No, I really do. I am sorry if you love them. I should probably say I also never really went through the “I love dolphins” phase. I was kind of a dorky Huey Lewis into George Thoroughgood, David Addison into Arnie Becker into, hula hoop into track shoes kind of dork. All the way through I hated cats and they hated me back.

Ask my sister.

Anyway, the cat today is the proverbial cat in the bag, or out of the bag as it were. I have officially lost track of who reads this blogs, who knows this blog exists and who could use this blog to trip me up publicly. Not that I’d ever say anything that isn’t true, but perhaps I’ve had private battles here that allowed me to play nice, act unhurt or just generally move on in public.

I have no bones to pick to prompt this, just the realization that for the past week or so it’s been my boobs here, specifically me talking about them. One could say it was to demonstrate for my recent presentation that one should be engaging, racing or controversial in order to gain/retain/whatever an audience. The truth is I’ve always done better when being true to myself and my life.

An old colleague that I have recently friended on Facebook posted an entry that said something to the effect of:

Hey, parents- MOTHERS OR DADS, could someone please post about screaming at your kids? Share some audio, maybe publish the note from school saying your kids has not potential. Please?!”

I totally get what he’s going for with this. I left a comment about how in those moments we drop the camera. But seriously, I suppose some people may enjoy reading that and others may enjoy writing about their boobs and sex life all the time. I prefer writing the things that I would like to remember.

My memory is abysmal at best. I need these morsels to lead me back to dried clovers, to snoring rapture and to the days of dolls and romance.

I suppose I could get wrapped up in people that don’t want to read it, or too worried about the people that do, I think instead I’ll keep my eye on the ball and worry about hitting itβ€” thwack. The feeling of the words hitting the screen just right, bits of my heart and mind winking back at me, feels just like a great hit. When it resonates with others, all the better.

Here’s to great shirts, hot dads and golden moments with our kids-not necessarily in that order, or, maybe if the shirt is great enough, in exactly that order πŸ˜‰