I read my latest entry to my husband this morning.
He said, "You can't write that. It's fiction. It's a blog. You can't write fiction on your blog."
I said, "I am using artistic license. It's my blog. Who cares what I write? Besides, most of it happened..."
He said, "Yeah, except the part that makes us sound like neglectful, selfish fatties lying in the middle of the Mall of America surrounded by more packages than we can obviously afford."
(OK, He didn't use those exact words, but that's what he meant. Again, artistic license.)
I said, "What do you mean?"
He said, "That part about Yaya running down the corridor groping hairy man-legs. She was asleep."
I said, "So?"
He said, "It's a blog. You can't lie."
I said, "It's my blog... so?"
10 minutes passed. I web surfed. I felt guilty.
So , here I am. 'fessing up. It's not all true. But a lot of it is. I obviously had too much sugar. I was drunk with blogging power. That's my story, and I'm sticking with it.