About me: I'm a 40-something mother to a pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our tween Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler Cam, and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). I'm a freelance graphic designer and writer.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
I'm really impressionable right now so be gentle
I had such a tasty post planned for today. I was so giddy as I typed, I swear I pitched a tent. Then, because I feed on praise and reassurance, I ran the post by Chuck. I waited for him to pitch a tent alongside me.
Instead he fell out of his chair, clutched his heart and stammered, “Please, pleeeeeeaaaaaase, don’t post this.”
Before your imaginations run amuck with naughty ideas about what the post was (Chuck on a bearskin rug?!), let me explain: It was a lengthy post of all the reasons why my sister-in-law is not my favorite person. In my defense, the post was more of an investigation, not a gratuitous exposé. I’m not an unfair bitch. In fact, in writing the post, I had actually hoped to arrive at a different conclusion: that she registered lower on Mrs. Mullet’s Beasto-meter than I had previously suspected.
Sadly, results were conclusive.
Chuck’s reasons for asking me to not post the post were justified. Some of our friends read my blog, and because we are an incestuous little group here in Connecticut, word could get back to her. Then, instead of pretending we like each other at families parties, we’d have to, you know, acknowledge the fact that things aren’t working out. (Oh, the horror of facing reality. The liberation would be crippling.)
However, even though I understand my husband’s reasoning, I couldn’t let it go. It might feel good to throw caution to the wind instead of meeking around. And really, if the extent of my outrageousness is a somewhat inflammatory blog post, then wow, I’m a snoozer. I mean, I don’t have pink hair. I’m not setting cars on fire. I’m usually in bed by 9:30. You might as well call me Pollyanna.
Besides, my post was in the name of scientific analysis. There’s an official Beasto-meter, for Pete’s sake.
So I kept bugging Chuck. Nicely. Like a wolf with four mouths and 10 canines might bug a little furry rabbit that’s limping along with a broken leg. You know, tickle, tickle.
Finally, he caved. But he made me promise one thing: in the post, I must refer to my sister-in-law as Chuck’s best friend’s cousin’s uncle’s step-mother’s father’s adopted sister’s great aunt’s grandmother’s niece’s son’s neighbor Edwina.
But now that he's given me the green light, I feel...anxious. Not so fresh. I want to know: did you ever post something about someone that you wish you never had? Did it come back to bite you in the ass or was it freeing and fabulous?