Recently, there was a burglary ring in my neighborhood, one that was doing some pretty serious and scary robber stuff. One family who attends my kids’ elementary school (a family that lives just three blocks from us) was robbed in the middle of the night WHILE the two parents and three kids were sleeping upstairs. Oy! If my sources are accurate, this poor family came downstairs in the morning to find they were missing $40,000 worth of personal belongings, including their CAR. Ack!
To explain my neighborhood a bit, let me just say this: I once had a friend who referred to my little pocket of my little Seattle neighborhood as “the ghetto” (she now lives in Laurelhurst, if that means anything to you locals), but let’s get one thing clear, I don’t live in a ghetto. I also do not live in a million dollar home with a view of the Olympics and Lake Washington. All this is to say that my home is somewhere in between Ghetto and Waterfront w/ View.
Still though, these robbers hit homes like mine, even with its old laptops and mediocre stereo system. Even with its one television. Even with its spewed-in 2004 minivan.
Which might be the first tip-off that these robbers weren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer.
But the REAL tip-off came a few weeks later when one of the robbers, (I like to imagine him looking a little somethin’ like this): was caught and arrested for this burglary after he started BLOGGING ABOUT IT. I know! Clearly this fella is not a graduate of whatever place James Bond graduated from. He must have forgotten that blogs are public. That blogs can put personal information into the hands of the Wrong People. In this case, in the hands of police detectives.
But then, just the other day, I got a call from my dear Sister, someone who has been blogging for decades, since long before Al Gore invented the internet. Sister gently reminded me that it might be best not to use my children’s real names in my blog. Likewise, if I blog about going “out to dinner in my neighborhood” it might be best not to say the exact name of the restaurant. And while we’re at it, it’s probably best not to mention the name of my neighborhood at all.
“Because, Sari,” Sister said, “there are really disgusting sickos out there. Ones who will spend three hours memorizing your blogs posts.”
Yeah. It appears I’m no smarter than my dumb robber compadre; it also appears that I did not graduate from whatever blogging school the Dooce.com lady graduated from.
So the moment I hung up the phone, I went back and changed my kids’ names to Buddy and Sweetie (which is, in fact, what I call them in real life), made neighborhood landmarks less distinct, and made sure I only called el Husbandio, el Husbandio. (Which, in case you are like Mark J. and were wondering, the accent is on the “ban,” as in el HusBANdio.)
But even with all of those top-secret precautions in place, now, every time I post something, I wonder who’s really reading my blog. After all, the creepiest of the creepy people in the world tend to be really smart in that impractical, off-beat, Unibomber sort of way. Certainly less stoopid than burglars and nascent bloggers who share too much. That’s just an incredibly icky thought, isn’t it?
Yet, I am confronting my fears. I am taking matters into my own hands. I’m keeping my enemies close.
In fact, if you happen to be one of those creepy people who likes to follow bloggers just a little too closely, I’ll make it easy by telling you exactly where I live: my house is in the ghetto. In a neighborhood light years from Laurelhurst. And we have two trained-to-kill attack cats who have NOT been declawed (one has rabies, the other has feline HIV). And mi Husbandio is 6’4″, 225 pounds, and unless he has a basketball injury, is fairly agile. And I am a green belt in Taekwondo.
My point? Maybe it’s best to take your creepy self elsewhere. At least into a more creep-friendly part of the hood. Please.