If You Blog It, They Will Come

Remember the saying in the movie Field of Dreams, the one that inspires Kevin Costner's character to turn his backyard into a baseball diamond? "If you build it, they will come." And they do. All the greats from baseball history wind up playing in the former cornfield. I'm reminded by this because it seems that in my case, if I blog it, they will come. Out of the crazy woodwork.

In the case of many who doth protest, I was not even aware that they read my blog. Thank you for coming from the four corners of the earth to read what I write, get miffed, and retaliate. You have every right. And while I might (maybe not, there's a slight chance, oh forget it) not have written something knowing that the subject would read it, I stand by my statements as truth. Not necessarily sugarcoated enough to taste good, but still the truth. My only request is that if you feel you have been wronged in being called out, maybe match the degree of your response to the initial offense. It's hate mail etiquette 101.

For example, I may have called you a crazy cat lady, not only because there is a sizeable feline community taking over living in your home, but also because you relate to the cats but not to actual people. You are all cat, all the time. If I'm being totally honest, pretty much everyone says you are a crazy cat lady, I just came right out and wrote it instead of whispering behind your back.

And then you throw down the giant bag of Meow Mix and fire off a response saying that I am only interested in soap operas and hot rollers and finding out who is the fairest of them all. Simply not true, but thank you for your feedback. Hot rollers are a necessary evil in my ongoing quest for big hair, I only watch one soap opera and I refuse to defend that guilty pleasure, and as for who is the fairest of them all--well, that's a matter of opinion (but I kind of think you were looking at me when you said it...just saying). Now, when we got to the part where you said I was an unproductive excuse for a human being...meow. Put your claws back in, for heaven's sake. (Most of the other folks I called out in Frankly, My Dear agreed that their subjects of conversation may have, in fact, been a bit lacking. Now we're all moving onward and upward.)

If you have, perhaps, given me a gift I was less than thrilled with/horrified to receive, you probably read about it on the blog. But only if it was in the very top echelon of crummy gifts. So really, it's almost an honor to be mentioned. Hey, Clint gets recognition for his style of gift-giving all the time and he hasn't tried to smother me in my sleep. Yet. That I am aware of. Should you feel you have been wronged by my judgment, I might suggest that you simply comment or email that your gift was dandy and we obviously have different tastes. Instead, some of you, under the blanket of anonymity, basically wrote that you wished I was dead. This seems ever-so-slightly harsh in my opinion.

P.S. If we haven't already, let's not swap gifts again. I don't want to wake up Christmas morning with a horse head in my bed.

I am also quite resentful of another comment (again, by the very fiery and assertive "anonymous") which stated that I make Honey Boo Boo look classy. You can get away with saying many things about me, and I will grin and bear it--I have taken the labels "narcissist," "intolerant", and "bitter" on the chin), but when you start comparing me to a family who smears road kill with mayonnaise and calls it Sunday dinner, you'd better redneckonize. I am many, many things, but Honey Boo Boo I am not. (As further evidence, for as long as anyone can recall, I refuse to eat any food on the bone and will only eat Duke's mayonnaise--take that, haters).

I knew full well that when I wrote Tantrums and Tiaras, some Pageant Pattys would be less than pleased. Their reactions were as predictable as rhinestone earrings and beaded ballgowns, with accusations of sour grapes, jealousy, one bad apple spoiling the bunch. But then anonymous sources started really throwing mud--things that were untrue and that were about as a friendly as getting kicked in the rear with a five inch stiletto. Fight fire with fire, but don't go up against a match with a blowtorch, ladies. You will never win Miss Congeniality that way.

I do realize it was inevitable. If you are going to bathe yourself in compliments, you can count on someone farting in the bathtub. So I'll make a deal with you: I won't hold back, but I will do my best to add a measure of kindness to the dose of reality. Kind of like a little "bless your heart" before I tell you what I really think. And you can feel free to comment and give me a piece (or two) of your mind as well, so long as we keep the death threats, wild, irrational rants and below-the-belt remarks to a respectable minimum. I can take it, and you can bank on the fact that this belle will keep right on dishing it out. It's all in good fun, and you might as well learn to laugh at yourself--there's a good chance the rest of us already are.

In the always prophetic words of wrestler Ric Flair, "Whether you like it, or you don't like it, learn to love it! It's the best thing going today!" Wooooo!, indeed, Ric.