please don't' beat yourself up if your not one of them. My readers drop like flies, I can be so offensive. Have you heard that joke?

1) Chup
I started blogging for Chup, you know. I hoped my writing would be a turn on. Most of the time it just embarrasses him. So now we have a little ritual where I alert him just before I post. If he likes it he cryptically says "Post. Dogger." But most of the time I ask, "Did you read my post?" and he says "Yep." And not another word. So I just assume it's because he's jealous. Isn't that always the best explaination in any relationship?

2) Azucar
She corrects my typos via e-mail. As a writer I rarely . . . what is the word again . . .uh . . .seriously can't think of it . . . check for errors before I publish . . .

3) My Mutha
Cause she always follows up.

4) My Mutha-in-Law
She probably reads and wonders what her good little boy sees in me. And what kinda mess The Chief has gotten himself into. And should she drive down from TF to save them? Most likely.

5) Stephanie
"Mesa's Beloved Blogger" and I sometimes communicate secretly through our blogs. Hey Steph, take time out for sweet cheeks and cookies that melt in your car! Love, Marshon Brady. (She'll know what that means.)

6) The FBI
Always, they are always watching us. From a distance.

7) Scott Wiley
The record producer who--for some reason--represents my small, male readership. Not that all the males who read my blog are small. Not that Scott isn't small. But let's say this: it is a small world after all.

Totally just dodged a bullet.

8) Emmie
We share an extreme interest in chocolate covered cinnamon bears (among the many things we co-experienced) which I tend to eat while posting. Right now Chup and I are eating Nutty Guys corn nuts in bed, and chewing loudly. Wait, a minute. Now he is eating a Little Debbie Nutty Bar which I thought we banned since my pregnancy. Is there no respect for my diet? And that brings me back to Emmie, who I think should post on her own blog more often. She is also in the Emma: My Story movie. And she is good.

9) Chelle
She's been with me from the beginning. Now we meet up for lunches. I like to think that she is at her computer reading and thinking, "Next time I lunch with c jane I am going to tell her how grown up she is getting!" or "What a big girl c jane! You posted about a book you read!" or "c jane, I remember when you couldn't even conjugate correctly!"

10) My Bishop
Judge in Isreal

11) God
I don't want to have to repent for blogging.

That is almost as ridiculous as feeling sorry for yourself.