If you read my blog on January 3, you would know that I only read 4 other blogs. So, Friday afternoon, during a rare eclipse when The Nosy Meap was asleep, The Middle Child was intently studying his Sea Monkey bowl looking for hatchlings and all my home/work chores were done, I decided to take a gander and look at my “competition”.
Well, it is now apparent to me why I am not famous and companies aren’t blowing my phone up to sponsor my blog.
I do not write actual curse words when I blog.
Yet, readers L-O-V-E filthy curse words.
For those of you who know me, I do love to curse. My husband loves to curse. We love to discover new creative and inventive curse words. We like to make curse words up. We are amazed that the worst word The Oldest has ever said was “dammit”, and we are pretty sure he heard it from my Dad.
BlogReaderCommenter’s love curse words. The more, the better. They seem to like when the f word is used in all tenses and used often. BlogReaderCommenter’s also squeal with delight when the blogger calls someone a d-bag. Everyone loves that word.
Unfortunately for me, I don’t think I need to throw F bombs into every paragraph I write- regardless if I actually say them in every paragraph I speak. I think I can make you chuckle and you can get the picture by saying *($#*. There is something about the written curse word that makes me feel… a teensy bit dirty?
Even when I called my little Southern town of Tallahassee home, where women don’t curse with the urgency and frequency of my new Northern brethren (look for upcoming blog, Northern Preschool Mom’s versus Southern Preschool Mom’s), I would say “Shut the front door!” versus “Shut the *$& up!”. (My favorite phrase upon hearing juicy gossip). I think written curse words threaten my journalistic integrity. (Ok, stop laughing now). I am not pretentious- besides all that silly hyphen stuff, I am well aware I could not feed the family if I decided to pursue a career in writing. I can barely pay for summer vacation in my actual profession of sales. I recently consulted with my bff (I tend to try to surround myself with actual talented and sparkly people. It makes me feel a little better about myself) who is a published pedigreed journalist, and she agreed with me.
Not that I should bet the farm on her. She once left a feta salad from Eatzi’s in our trashcan over the course of a weekend. By Sunday, it smelled like dead mice.