Pretty often, when I was talking with friends someone said I needed to write.  Allegedly, I’m funny.  I don’t think I’m funny on the blog.

Sometimes, without voice and facial expression, it’s nothing.

Sometimes, facetious doesn’t work in print.  I envy bloggers who can deliver snark.  When I try, I second guess.

Sometimes, it’s double entendre and that’s a problem because it’s my true medium. So much so, that I’d been entertaining the girls making comments on pins and posting them to facebook.  They had the meaning that the divas understood.  But they were so ripe with double entendre, I nearly passed out.*  I had to delete them.

The other day I was feeling wild and free (always a red flag). I added a pic and made a few comments that I thought were funny and got to the point. Which was important to me.

I don’t write a post and forget about it.  I edit and re-edit in my head for awhile.

I teased about a member of the boy band being attractive.  Then I got to thinking about the possibility that I could be older than his mom. What would she think about what I wrote?

Thursday, Pinterest started serving up the hardcore porn.  I sort of think the anger and the ICK made me feel wrong and I transferred it onto the post.  Which wasn’t.

I had the girls read the post, I asked my husband about it and he didn’t remember it.  I asked Jennifer.  She didn’t remember it either. Comments so racy that no one even remembers them. So much for being edgy and funny.

I edited it, anyway, and I like it better now, because it gets to the point.

This One Direction thing has been a gold mine for opening up conversations we need to have. (For starters,  I laid out ground rules in a post and violated all of them.  Lesson one: Cop to your @#$%. Good Times.)

In particular, The girls and I had a long talk this week about marketing and the term: “If you hang around the barber shop long enough, sooner or later you’re gonna get a shave.”  Sex and culture.  Young people aren’t being taught to “possess their bodies in sanctification and honor”. They have been taught to follow their impulse in the moment.

The decision we think we’d make, while having a conversation with our mom about sex,  won’t be what’s going through our minds when we’re alone with someone who smells good and has had just enough beer to make his breath sweet and says we’re beautiful and funny and…

what was I talking about?

Oh yeah.  A conversation everyone needs to have.  Not as difficult as it sounds, and I have no idea how I would have initiated it or realized it needed to be had any other way.

-I’m old; not dead. It’s healthy for me to notice a man.  How I comment to that is a matter of my dignity and home-training.

-Naill Horan’s Mom will be fortunate, if my confession (that I realize “While cute, he’s a child and can’t go on the freebie list I don’t have that Liam isn’t on either“), is the worst thing she hears ‘women of a certain age’ say about her baby.  Fortunate, indeed.

-I want to be respectful.  I want to be accountable. I want to be loving more than I want to be funny.

-When I smart off IRL, I hardly ever get ‘checked’.**

-I want to show my kids what is right is right, across the board.  Whether I will stand in front of Niall’s mom or not, eventually I will stand in front of God.  I will have to look at myself in the mirror everyday of my life.  So will they.

*behind the wheel.  Hours later. Nearly drove off the road when it hit me what I’d said.

**There was that one time. Jennifer made a bumper sticker about a comment I made.  An IRL person never spoke to me again. IT WAS THE TRUTH.  It IS a poor man indeed who must purchase testicles!!!