The blogosphere is a strange place–one that can chew you up and spit you out, embrace you in a group hug, or hoover up every spare minute of your life. And it can even make you correct your grammar, or make your mother call you to correct your grammar.
Seriously folks, you don’t need to sweat the commas, I turn off the editor brain after work. In fact, it’s not even on all the time at work these days, since I moved on from being an editor when I took my new job. (Of course, I’m still super-scrupulous at work, and I’m not just writing that because my boss’ wife reads this blog. Well, OK, maybe a little bit.)
And I do appreciate your concern for my cardiac health, but I have to say that you may have imperiled it by letting me know that your mom regularly reads the blog, L-P. Do you know how much that stressed me out? What have I written about? What words have I used…oh crap!
But nothing I’ve said here will rise to the level of my lunch conversation with my coworkers yesterday. We were swapping dog stories when I described how Barky had been out at Auntie Banana’s house with two other dogs, and how we’d heard all about what good times he’d had and we’re feeling so proud of him for being so well behaved until we got the pictures from Auntie Banana that showed him–and I quote myself here–“humping the shit out of some dog.”
OK, here’s the thing about me and my potty mouth–it’s a binary system. There are two settings:
- drunken sailor who’s just smashed every finger with a sledgehammer
- mouth closed
However inappropriate my description was, I don’t believe that it was incorrect. I’ll let you be the judge: