Letters...I get letters...

My email inbox has been a fun place lately. Back when I first started this bloggy-poo, most of the email I used to get was along the lines of "please stop cursing" or "OH MY GOD WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN ALL MY LIFE" or penises (y'all are laying down on the penis emailing job lately, let me just say) but now it's mostly these weird hit-or-miss mass emails that are meant to look as though they have chosen me and me alone among all the bloggers out there to offer up a Special Opportunity.

It started some months ago when I got this email:

Naturally, I began planning both my course and my on-camera wardrobe, since this was clearly my ticket to Fame and Filthy Lucre. To be honest, I struggled with what to teach, finally settling on "How to Make 8 Million Bags and Have Something Massively Wrong With Every Single One of Them," since it's what I do best, but the wardrobe was a no-brainer: slightly too-small t-shirts with Harry Potter themes and baggy yoga pants. Because that's all I actually own. Perhaps they would include a trip to the famous Ft. Lauderdale Fashion Bug Plus as part of my on-site compensation.

But after the heady initial thrill of being a World Famous Quilting Teacher wore off, I realized that doing this would in fact violate my personal policy of never getting up in front of a group of people ever again, even if that "group" consisted only of Harry the producer and his able cameraman, Stu. (Cameramen are always named Stu.) 

Also, I don't teach quilting; I write fart jokes that are quilting-adjacent. Slight difference.

And so, with a rueful sigh, I declined Harry's kind but honestly sort of sketchy offer.

My next email was, if you can believe it, even more exciting. 

THEY ARE REALLY DIGGING MY YOUTUBE CHANNEL YOU GUYS. Of course, I don't have one, but they are clearly digging my potential channel that could exist in an alternate universe where I am not an anti-social, menopausal woman whose "style" consists of wearing all black not because it's slimming but because I'm too lazy to coordinate separates. 

Also, this is obviously NOT the brainchild of some 23-year-old living in his mom's basement who has learned about drop shipping crap from China and making it look like "luxury" goods curated by "travel buddies." Nope, definitely not. 

And the best part was that I would only have to buy something to start! At a whopping 50% discount! (See, if you mark up cheap crap by 600% you can sell it for "50% off" and still make an obscene profit! That's called good business.) 

Sadly, after my last Zulily purchase, I was all tapped out on my "stuff that looks nothing like the picture and is most likely made from petroleum byproducts" budget, so I had to decline their kind but honestly sort of stupid offer.

Then, the Big Boys decided they wanted to play:

I've gone from Instructor, to Partner, to INFLUENCER! For Amazon, no less! Never mind that this is just the Amazon Affiliate program with a fancy name that makes it sound like we're going to rub elbows with Hadids and Kardashians, and never mind that I got kicked out of the Amazon Affiliate program because I never actually sold anything (nor did I try). This is my opportunity to influence my readers to give their hard-earned money to a giant corporation that doesn't actually need the meager profits generated by a quilt-fart blogger with a questionable wardrobe. I mean, who doesn't want to have that kind of influence?

Well, me, apparently. I did not exactly decline their kind but frankly stupid offer; I just kinda ignored it.

Things were quiet for a while. I thought perhaps my instructing, partnering, influencing days were all behind me. But then I got THIS:

Did I write about cars in August of 2010? See for yourself. I wrote an entire freaking blog post about how my period was late and related this to some recent car troubles:

I just don't think it's healthy for a 41-year-old out-of-shape woman with high blood pressure and questionable emotional stability to have a pregnancy scare, no matter how unlikely. But it does make me consider the fact that my car troubles were entirely due to the fact that I hadn't changed my oil in over a year, and thus wonder if I've done something equally as stupid with my own body that is preventing the arrival of the Ketchup Monster. Or perhaps my own oil refuses to change in some sort of twisted solidarity with my car. Next it'll be wanting its spark pistons re-bored or something.

Naturally, this—EIGHT YEARS LATER—means that I will now be shifting the topic of this blog from quiltin' and fartin' to car stuff. Clearly, however, cars are not my forté, so thank goodness Catherine is on the case. Am I taking pitches? OH FUCK YES I'M TAKING PITCHES. But not from Catherine. I don't know her and in her second email she mysteriously turned into a "we". 

Clearly, "Catherine Metcalf" is actually "The Mafia." I'm on to you, Cat. I must decline your kind but possibly murderous offer. 

But I WILL accept pitches from you, dear readers. Send me your best pitches for car-quilt-fart-influencing-instruction-partner articles and I will send the best one a small wristlet bag hand-made by me. Not this one, but one like it, in fabrics of my choosing.

Good luck, and may the Influencer Be Ever In Your Partnership Program.