An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation

Email: Before you delete this, THIS IS NOT SPAM (unbelievable how many subject lines say this exact thing)

Yesterday I got my first fan mail from an 11-year-old blogger (hi! Davis) in which he said to me, “I hope that you keep those keys clickin’ until the arthritic kicks in (give it time…).” An 11-year-old said to me, “Give it time.” The wisdom of kids these days!

Receiving that email makes me feel THIS MUCH closer to Scott Baio who received probably 20 hand-written love letters from my pubescent sister in the early Eighties. He and John Stamos. And Andy Gibb. That’s all I ever wanted.

I also received an email from Lindsay (hi! Lindsay) that said:

“I had this dream last night.

In my dream, you were living in LA and decided that since I read your website on a near-daily basis, that you should invite me to visit. So I flew out to LA and everything fell apart when you picked me up at the airport, because you were driving this tiny convertible and my ass was too big to fit in the seat. It was tragic. I think I cried.

I’m wondering if it’s totally random that girls from Indiana have dreams about you and tiny, tiny convertibles and giant asses.”

Lindsay, if only you could have a peek inside my inbox. Tiny convertibles and giant asses, these things make me smile and call Jon and say, “I got this great email.” It’s the ones where people include pictures of their giant asses that make me call Jon and say, “Um, you’re not going to believe this.”

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Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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