There are rules for blogging. Rules I try to adhere to…

1. 500 words or less.

Research has collected data points which shows most blog readers are reading blogs at work, in between answering work emails, working on projects, invoicing clients and timing it when the boss is sure not to show up and catch you – just the few minutes it takes to read 500 words.

I follow this rule mostly.

2. Post pictures.

Here’s a picture…

Speak no evil.

Maybe it’s random, but it makes for a great thumbnail for re-posting and I get to add a tag which might also show up in a Google search which might drive more readers to my blog and then they might sign up to get the blog on a weekly basis because we all need a weekly affirmation of our crazy attempts to make sense of this journey.

3. Encourage comments.

So I suck at this rule. Probably because in real life I’m really only interested in hearing myself talk… that’s not exactly true… the truth is I’m only interested in listening to interesting conversations, ones that contemplate how life works or at least how someone thinks life works.

Remember the Book of Questions? These are the types of questions I like to hear the answers to. But my blog – a mostly lighthearted look at life, does not encourage such deep conversations, neither, in my experience, does a questions tacked onto the end of a blog.

Still, I need fans. To sell books, to get publishers interested, I need a platform. I need you, my audience.

I hold out hope that at some point research is going to show that the rules were all wrong.

We’ve been wrong about other things.

Young marriages don’t work – but mine did.

Maternal instincts make for great kids – but my kid is awesome in spite of me.

Invest in a house and you will be saving for the future… yeah, right.

So, I’ve been contemplating following the rules a bit more – asking you, my faithful readers, questions at the end of my blog in the hopes that I will fan the flames of followers.

But, I figure blog followers are like roaches – if you see one, there are probably hundreds more hiding in the walls.

Not that I’m comparing you, my resilient readers, to roaches though I do hope you  survive this blog and so much more.

This week I will rejoice in the resilience of readers.

Or not, but at least share some of the best motherly advice ever…

My mom always told me “It’s not how much money you make, it’s how you spend it.”

Of course she was usually telling me this while we were searching through the sales rack at the local department store while I eyed the latest fashions at regular price.

My friend’s mom always told her to eat dessert first – okay maybe that was Seinfeld, but I wish it was advice moms could give without feeling like terrible moms.

The best motherly advice I ever gave, in my opinion, is “If you forget to pack it, buy it when you get there.”

This is great advice, especially if you want a stunning collection of cheap strollers…

or if you want your husband to do all the packing because he doesn’t appreciate your stunning collection of cheap strollers.

Cherub says the best advice I ever gave him was “Do your best, forget the rest.”

Yes, I am the origin of that quote – or I stole it from Reverend Run. But it was still good advice which came out of my mouth and directed at my cherub, so technically it is motherly advice – especially since I’m making up the rules here.

Hubby says the best advice his mom ever gave him was to marry me.

Yes, he has ulterior motives.

Good advice should be shared, but only when sought -

unless you’re in the company of a mom, then it’s part of the job, so feel free to share it.

This week I will share some great mother advice.

In case you haven’t read my book, Weekly Affirmations for Mediocre Moms, here’s an excerpt to try and entice you into buying for your mom, your friend’s mom, yourself as mom, and that mother across the street.

Not everyone appreciates my sense of humor. Nor my husband’s. We aren’t for delicate sensibilities.

I guess our family motto is – if you can’t laugh at yourself, then what can you laugh at. Then we point out to people how humorous they are – to us.

And we raised a child to have a similar sense of humor. This was not easy.

For awhile our son was so skinny, we called him “stick boy.” Lovingly, of course. Until said son blurted out one day that calling him names wasn’t nice and began to cry. We were shocked. I think it was his first complete sentence at the age of three.

Then in fourth grade we were told we were bad parents because our cherub had told the teacher to shut up.

“Did he say it maliciously?”

“Well, no,” the teacher reluctantly admitted

“Then it’s just a matter of not understanding audience. He is only nine, give him some time.”

“Under no circumstances is telling the teacher to shut up acceptable,” the teacher now forcefully asserted.

My husband and I responded in unison, “Shut up? Never?”

So, you get my point.

There have been times when I have had to make it very clear that just because I’m laughing doesn’t mean I’m not mad about the bucket of water dumped on my head in the middle of the living room. Just because you’re hilarious, doesn’t mean it’s not acceptable – context is everything. And once I catch my breath and my face is no longer hurting from laughing so hard, there will still be consequences,

So, not everyone gets our sense of humor, but we get it and I refuse to give it up in the face of pressure from well-meaning adults trying to teach my family some manners.

This week I will hold my family’s times of joy and laughter as precious.

http://www.amazon.com/Weekly-Affirmations-Mediocre-Moms-ebook/dp/B00906D1LK/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1367891272&sr=1-2&keywords=mierzwik

It doesn’t hurt that these minds are genetically linked.

When I was dating Hubby, we were great at having fun on the cheap.

At least it was cheap for one of us, namely Hubby.

He was famous for not having brought enough money. I took his sad, puppy-dog-eyes look to mean he felt foolish for not calculating how much he needed.

