It’s 11:30 at night. I’m tired. I have a bajillion things to do tomorrow. And I have nothing to write about.
But never fear, gentle readers. Having nothing to talk about has never before prevented me from going on and on, and you can rest assured that I shall live up to my reputation tonight.
See, it’s November 24. Day 24 of blogging every single day. In less than a week, if I keep it up, I will have met one of my goals– which was to blog every day in a month.
So lack of content is certainly not going to stop me now.
Therefore, having nothing of importance to tell you, I shall tell you a story from my childhood.
Once upon a time, I was a ten-year-old brat with a big mouth and a penchant for sticking my even bigger feet into it. I hadn’t quite learned the lesson that you can’t just fire off your mouth at anyone who walks by. My parents were very patient with me in this regard. In fact, joking around and being sarcastic was a part of my family’s daily conversation. Sometimes it’s hard for a kid to remember that just because you can say something to your mom or dad, who love you and know that you’re really not just a snotfaced kid asking for trouble, doesn’t mean that you can say that same thing to every adult.
I was at church camp for the week.
(Ah, the happy memories of church camp. A whole week without showering. Yum.)
(Don’t tell my mom I once went a whole week at church camp without showering.)
(Oh, Hi Mom!)
(While I’m confessing, I also lived off fried cheese balls and Three Musketeers bars, because camp food was gross.)
We were lined up outside the dining hall, waiting for the camp director to stop lecturing us about something so that we could go in for dinner. And I was hungry. And also a snotfaced kid.
So I said, under my breath, except not very under it, “Okay, we get it, hurry up.”
I know. I was such a brat. And of course he called me on it.
Except he didn’t exactly call me on it. What he did was pull me up in front of the entire group, tell them that I couldn’t keep my mouth under control, and inform them that for the rest of the week they were to call me Motormouth.
I know, right? That kind of thing could get me fired from my job.
(He didn’t work at the camp much longer, but I don’t think it had anything to do with the motormouth thing.)
(Although my dad was pretty mad.)
I know a lot of kids that would be absolutely devastated if someone said something like that to them. Kids who would feel the sting of mockery– finish out the week brokenhearted and never wanting to return to camp.
See, what Mr. Mean Director Man didn’t know is that I have a sense of humor. (Which clearly he was lacking, I’m just saying). Some things never change, you know? And twenty-odd years ago, when Mr. Mean Director Man told everyone to call me Motormouth, I thought it was funny. I didn’t care if they called me that. I kind of liked the attention. And I loved all the people telling me they thought he was mean and refusing to call me that.
I still love attention. And validation. I’m needy like that.
(Just ask my poor husband.)
So for a few days at camp, I was Motormouth.
And then I went home and took a shower (finally), and shook all the sand out of my suitcase onto the basement floor, and showed off my awesome soap carving of an unidentifiable object.
And then I was just Erin again.
Except I was Erin with a random summer camp story to share in the middle of the night twenty years later when I really needed something to write.
So now you know the truth.
Even as a kid, I had issues shutting up.
(What’s the blog equivalent of Motormouth? Motorfingers?)