So, it is the day after one of my posts was beautifully “freshly pressed” by the wonderful, magical, fairies at wordress.com. Most people after experiencing such an event, which can only be compared to a ‘blog explosion’ of sorts, tend to write the requisite “Day After I Was Freshly Pressed” post. This involves lots of numbers and screen captures of graphs and proclamations of gratitude, and introspective inquiries as to how in the hell this all happened in the first place. What’s interesting is that no one talks about the physical changes that happen. Yesterday, my Wifesy came home to a Sweet Mother deep in the throes of the mid-afternoon-sweats. This is something that only happens to individuals who have a thyroid condition and to those who have been recently “freshly pressed”. There is also the overnight arthritis that occurs along with the instantaneous carpal tunnel due to excessive comment answering. My hygiene has suffered and my dog thinks I’m an a**hole. So, there you have it. Be careful what you wish for.
Now, I’m going to give you a touch of those “here are my statistics” statements. (Let’s see, views yesterday – 15,927. Views today so far 6,000+.) Lest you think I am some kind of non-feeling android who doesn’t care about that stuff. I realize there’s a touch of arrogance and I’m in danger of becoming a ridiculous braggart with all of these stats references and the genuflecting and the geisha-girl-like bowing. But, then again, I have known all along that my blog would achieve some level of arrogance because they all do and I have written about it here. It will happen to you too. In the blogging world, these things are inevitable like death and taxes. (To entice you to read more than 1 post…yes, I had the required tattoo burned into my flesh this morning. Now, if I can only stop it from bleeding.) Oh, I do, unfortunately, I really, really do care about all of this nonsense. JUST LIKE YOU DO. But, mostly I’d like to tell you a little bit about who I am. Some of you – I am hoping – are new here. I say ‘some’ because I do know that the great majority of people who read my fp’d post will never read anything here ever again. They are the drive-byers and I get it, they have their own mountains to conquer. However, being a comedian for so long has taught me to NEVER take your audience for granted. So, hopefully this post will act as a nice introduction to me and all things regarding this blog. Honestly, I am grateful to have eyes here at all. So, thank you and let’s get down to it.
Why do you call yourself “Sweet Mother”?
Well, the reasons are two fold. “Sweet Mother of God” is an expression I used to always say in a very, over-the-top, dramatic, American, fashion, in regards to things that really shouldn’t have required such a deep level of reaction at all. What I mean is, “Sweet Mother of God” should be said during an earthquake when you are standing in front of a wall that is about to fall on your head, not when you’re at the coffee shop and the baristas have replaced your soy milk with heavy cream. The latter is when I most commonly used it. I say “dramatic AMERICAN fashion” because Americans are overly dramatic. I read a fascinating article once that talked about human communication styles. It said that North Americans tend to be more emotional when they are expressing things. For example, when you are speaking to a North American they want to know how you FEEL about what they are saying. They want you to express this feeling in your response. This has developed in our culture because we are closer to Latin America and have therefore, co-opted their communication style. The British, though, communicate differently. The article went on to say this is because Britain is closer to Asia and Asian cultures have their focus when communicating on LISTENING. Fascinating, eh? (That was for the Canadians.) After living in Britain for several years, this rang very true to me, as I always felt like I was trying to tap dance faster and faster for my British friends while storytelling and the faster I tapped, the harder they tried to listen. “Two nations separated by the same language,” INDEED.
The second reason I refer to myself as “Mother” is because other people have always done so. This phenomenon was a natural occurrence due to my personality. Literally, years ago, when I used to bartend – the other waiters would call out, “Momma, I need two strawberry daiquiris and a margarita STAT.” Momma, me, would make them their drinks and give them a hug if they were ever stiffed on a table and needed a shoulder to cry on. It’s just my nature. I was born to stick up for the little guy, nurture, fight for what’s right, and love. It’s also important to note that although I am not black, most of my friends will tell you – I am a strong, black, woman inside – much like Kathy Griffin. I don’t know why that is. But, then again tell me how in the hell Adele and Dusty Springfield sing like that while also being completely deficient in melanoma and I think you’ll have your answer. Momma’s got soul.
You don’t have kids (yet) so why do you talk about parenting?
Well, that’s NOT the only thing I talk about on here. I also talk about celebrities and blogging and yes, about family. I do that because EVERYONE has some kind of family and we can all relate. I also do it because I enjoy it. I may reference my ‘future gayby’ excessively. In my world, a gayby is a baby made by two gay people (usually with the help of science) and a straightby is a baby made by two straight people (usually with the help of tequila). I started talking about my future gayby because I’m in my late 30’s and QUICKLY approaching 40. It seems to me that I’d like to leave something more in this world when I’m gone than bad credit card debt. So, I’ve been thinking about making a gayby of my own. Consequently, due to my mother-like, mother-ish qualities, I’m a passionate advice giver. Some of that advice might be spot on, some of it might be ridiculous – almost all of it will be dispensed for your amusement and maybe one day for gayby’s when he or she is old enough to drive and annoy the hell out of me.
Are you a dude?
No, I am not a dude. I am all woman. In fact, I am recognizable as a woman, even from the back or so I’ve been told by construction workers on the streets of New York. (New York is where I was born and raised, I will probably reference it a lot. Although I do not live there now.) I believe there was some confusion after my fp’d post as to whether or not I was a dangler due to my reference to Wifesy. We are two gay broads. One a veterinarian (Wifesy) – the other a writer (Sweet Mother). We did not always know we were gay. I say this in case for some ungodly, Westboro Baptist Church-like reason, you think you can’t relate. It’s important that you know, for me, sexuality lies on a continuum. Straight at one end, gay at the other. For straight men – the grey area of bisexuality consists of prison. For straight women – the grey area of bisexuality consists of three martinis. I do not have a homosexual agenda, though – honestly – I am thinking about writing one. I love humanity above all. I hate a-holes without exception. Most of what I say is tongue and cheek. When it’s not, you will know it.
So, that’s me. I am humbled and I love it here. I also love to write. If you are a writer, trying to write, or thinking about writing – we are kindred spirits. Please, in the comments section, tell me all about you. I’m all ears.
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