First of all there was a time thing. I've never felt comfortable blogging at work. At my old job there was a web filter that tracked all the sites each of us visited. Even though I knew no one was looking at the info, it was always there to dig up. And at home, Nelson was kind of sick lately. Nothing really serious, but one thing followed another, and he was just laid out, tired, feeling crappy. Even now, while he's not sick any more, he's still tired all the time. He's slowly improving.
The upshot is that I have to do more around the house. (Don't tell anyone, but since he works from home, he does most of the housework and the cooking.) He hates the way I cook -- well, he doesn't
hate it. I think it frightens him more than anything... so he's back doing *that*...
He hasn't been going to the gym or seeing his friends, which is usually when I blog. I type like the wind, so if I'm writing something, he always says, "Way! What are you typing over there? My god! It sounds like
War And Peace, The Sequel!"
["Way!" is really some Milanese exclamation that I don't know how to spell. "Oue" maybe?]
I always say, "It's an email. I write long emails." But one day, he'll come over to see, and the jig will be up. He'll find about about all of you, and he'll say, "Oh, who is this Nelson guy? What an idiot! Ha ha ha! Hey, wait! That happened to
us..." and THEN what will I say? More importantly, what will HE say?
["Am *I* supposed to be Nelson? What kind of a name is Nelson? How long have you been writing about me?"]
The other (neatly dovetailing) thing is that I sometimes feel conflicted, blogging about Nelson and Emma. They don't know I do it, and here I am making them look... however it is I make them look... potentially in front of the whole world. (I said
potentially.)
My mother used to read
Erma Bombeck. Bombeck was a humorist who wrote mostly about her family. Many years ago, Mom actually grabbed me, sat me down, and made me listen as she read one of Bombeck's columns in which Bombeck's young children realized they were being used as comic fodder. The kids decided to go on strike, and not do anything funny until they got something or other (I forget what).
It was the only bit of Bombeck she
ever read to me, and while I have no freaking idea why she chose that particular column, I do remember thinking (as my mother wiped her tears of laughter) how unfunny it was. What kind of person would write all the stupid things their kids did in a newspaper? It was so mean!
Yet here I am, having an experience that's pretty much the same or the opposite of Bombeck's. One day, I said to myself with horror,
I'm using my family as comic fodder. And then:
It *was* comic, wasn't it?
erma bombeck
