The way the column works is:

• I write.
• I send to my editor.
• She publishes.
• Then I get to post and link in my blog.

There’s frequently a bit of time between that second and third bullet, so I don’t always get around to the fourth.

Last year I got a fair amount of flak for various pieces, which is fine; just spell my name right. But I was in a puckish mood when I wrote this piece, which ran in October 2015. I think I linked to it when it published, but didn’t stash it in the blog. So here goes.

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One of the challenges with writing what is supposed to be a humor column is that the inherent humor in the column does not always hit its mark.

My mail is running about 50/50 that I have lousy aim.

First and foremost, Mom, Interrupted is meant to be a humorous take on being a wife, mother, daughter, citizen and employee in this day and age. I have always viewed myself as Erma Bombeck’s and Weird Al Yankovic’s ornery love child, but that might just be wishful thinking.

My first editor at the Ahwatukee Foothills News suggested that we call the column “Laughing With Liz.” I’m glad we didn’t go with that; the mere thought of being called Liz makes me grouchy. I imagine the hubris required to assume that Liz is reliably the cause of anyone’s laughter might make some of my readers a little grouchy as well.

I have proof that several of you actually have read my soi-disant wit because you write to me. And while some of you write to tell me that I had indeed, caused you to laugh, some of you write to communicate that I have, to put it mildly, caused you to put on your cranky pants.

Humor is a highly individual thing. Some of us are looking for New Yorker cartoons, and some of us won’t be happy until the Three Stooges throw a pie. I resigned myself years ago that my purpose in life is to serve as an opinionated cautionary tale who manages to share a good laugh with the paramedics on the way to the emergency room.

Our moral here? Take Mom, Interrupted with a grain of salt. My family crest says “Fricabis quidam conspuere eum,” which loosely translated, is “Eh, rub some spit on it.”

So when you fire up your email to let me have it, remember: If you’re going to yell about me fat-shaming myself, please prepare to be shamed for shame-shaming me for fat-shaming, which I think is a thing now.

If you’re going to call me a “female dog” because I don’t like being called a “girl” at the tender age of 50, my basset hound would like to have a “woof” with you. Loosely translated: “Bite me.”

If you’re complaining that the only tip I gave about air travel with toddlers was to buy your fellow travelers a beer, I really could use a Corona right about now.

If you want to correct my Latin and then complain about the content, remember that “illae opiniones sint sicut umbilicos; omnibus habeatur.” (Again with the loosely: “Opinions are like belly buttons; everybody has one.”)

I stand by my premise that grinding all our reading material into fine paste so as to be palatable for all is a bad thing, and makes for lousy reading. I stand by my premise that if we wake up every morning determined to look for something with which to be offended, we will surely find it. I stand by my premise that it’s much healthier to look for something that might make us smile.

I’m not sorry I’ve ever said any of these things. I only regret that I didn’t make you laugh.

© E. Stocking Evans 2016