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The other night was a late one at work for both Maxim and me. This, coupled with the fact that Subway has that nifty five-dollar footlongs deal, meant that we weren’t cooking. The courts sent Lili home to her mother earlier this month*, Sam meandered over to Memphis for a couple-three days, so we rounded up Scout and Mathias and headed out for some sammiches.

On the way there, I laughingly told Maxim about how now that we were sponsoring our little Indonesian cutie, Intan, I thought it’d be great fun to invoke the spirit of About Schmidt and write her a letter once a month on this here weeplog. Said letter would of course contain all the whacked-out mutterings and advice that would never make it past translators in a realtime scenario.

Good ole even keel, decorous Maxim suddenly and startlingly forbade me to write about eensy Indonesian Intan in bloggy fashion. Now, you all know that he’s forbidden me to discuss certain subjects with Cyberia in the past and that has only served to make me more rapid with and grandiose in my storytelling. He knows this, too; the man is not a complete dumbass. However, sexy and delightful Muffinasses, this time was so, so different.

When I went all, “WHAAAT? Why not??” Maxim sort of flipped out and foamed at the mouth a little when I replied to him pithily about Not Being The Boss Of Me. The hippie got a tad voice-raisey and heated.

“LOOK, ELIZABETH,” (see me using my Realname^tm? you know for a fact it was serious, because I am exact-quoting him with my Realname^tm and everthang) he said, eyes a little wide, “DON’T YOU DARE BLOG ABOUT THAT CHILD IN ANY MANNER!”

“But it would be so great, and so funny!” I wheedled back. Then I got all chin-jutty and buttholey: “I can’t believe you are acting like this! I WILL DO AS I PLEASE, MISTER, PBBLTHTHTHT.”

“YOU ARE RIDICULOUS. FINE. WRITE WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT, JUST DON’T USE HER REALNAME^tm.” If there was a way to put four periods on the end of that sentence without them looking like passive little trailing-off ellipses, I would, because he totally put the emphatic total of no less than four periods on the end of that sentence. There were maybe even five. Five, y’all!

So henceforward little Intan’s name won’t be Intan. I mean, it will be in real life and all, to the people that know and love her (Maxim, apparently, MORE THAN ME). But to you fake internet people? She’ll be Bernie. You clear on that? Intan is not Intan, Intan is Bernie.

And if any of you fuckers tell her I’m voyeurnalling about her, you are in so much trouble. SO MUCH.

*Completely shitty scenario. I don’t want to talk about it. We are done being foster parents for a minute. FUCK THE SYSTEM, IT IS INHERENTLY FLAWED.