“Give advice to a person, place or thing.”
Oh, God no. Anything but that. Tonight for the first time in history, all the bloggers at ChicagoNow have been given a topic and a deadline. Above is the topic. One hour from now is the deadline. (Insert profanity here.)
A City Mom does not do advice.
Sure, I spout and rant and tell jokes and stories and tales of how I handled things in the past and whether they turned out well or badly. Or worse. But I never give outright advice. Seriously, go back and check. Well, once I wrote a blog on giving advice to my younger self, but that doesn’t count, ‘cuz that was giving advice to myself, and I know from experience to never take my own advice. Besides, that happened only once in seven years of blogging.
Unsolicited advice, in my opinion, should be
one of the seven the eighth deadly sin.
Who doesn’t hate the person who comes up to you at the grocery store to say, “Well, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but artichokes are bad for your heart.”? I arti-choke the crap outta you, shaddup. Or the person who tells you not to leave your dog outside Trader Joe’s while you run inside for artichokes. Or the person who tells you jogging is bad for your knees. Or your artichokes. And why do unsolicited advice givers think it makes it better if they preface everything by saying, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but…” ? (…but, artichoke jokes are just not that funny.)
Scientific studies created by really, really smart people contradict each other on an almost daily basis. Fat is bad. Fat is good. Carbs are good. Carbs are bad. Barefoot running is good. Barefoot running is bad.
I mean, how do we know, truly, if we’re doing it right? Right enough to give advice to others, anyway. I’ve never felt that secure. Sure, I have a good marriage and three wonderful children. Today. But there’s always tomorrow. And as much as I believe in The Secret and positive thinking and all my New Age woo-hoo stuff, I also have an enormous fear of Murphy (We pause now for the delay in the typing of this blog to knock on wood.) who could have me bailing my children out of jail tomorrow while finding out my husband has been secretly brewing mead in the basement. Wait.
Or, I could have just taken the advice of our community manager, when he told us participation in this exercise was optional.
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