Come January 2013, I'll be listed as one of the guest bloggers on the magazine's masthead.
But I really don't know how to be a blogger. I didn't have the heart to explain this to the editor. She was so kind, and seemed to want me very badly. And, well, my wife knows I can't say "no" to women . . . especially the ones who beg me over the telephone.
And so, come January . . . I'll be a guest-blogger.
I'm not used to being a "guest" of course. Very few people have the gumption to invite me into their homes, as I generally spill things on the carpet or make a mess in the bathroom. My wife doesn't like to go out with me either, as she always asks, "You're not going to wear that are you?" when we get to the car. She never likes my color-combinations or style selection, and she is always reminding me that my lack of fashion is one of the reasons people don't invite us into their homes. That, and I tend to talk too much about esoteric subjects such as rotisserie chickens, how to trim a candle wick, or how the lemming got its stripes. I can also wax on about such interesting topics as SP-70 sunscreen protection, the subtle shade differences between the colors maroon and burnt sienna, and how to cook one-minute oatmeal.
Most people ask me to leave their homes around 7 p.m., pointing out that they have an early meeting with an IRS-auditor or are slated for a gall-bladder operation the next morning. And they usually mention that the former are preferred to my company.
I'm not used to being a "guest". Even my parents refuse to see me at times, and I am their executor and power-of-attorney.
Naturally, I'm going to bring all of this out on my first guest blog. I've got an ax to grind and a great deal of vitriol to spew. Anyone who reads my blog is going to get an eye full.
But after that, my second guest-blog is wide open.
Perhaps a piece about how to take a shower with a piece of soap the size of a Tic-Tac. I've got to stick to what I know.
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