Being the feminist I was and am, I was happy to pay my own way. I never wanted to be dependent on a man, even if that man had invited me out then didn’t have enough money to pay for the date.

Silly me.

I did grow suspicious after we got married, but he always opened his wallet for me to see its vast expanses of emptiness.

I would shrug my shoulders and pay.

It wasn’t until years into marital bliss that I happen to be in Hubby’s wallet for his health insurance card when I found money hidden in a side pocket.

To keep things blissful, I joined him and began showing him the emptiness of my gaping wallet. I even pulled my pants pockets inside out, for dramatic effect.

These games help keep a marriage fresh. Actually, it simply means I pay for the things I think are important or want and Hubby does likewise.

Now that Cherub has his own wallet, he has joined the game. He has a bit more resolve than either Hubby or I. It’s that paternal or maternal instinct to care for your young, even when “said” young is bigger, stronger, and has more expendable income than you.

But the bigger lesson is that we can have fun on the cheap if need be, and needs does be since none of us ever claim to have any money for the movies, eating out, or ice cream later.

So when Cherub related the story that his latest Infatuation told him that for their first “official” date they should think outside the box and “Go to…” Cherub quickly replied, “Dinner and the movies with me is outside the box.”

I laughed and laughed some more. First at his wit, then at the fact that there would be no duel of the empty wallets to finance Infatuation’s Outside-the-Box date.

Great minds think like me.

Yes, I’m in deep.

Not only are the planter boxes about knee high, the costs are piling up.

Sure, I got the wood for free – recycled from Hubby’s old backstop and already painted a nice Tribe Blue.

Sure, I filled the boxes with compost and trimmings and leaves from the yard.

But there there was the water system, and the moisture control soil, the seeds, and the tomato plants.

Every weekend, it’s a trip to Home Depot.

And now that everything is planted, just before some April Showers, I’m knee deep in hope – hoping something actually grows.

I suppose if none of the seeds produce, I’ll just take another trip to HD and buy some starter plants – lettuce and spinach and beans and peppers and whatever else catches my eye.

But, I’m giving it the 14 days and crossing my fingers. Hoping for Mother Earth Magic.

The neighbor yelled through the fence, “Looking good!”

“Thanks,” I yelled back. “In a few months I should have veggies to share.” I said, standing up from emptying my last bag of soil into my last box. “Of course, it would have been easier and cheaper just to buy veggies from the store.”

“But not as much fun,” he responded.

And so I am also knee deep in gratitude – for a neighbor who reminded me in the midst of my aching back, my dirt under the fingernails manicure, and mud on my chin facial that this whole growing your own food is fun.

This week I will be knee deep in hope and gratitude.

We’ve taken to hiking the wide fire roads – the easier to see you my dear – since it is snake season.

And last weekend we spotted our first snake, but not without some drama first.

“Yikes!” Hubby yelled, making me jump straight up into the air.

“What? What?” I asked after I caught my breath.

“Snake tracks!”

Yes, he scared me half to death because of “snake tracks.”

“You know that lizards make tracks too. You have no idea if those are snake tracks or not,” I explained regaining my stride.

“Lizards raise their bellies. There is no way that was a lizard track.”

Of course, I believe in karma, even if I have to help out a little, so a bit further along I yelled, “Yikes!”

Giving Bill a minor heart attack.

“Bird tracks,” I said pointing them out to him.

Hubby just smiled, but he got the message so that further along when he thought he saw a snake, he simply stated, “Diane, look out.”

“That’s a lizard.” Okay, it was an alligator lizard and they DO bite. I still vividly remember my dad yelling from the wood pile swinging his arm back and forth trying to get one to let go of his finger. Still, it doesn’t strike so I nudged it along, then pointed to the tracks and said, ever so lovingly, “Told you so.”

Hubby just started hiking so fast that I couldn’t keep up.

Eventually, he stopped and waited for me – to run right over a snake in the middle of the path.

“There’s a snake.”

“It’s just a garter snake…” and for the millioneth time I explained the difference between the round head of a garter snake and a triangle head of a rattle snake.

“Looks like a triangle to me,” Hubby muttered.

“I wouldn’t have even seen it if you hadn’t pointed it out,” I muttered back.

“Exactly! That’s why you  need me. You are going to get bit out here by yourself and then what. You don’t even bring  your phone.”

Of course two days later when we approached a narrow path, each side grown thick with weeds, a perfect hiding place for snakes, Hubby graciously let me go first.

“So I can get bit.”

“Yeah, I thought about it,” he explained. “I think it would be best if you get bit. You love laying around reading and being on your computer so you don’t really need both of your legs.”

I failed to mention that a snake would need time to be startled then it would strike the second person coming along the trail. I also failed to mention his favorite past time – lazyboy recliner sports viewing.

I suppose it was all just a little too easy. Like they say, the opportunity was so close…

This week I will keep my distance.

I’m cheating today and giving you a link to an essay published in EAP Magazine. Enjoy!

http://exterminatingangel.com/eap-the-magazine/speed-maturing/

This week I will enjoy how foolish I can be.