Every time my parents tell me anything of substance, it’s always preceded by the statement:  “Now don’t blog about any of this …”

Seems my folks do not appreciate their always-entertaining commentary and/or antics to be fodder for the blogosphere.  I would whole-heartedly disagree.  My parents are comedy gold and they don’t even know it.

My dad didn’t appreciate the blog I wrote about how he’s always cold and dresses like Nanuck of the North.  He keeps the house at a toasty 82 degrees year-round.  He would beg to differ.  “You exaggerate so much people will start to think that!” he told me.  When I threatened to take a picture of him sleeping under 14 different, heavy blankets, comforters and duvets, he hid my camera.  “I can’t even see the clock over ‘the mountain’ of blankets,” said my mom.

Mountain, that’s funny shit.

Speaking of my mom, I told her I was hungry tonight and asked if we had any frozen pizzas in the house.  She said no.  A quick search of the three freezers (two ‘fridge-sized and one industrial-sized) turned up nothing.  I did, however, find an endless array of any other frozen product known to man.  Some were encased in freezer burn so thick I’m not sure what it was.  I took a picture so you could be the judge.  It was either blueberries or green beans or human fingers … I’m not quite sure.  My mom is a frozen food hoarder.  I’m gonna nominate her for that show.

I’ve explained to them countless times that my adoring public craves updates on them.  They remain unimpressed.  When I reminded them they raised me to be a smart, witty, award-winning writer and they should appreciate my musings, they shot back, “But you make us sound like kooks!”

Well, for the record, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.  In 2012, I will let them write a blog about me … and will only edit for spelling or grammatical errors.  Everything else is fair game.  God help me.