What Not to Blog About

I’m not supposed to blog about my child. Twisted predators may discover her online, kidnap her in the night and use her to provide charming toddler stories for their blogs instead of mine. The sickos.

I’m not supposed to blog about my moral convictions. Heaven forbid I tick off the Wiccans with my family's ban on drinking blood at the dinner table and the ACLU sues the pants off me.

I’m not supposed to blog about bodily orifices or any matter that escapes them. My readers can’t be troubled with the devastations of anatomy. I don't even know what toilets are for. Kitty baths? Foot spas?

I’m not supposed to blog about my husband. I would hate to crush is employer's heart by the revelation that the man bleeds. His law firm hired him to be a ruthless lawyer who would swallow live kitten whole at a Senior Partner's request. I don't dare portray a man with a healthy personal life.

I’m not supposed to blog about why parenting can stink. Imagine all the young idealists I could talk out of having children with one really graphic post about a diaper explosion in the grocery store. I can't have that on my conscience. Instead I rely on manipulative propaganda: Stretch marks are the new cleavage! Colic is groovy! Spanking can be fun!

I’m not supposed to blog about my siblings. After a many distressed phone calls from my family, I’ve realized I’m an embarrassment to everyone around me and to please limit my posts to making fun of the common enemy - yours truly.

I’m not supposed to blog about my job. Being an Apartment Manager gives me Double O status and revealing the lurid details of my finds while cleaning the laundry room would incense my employer and land me out on the street.

I’m not supposed to blog about why Southern California is better than any other locale in the United States. But it is. Get over it. Join us.

I’m not supposed to blog about anything that makes my church look silly. Mormons are NOT silly people. Try us. Tell us your best joke and we'll stare you to the ground. Have you ever seen one of our missionaries in the dead of summer on a women's bicycle in a full dress suit with his pants rolled up, wearing a teal helmet and a Winnie the Pooh backpack full of scriptures? Yeah. We're dead serious.

I’m not supposed to blog about my in-laws. So what if their idea of fun on a Saturday night is setting fire to a huge pile of trash full of dirty diapers and standing around in a circle while the glowing embers fall slowly into their hair. I have no comment. No comment whatsoever. Zip.

I'm not supposed to use anyone's real name on the blog. If I ever did reveal someone's secret identity online and they didn't turn up a stalker or two it would crush their illusions of grandeur. It's better to just pretend we are all stalker-worthy and exist under our intriguing screen names of PookieCakes and SkiddleBum. Anonymity is all that stands between us and detestable fame.


With all these restrictions, I'm amazed I’ve been able to sustain this site for over a year. Fear not, I have an exciting agenda planned for the month of February. You can look forward to a twelve part installment on the pros and cons of breathing and an enthralling How-To series on folding navy socks. I promise you'll feel no emotions whatsoever while reading them and forget everything you've read instantaneously. In fact, you may end up a little dumber for having read it. It's everything the masses want! Hollywood Flakes offers you its protection.