Several years ago my boys started calling everyone and everything Dude. When they finally call me Dude I was all “I’m not your dude, dude!” and forbade them from referring to their mother that way again. Somehow though I started saying it without even noticing and before long I was worse than them. They grew up and left the nest but the Dude-ing did not. I didn’t even realize how bad it was until this past weekend when we were out with friends and I dropped a Dude-bomb. The dude to which this was directed was not impressed and was all “I’m not your dude, dude!” And that’s when I realized I have a problem. There is no twelve step program for this affliction. I must do it all myself. I am totally catching myself saying it and smacking my hand. It, so far, has not stopped me but has at least made me brutally aware of my over-dude-izations. That darn word is unimaginably versatile. My husband so generously suggested that since the self smacking was showing little results perhaps every time I say dude I should get rid of a pair of shoes. He’s definitely got a point. I bet it would only take a few pair to fix me and I might have been on board with this until he decided he would pick the shoes, not me. Ya, that idea got the old heave hoe. If I can’t do this on my own by the first of the year I might have to revisit my husband’s torture concept.

Later Dudes. (dammit!)