Kiss My Grits

You know, I'm going to have to double check that I haven't used that title before, because I've got a couple hundred posts and that's the kind of jerky cliche I'm into, so you never know.

I'll get back to you on that.

Anyway, I've got a bad case of screw-you-and-the-horse-you-rode-in-on. I like to attribute this to being the mother of a three-year-old. I kind of use up all of my patience, understanding, and humoring abilities on a person whose egocentrism, selfishness, and constant neediness is totally age appropriate so I don't have a lot left over for  people who are old enough to know better. 

Only lately it's getting out of control. Lately, I feel that it's not only my capacity to coddle that's diminished but my basic civility. Now, The Dol will tell you, but only with my permission and only in the nicest way possible, that my own brain-to-mouth filter is probably not factory standard. I'm used to introducing myself to my own thoughts as they appear in that little bubble outside of my mouth that lets me know that, indeed, I just said that outloud.

Especially if wine is involved.

Thing is that I'm used to that. I'm not condoning it or saying there's no room for improvement--and if you ask The Dol, she can verify that, too--but I am saying that I've come to accept it as my baseline. Much like black tee-shirts and jeans are also my baseline.

It's what I do.

What I don't do is say it out loud in a way intended to offend. I just say what I say without an ounce of meanness and if it happens to hurt someone's feelings, well, it was never my intention. I haven't been an intentional feeling hurter since my divorce.

Right.

So it's been really fortunate that most of my relationships don't take place in real life because I've got the opportunity to delete my unfiltered comments before they go out in the world. In the past twenty-four hours alone I've backspaced over all kinds of words that I don't normally have occasion to type, including a few that I might have invented.

This is the thing. I know I belong here. I've got an idea that several others of you belong here. But, seriously, me, I'm here. (That was a little hometown Québécois flare thrown in for you.) Let's do it again:

I belong here, me.

You? Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe not so much. That's your deal. I'll respect whatever answer you come up with. But me, this is my little world where I get to suspend disbelief and pretend that everyone shares my sense of humor, that everyone is intelligent and capable of higher level thought, and that everyone knows that this parade is about me, me, me.

And instead I'm wasting my time running spellcheck for people who not only don't get the joke but can't take the time to put together a coherent sentence about why it's not funny. So basically, I'm having to argue with myself about why I'm insensitive and ignorant and just don't get it. This is making me bored.

Except it's not.

I'm having a great time. I just wanted to complain because sometimes that's fun for me. But you know what else is starting to feel like it might be fun for me? Letting people's comments run without cleaning up their typos. And then calling them stupid-donut-heads.

Just for good measure,  I turned off the comments on the dog post.

P.S. I wrote this post over a week ago. I don't remember what it says. But it was time for a new post to go up. In other words, I'm not taking this at all seriously. Seriously.

Comments

[J]

I may not belong here, I may not belong there...but in any regard, next time you cut through my yard you go around.

And while you're at it....throw me down the stairs my lunch.

[Polly Poppins]

You three guys, both of you, come here.