Before the big Bagley family reunion had even started, I nearly bonked into my cousin Diane* as she was coming into the house from the back deck. We laughed it off and introduced ourselves to each other.
“Oh!” she said. “I’ve read your blog!”
I sputtered a surprised, “Oh uh er um!” and my brain delved into its extensive archive of Star Trek factoids and Winnie The Pooh quotes and tried desperately to remember everything I had ever posted on the internet. Had I ever posted anything about my embarrassing pickle addiction? About my tendency to forget that there are windows open when I walk around in my underwear? Had I cussed? Had I cussed creatively?
Taylor interrupted my brief panic and told Diane that if she had read my blog she would undoubtedly have heard of him and introduced himself. It gave me time to decide that I would tell people that anything they liked on my website was written by me, and anything that they didn’t like was the result of Turkish hackers.
That post about leg-shaving? Me.
The post where I used the word ‘apoopcalypse’?**
Hackers. Dirty, slanderous hackers.
At that point I was quickly regretting that I had started a blog. More accurately, I was regretting that I ever told my family about it. For the rest of the weekend, whenever I came to sit in a group of aunts, uncles, and people that I would nebulously call ‘cousins’, my father would say loudly, “Be careful what you say! Jessica has a blog! She’ll tell all your secrets!” at which point I would giggle accommodatingly and then sink in my chair and blush until my head caught on fire.
After the third time, my Uncle Joe yelled, “Let ‘er! I don’t have any secrets!”
And then it hit me. Why would I even have a blog if I couldn’t confront bold claims like that in the public arena?
Once Uncle Joe asked his sister, my Auntie Betsy to make him two chocolate pies for his birthday. Auntie Betsy obliged, and as the pies cooled, she warned him to only have a slice or two or he’d be sick. He ate his slice or two and that was that.
Later in the evening, Auntie Betsy came downstairs and found Joe with his head buried in the couch cushions. A sea of chocolate-flavored vomit was dripping out of every crack. The pie was gone.
The couch was ruined, and had to be taken to the dump.
Aunt Betsy was roaring with laughter as she told me the story. Uncle Joe was sitting back on the couch with his arms folded.
“How old was he at the time?” I asked. “Seven or so?”
“Sixteen,” said Uncle Joe.
And that’s why I don’t regret having a blog.