My mom used to say, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."
That's not the reason I haven't posted for a month. Blame a book deadline and a second round of orthoscopy for that.
No, my mom was probably right. In the way of all moms, she usually was.
BUT--here's the deal.
We're talking about ME. I talk. A lot. And if something really cranks my cord, I'll say something to someone. My problem is that I tend not to tell the person who has me upset.
I'm nonconfrontational. Always have been. I'm a pacificist. A vegetarian (for the most part). A nod-and-smiler. If you disagree with me, I might state my case and move on, because I have never found that arguments in a bar or a living room or at work have produced effective change.
Yeah. In other words, I'm a wuss.
But I will talk to someone else about it. My poor friends, they've heard it all. One in particular has been getting emails from me, probably 10 a day, regarding something that has my knickers in a knot. It has nothing to do with her, mind you, except that she's my friend and, as such, is forced to listen to me.
So I try to keep it entertaining. I figure I owe it to her. And I've found that the angrier I am, the more hurt I am, the more frustrated I am, the funnier I am.
Who knew? Yes, out of these negative emotions come the redeeming quality of FUNNY. And she gets into it too, so that our emails are, honestly, going to be in a book of their own one day. She and I together are snort-your-white-zin-out-your-nose funny.
It heals, laughter does. It eases the fact that someone has dug in and injured your soul in a way that is desperately painful. It takes those slights and makes them slight. It forces ignorance and rudeness out into the light and pokes them with a stick.
If you can't say something nice, say something funny.
Go figure, huh, Mom?