Shhhhh. *Glances about furtively*
I have to be careful with what I say here.
It has recently come to my attention that you are not the only person reading my words. There has been, it seems, a very large leak in security.
Strangers, come on in: My innermost thoughts about writing and motherhood are your playground. Point. Laugh. Call me a jackass. Relate to my cellulite and cry with me as we both step on the scale. For you, my life is an open book.
People I Knew Before I Started Blogging: Unless given express permission to even acknowledge the blog exists, stay the hell out of my head. And if you do happen to stop by? You are to pretend you didn't just learn how fat my ass actually is.
Fine Print: Friends made through social media and BFF Mel are included in the Strangers clause of this policy. The Husband, however, is totally not allowed to get all psychic just because he can log onto my blog like the rest of the world. Which might make him believe it's slightly unfair that the people in front and behind him in line at the grocery store might know about my current search for that wagon I am not supposed to have fallen off of--or what I actually weigh--but I'm totally good with this.
Turns out, it's entirely possible that when I post things like this and this that inquiring minds have taken advantage of this free speech and open internet by logging on without my express permission. And? The Husband is currently in major touble.
We were out and about yesterday, as we we are prone to do on his days off before he decides he needs to go to bed at 4 p.m. because he works midnights, and I took a minute to check my blog stats from my Droid X. I am querying right now and the only thing I can do to keep my friends from killing me with the constant verbal obsessing is the self-stalking kind that involves me, my blog, and no one else telling me to shut the hell up. But something was glitchy when I tried logging in and I got an error message.
"What the hell? My blog is down?" Instant panic grabbed at my soul. I have a zillion queries out right now and the last thing I need right now is an agent logging on to see NADA.
"Lemme look on mine," The Husband said as he grabbed his phone out of his pocket. "You might have just entered it wrong."
Sure enough, a quick goggle search brought Aspiring Mama right up onto his screen.
"Operation Google Stalk, huh?" he said, a smile in his voice.
I sped read the post in my head and nodded my approval. "Yeah, you can read that one."
"I can read that one? Whatever..." He reads off the blog post titles on the first page."
I didn't recall one of them mentioning anything I didn't want to hear about at home, except for maybe for last week's Mamavation post with the Dorito mention and all.
"Okay, you can read it all except for last Monday's."
The Husband laughed. "I can, huh? I'll have you know I log on from time to time."
"Without my permission?" My eyes are wide. My voice is shrill. I am imagining his eyes scanning over classified information like this and this. "Are you insane? People who know me aren't supposed to read this! That's like peeking into my diary without permission! I write that shit for strangers!"
The Husband laughed. Loud and hard. And the rational part of me didn't blame him.
"You're joking, right?"
I thought about every pre-natal visit he tagged along on only to turn his back, plug his ears, and whistle a happy tune when it came time for me to step on the scale because he knew that I didn't want my 200 pound , 6-foot hottie to know his formerly curvy wife had ballooned to 245. Or how he knows what I've lost...but not what I weigh.
My life is a need to know basis, people. And I? Like to pretend that people I know...don't actually know about anything going on inside of my head.
And you, too....
Come on in. Pull up a chair. Let's talk motherhood. Let's talk evil scales. Let's talk muffin tops and cellulite and assmoflauge and falling off the wagon and temptation and whether or not treadmills should just be re-branded as overpriced closets. Let's get into whether sleep is more important than working out or how exactly you manage to get it all done and make time for yourself versus me looking at the end of the day wondering how exactly I ran out of time for yoga but found the time to coordinate my cute workout gear before attacking the pile of laundry.
But if you said I DO? To ME?
If you know the color scheme at my wedding? Or the song I walked down the aisle to?
We need to talk about you pretending you have no clue what is going on over on this little blog o' mine.
As long as I don't know that you know? It's all good.
Move along, people. There's nothing to see here...