I was home one day, all by myself. when I turned and saw, the Elf on the shelf. How I wondered, could he just appear? What could this mean? Why was he here? There was a note, sitting by his side, that gave instructions, it was my guide. It said the Elf, would watch how I act, and go back to Santa, and deliver the facts. Then Santa would use this, to help him decide, what presents to bring, when he would arrive. “There’s only one rule, that you have to follow, so I will come back, and be here tomorrow, Please do not touch me. My magic might go, and Santa won’t hear, all I’ve seen or I know.” I thought, “Alright, I’ll just let him be, then he can report, all that he sees.” So I set about, a typical day. All the while, the Elf looked my way. I turned to look at him, after a while, and noticed a slight twitch in his smile. A little latter, I happened to spy, the trace of a tear, formed in his eye. I went upstairs, and when I came back down, I noticed some ashes, laying on the ground. Some cigarette smoke, floated above the Elf’s’ head, He looked a bit nervous, with a face turning red. Then I turned and looked, at a beer bottle trail, behind me I heard, the Elf’s painful exhale. I picked up the empties, and tried to ignore, how the Elf seemed to sweat, and his hands shook more. At one point, when he, thought he was alone, I caught him talking, on my phone. “Please Santa, please! take me away! I can’t stand to be here, another day!” He turned and saw me, then he screamed, “Stay away from me! you’re like a bad dream!” “I’ve watched your activities, how you conduct yourself, never again do I want, to be an Elf on a shelf!” The up on the roof, there arose such a clatter, then Santa walked in, and said “Elf what’s the matter?” Then the Elf, pointed at me, and Santa cried out, “How can this be?” “This man was supposed, to be on the list, of people the Elf should have missed!” Then some reindeer arrived, bearing a stretcher. Santa instructed them, to check Elf’s, blood pressure. Then as they carried, the Elf away. Santa turned, and he did say. “The Elf will be fine, they heal very quick, Merry Christmas to all, but you make me sick!”
Stuffing on toothpicks, mashed potatoes on ice, gravy on plates, corn by the slice, sweet potatoes and mustard, cranberries and vinaigrette, the turkey in the dishwasher, isn’t done yet, the meal isn’t quite, what I had in mind, before I started, drinking the wine.
I was wondering if the website BlogHer would let me join them and write there. I realize it’s supposed to be primarily for women bloggers writing about women’s’ interests. I also know that if you look hard enough you will find the owners of BlogHer saying they welcome anyone to join them and contribute. I think they have to say that. A look around the site will quickly show you that they really are for, and by women.
Now I think that’s great. And I wouldn’t want to be the one the ends up spoiling the party for everyone there. If somehow I got in, then I could understand the fear, that soon the floodgates would open. Now instead of articles pertaining to lifestyle issues or crafting, there would be posts about building guns out of furniture and full contact bocce’ matches.
In my defense I would say I’m not inclined to overly macho themes. Although I do tend to write a lot about myself. So I think I just insulted myself. But that aside, I may have something to offer the female reader. What you may ask? Allow me to elaborate on how I came to think I had something to offer.
During numerous visits to doctors’ offices I have found myself reading everything, including “Highlights” in the waiting room. I also have read numerous womens’ magazines. The few articles written by men usually fall into these typical categories.
The Doctors. Well educated experts, often focusing on issues of women’s health. I admit, I’m not qualified in this category. I don’t have a doctorate in anything. The only thing I know about “women’s problems”, is I’ve been told over the years by many, I’m their main one.
“I’ve studied your problem and I haven’t a clue.”
The Handyman. Mr. Home Repair, Bob the Builder all growed up. Not me. Whenever there is a home repair job around the house, I’m the last guy you want attempting it. I recently put in a new wash tub next to the washer. When it was over the plumber had to install a new main sewer line. My wife wants me to install a new door knob for the bedroom door. I told her “You realize before it’s over we will need a new wall?” Maybe that’s her plan. The simplest home repair for me suddenly becomes a scene from a Jerry Lewis movie.
The Chef. Recipes, cooking tips, how to turn Fritos into a gourmet meal. This is not my area of expertise. I don’t think the world is ready for my recipe for “Chicken La Whip” or as it is known by those who witnessed it, microwaved chicken thighs in Miracle Whip.
Remember ladies! When adding the hot chicken to the Miracle Whip, no measuring, or the use of utensils is necessary.
The Physical Fitness Instructor. Aerobics, yoga, tai chi, running, weight lifting, nope, I don’t do any of them.
The Dietitian. Improve your health and quality of life by learning to eat healthy vitamin rich foods. Organically grown, non processed, chemical free, no added sugar or artificial flavors. Ok, this one makes me laugh. Which can be uncomfortable to do when you’re eating a donut.
“I’ll be with you in a moment my dear, just as soon as I get rid of this thing in my fork hand.”
Celebrities and Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. I haven’t a clue. I couldn’t even be one of their gardeners. Although that may be for the best since I’ve been know to make hedges after trimming look like wisps of dead trees after a forest fire.
So none of the classic “Male” contributor categories would fit for my writing at BlogHer.
So what do I have to offer? Well I’ll tell you. I can offer this:
No, I don’t own the Mona Lisa and I paint like a toddler. I mean this:
I’m talking about that look on her face. I’m referring to her smile. I don’t claim to have great knowledge to share or advice that will change your life. But I have been known to provoke a smile or two. Ask anyone who ever seen me try to be romantic. I write my little poems daily. Occasionally some longer form prose. But my goal is to provide some humor. Perhaps a laugh, at least a smile. Even those who think my writing is foolishness on parade smile at my ineptitude. Really could any woman, or man for that matter, object to having a reason to smile? If only for a moment?