Bennett hates this blog. He hates lots of things about it, but mostly the title. The story from which the title sprang especially horrifies him. Well, I should clarify: Sadly, the story itself doesn’t horrify him, its publicity is what keeps him up at night. Every time someone comes up to him and says, “Hey Bennett, peed anywhere crazy lately?” he fights back tears and then, when we are out of earshot, he gives me several ears full. He also hates that people know what sort of things he has gotten up to and whenever someone tells me they read and enjoy this blog, he visibly bristles.
To this I say: Hard luck, buddy. If you don’t what people reading about the crazy stunts you pull, stop pulling them. Please. This blog is not only therapeutic, but it allows me to pour some of the insanity of this house into something creative. But really, I say hard luck. No corner-peeing = no blog.
I’ve told him this, and instead of curbing some of the insanity, he just turns to me after he’s pulled another crazy stunt and declares: “YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO WRITE ABOUT THIS.”
But yes I am. I am allowed to write about how you and Efram like to run around the house talking to each other through the heating vents and then throwing stuff in them to see where it ends up. There’s nothing fun about the sound of marbles racing through the walls, and if we all end up singed, I’ll know who to blame. I am also allowed to write about how the two of you seem to use your shower like a second pissoir. I’m not sure why, but peeing into the shower, then running the water, is waaaay more fun that peeing into the toilet and flushing. I understand peeing while you’re in there, but seriously? Oh, and while I’m at it, I’m going to write about how we just installed LOCKS on the storage room door and on the door to the supply cabinet in my office because we are sick and tired of having our stuff pilfered. Hey, I’m a lawyer. Nobody gets more excited about post-it notes than I do, but papering your room in my entire supply is not cool. And I know daddy didn’t really need to buy that laminator, even if it was on some super-sale, and I know that the first thing I thought when I looked at it was What ARE we going to do with this when we move, but you didn’t need to steal it, plug it in outside, and start laminating all sorts of filthy crap you found.*
So there you have it. If I have to live this, then I get to write about it. And if you don’t like it, stop. There are all sorts of private things that happen to us every day, and those secrets are safe. I’m hardly writing a tell-all memoir exposing some sordid family baggage, but if Nora Ephron got to shame her ex-husband, and if Erma Bombeck got to dish about her own family, then I certainly can do the same — especially when far fewer people are paying attention. Don’t you think?
* What ARE we going to do with this when we move? = What I say whenever we get anything bigger than a breadbox, and anything which can only be plugged in here in the U.S. I know, it’s an illness.