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This one is actually big, at least to me. I so often get lovely notes in my comments, delightful thoughts, ideas I hadn't thought of, stories that someone shares with me about their own experiences. I know that some of you want to be anonymous, and that is no problem, but I wonder if you know how nuts you are driving me because if you did you would absolutely fix it by following the advice that I am about to give you.
If you are going to leave me lovely comments, what you could do (pretty please) is set up a dummy gmail account, just make sure that your real information is not provided when you create the account. If you comment on blogger blogs while you are logged into that gmail account, the blogger can email you back to thank you or chat with you or whatever.
If you are going to leave me nasty comments (completely distinguished from challenging or disagreeing comments), please remain anonymous so that I can pretend you are not a real person, but rather that computers have overtaken your brain and caused you to lose your perception of what is acceptable behavior in any medium.
And I KNOW. I know. I know. Why don't I just switch to wordpress? It writes up comment responses for you and let's you approve or disapprove them before it emails them out for you. I'm scared of wordpress, okay? I'm scared of all things that require a "plug-in" including vacuum cleaners. (Also, public sandboxes for the record. Cats and squirrels poop in those things; it's disgusting. What public safety genius thought: I know, let's put giant wild life litter boxes beside our public playgrounds. I bet they don't have public sandboxes in Canada. Moose shit is huge.)
I'm done bossing you around now.
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Remember this?
Not so much.
He's huge. Do not let him any where near your sandbox.
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Nate still hates for nature of any kind to touch him.
You are about to stick my precious little piggy toes in that disgusting natural lake water, aren't you? Does that fact that I am trying to rip off your cheek give you any clue as to how I feel about that?
No? Well that let me howl my displeasure.
It's like a big fish toilet, you idiots, what next, do we drink it?
I don't know where he gets this attitude. I swear.
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Finally, this scared the crap out of me last night.
I'm not sure if I thought Nate had climbed out of his crib, crawled down the hall, and navigated a flight of hardwood stairs, or perhaps that the horrid, scary baby in Pet Cemetery had come to get me at last, or if I thought my house was being invaded by giant, mutant babies of another variety, but it took a long time for me to recover and I had to disassemble the giant, mutant baby stack-o-boxes.
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That was a disturbing little peek into my psyche, wasn't it? I fear sandboxes and giant baby heads. Please leave me an email when you comment so that I can contact you. Huh. Wonder why some people don't?
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