Now to business: For those of you who know me, you know I’m not a spring chicken. For those of you who don’t, I’m still not. But I am not as old as Snarky Hilda (not her real name, although I am sorely tempted) who blogged that DOBG was the worst book of 2012. I know! I was shocked, too! Perhaps she’s not familiar with multisyllabic words, or was reading in the shower, or has only a 2nd grade education. Who knows, who cares, because I am a mature woman and such things simply roll off my back. Not. Hand to forehead—I’ve learned something surprising about my menopausal self: I tend to obsess about crap like this. (I’m not proud of that, but between hot flashes, it is what it is.)
Now to put this in context; DOBG was listed on several Best of 2012 blogs as well, and reviews on Goodreads, Amazon, and B&N continue to make me smile—the big, fat, toothy kind. I’m told that it’s flying off the shelves in Italy, it comes out in Poland next month (7 countries so far), so clearly the margin of silly Hilda-beasts in my world is miniscule and annoying at best—like a sprig of broccoli between my teeth or toilet paper stuck to my stiletto—what? old chicks can rock stilettos—or stepping onto an elevator where someone has rudely left behind a bad smell—I hate that. Really? I know I must graciously share the planet with snits. I know that. And I know that a mean review from the bowels of cyberspace doesn’t really mean squat in the big scheme of things—well, maybe just a little squat—a squatlette if you will.
But enough of this whining; it’s time for the point of my ranting.
I am tremendously indebted to the late Leo Buscaglia (one of the 3 people alive or dead to whom I would give a foot massage). I spent an evening with him years ago. (There were about 18,000 of us—he was sold out.) Little did I know that he would be speaking directly to me about a snark I would encounter so many years in the future. The crux of his message was this: Ka, (I added that) if the world says you smell like a rose, then odds are you’re a rose. And if one poor snark says you stink, it doesn’t mean you’re not a rose. No, no, no! It means there is something seriously wrong with the snark’s nose! Mind-blowing! Awesome in it’s simplicity! (Note to self—I must wisely share this logic with a small child being teased by a bucktoothed and portly 7-year-old boy with breasts! But I digress.)
So at this late onset of 2013, Leo B is the reason all is well in my world. Leo B is why I shall de-obsess about retired snobs with blogs. Leo B is the reason I shall fully mature…eventually. And as I limp toward that end, I promise to be smart and discriminating. For instance, if Mzzzz Hilda steps off an elevator that I’m waiting for, I shall smile knowingly… and wait for the next one.
Happy New Year Roses! Snarks need not apply.