Cheesy Blogging

I got to be a Cheesy Blogger Guest Post Writer! And now I can die happy.

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Theory: the cheesiest bloggers of all write blogs that don't actually exist.

I began blogging because I was so excited about a secret that I needed a place to write about it. (I was pregnant.) I thought I was brilliant and everyone in the world would someday read my beautiful words and think, “What a wonderful writer!” and the accolades would fall from the sky.

Then Cheesy Blogger founder Angela casually mentioned that I was writing a scrapbook blog, and she was absolutely right. Is the writing decent? I think so. Should anyone who doesn’t already care about my baby (now a toddler) read my blog? No.

No. Hmm.

I can’t deny that a thrilling part of the writing process has fizzled for me, knowing that I’m not writing something that entertains to a mass (or even an imaginary mass) public.

So I’ve been thinking: Start a New Blog! It’ll be clever! And funny! And someday everyone in the world will ready my beautiful cheesy words and those accolades finally will fall!

I looked up clever blog names to see if they were available as dot coms. I thought through a few entertaining posts and began imaginary writing. I designed a few mastheads. My inspiration was back!

I'd write four times per week. I'd comment like a madwoman on other people’s blogs. I'd be clever and hysterically funny. I’d try to make friends (something I’ve NEVER been good at). I’d go to conferences. I’d network. Heck, I’d advertise.

And… fizzle.

Maybe I have what it takes to be great at something. Maybe I don’t. Trying is a choice.

For now, I’m cuddling up with my little scrapbook blog, where I can be cheesy and mushy and photo-heavy for an audience of family and friend(s) and me. And in the meantime, I’ll take pleasure in reading the wonderfully entertaining and excellently cheesy blogs of others like Angela and Marianna Annadanna and SarcasmInAction. I’ll keep dreaming.

There’s always tomorrow.

commenting on blog posts

I rarely comment on the blog posts of others because without fail I don't say what I mean to say. I either sound whiny, ignorant, or so random that it looks as though I didn't even read the post.

When I do comment, as I did yesterday on Loralee's post about being uncomfortable around women nursing in public, it's often because I want to admit a shortcoming of my own (in this case, wishing I wasn't uncomfortable with nursing in public). It's a self-absorbed tendency. Such are the readers of these blogs that they often reply to my comments with advice in an effort to help me, a stranger.

Although I want to say, "Don't bother," that isn't very nice, is it? The people in this "mommy" blogger community are better than I. While I'm adding to the problem, they're trying to add to the solution. I want to say, "Don't bother," because I've already explored my possibilities. I didn't wake up one day and say, "Oh, I have this new problem. Instead of trying to fix it, I'm going to comment on a blog post and hope someone does the work for me."

Of course, the lovely Loralee cut to the heart of what I was saying by pointing out that no one should feel pressure either way in the public breastfeeding debate, but that she supports me for wishing I had "more freedom and less judgment" to do so.

The honest reason I bother airing out my problem(s) on someone else's post is loneliness. I just want someone to say, "Me too, absolutely." And that's it. To not be the only one entering the room through this particular door.

Just a "Yes, I also wish I wasn't so worried about what other people think that I completely inconvenience myself by not nursing in public."

Instead I got a sweet reply that said, "I spend time with a lot of other moms and when you’re just getting the hang of nursing, it helps to have the support of another Mom nursing beside you!" And where do you find these other moms? And when do you have time to sit beside them?

*sigh*

*shut up now, Lindsay*

award

I was tagged by the lovely, savvy, word-master-y queen of the humorous anecdote Angela over at Begging The Answer with the Versatile Blogger Award.

This award has strings attached. In addition to thanking my wonderful bestower, I must also share seven (who picks these numbers?) things about myself, pass this award to 15 bloggers who I think are deserving, and inform those bloggers of their winnings (my love and devotion).

SEVEN THINGS ABOUT ME:

1. I'm allergic to fruit.
2. On multiple occasions I have busted my nose on the narrow side of an open door.
3. I own 140+ books written by Nora Roberts and I don't know if there's a medication for this compulsion.
4. My first ever email address was ZeeTres@aol.com (I repeated the formula for my Twitter username, @sayschu).
5. I want to shave my head but never will.
6. I may be the only person who knows every word of the movie Brain Donors.
7. I still think about writing a novel daily, but I never settle on a plot idea.

SHARE THE AWARD WITH 15 BLOGGERS:
I will gladly bestow this award on the bloggers in my blogroll over there in the margin, so I won't duplicate them below. I would however like to honor a few brilliant Tumblr people:

Shelby writes things with her hands, face
Danfrth is on Tumblr
jasonmustian
joseph_ocon

Thank you.

I don't pull my hand out of the alligator's mouth until I get bit.

I'm scared of the Internet.

There's been a big twitter/blogosphere explosion today, in the circle I follow anyway, regarding online plagiarism. I won't attempt to recap. This story won't be the last of its kind and, as links to links to more links show, it isn't the first.

I got sucked in and disappeared into the mists of the linky web, lost in the horror stories about stolen words, stolen heartache, stolen photos, stolen lives.

From the first moment I used my name, my husband's name, and worst of all my baby's name in this little corner of the Internet, I've been terrified of everything I've willingly offered up to whoever wants it. All of my family's private photos and personal information is gathered here in one accessible, searchable place.

I'm not worried about being plagiarized. But I'm terrified of identity theft. So why am I doing this? It isn't because I'm naive. I'm not brave. I'm not even rebellious.

I drive as fast as I can get away with. I procrastinate until I can't anymore. I have a nasty habit of assuming bad things on the news won't happen to me.

I don't pull my hand out of the alligator's mouth until I get bit. Then I'm careful, cautious, smart until the statute of limitations on my memory is reached.

But I can't delude myself on this one. My baby's safety is potentially on the line, and I continue to balance on the edge of action. Do I stop everything? Change everything, though information is forever available to someone with enough time and energy?

YouTube. Facebook. Twitter. Blogger. The office website. Old school websites. Bylines and news clips. CCAP. Our lives, up for the taking.

18w 5d blogging

I just added my blog to the waiting list for BlogHer, and I find myself wondering how serious I am about this blog.

I'm a marketer. The fact that I didn't start this blog with the aim of marketing it, and so I see its marketing flaws, bothers me out of habit. The title isn't catchy and it didn't translate to my Twitter account. Half the posts are photo albums, not insightful or designed to illicit response. Most of the time, I don't even write as if I have an audience because... well, there are only five people on the planet willing to admit that they "follow" these posts.

If I were very serious, I would have to start making changes. First, I'd need a short and catchy title. Then, I'd need to do some networking, delve into all aspects of social media, do some small advertising through AdWords, and once I find some visitors I'd need to fill my posts with links to my other posts to keep them clicking. I'd have to stop lurking at the other parenting blogs and start commenting with links to my blog. Actively try to be funny, throw in some controversial topics, dwell on tragedy now and then, and I'm set.

I'm not going to do that, because I'm not serious. Not in the make-a-living-with-my-blog kind of way. (And I'm not judging people who do make a living with their blog – just the opposite.)

I don't want to have to study my posts before they're published to optimize them for maximum pageviews. I don't want to edit out the long and boring posts that I write, because I may want to go back someday and remember what a day in the life of baby Fletcher was like, even if no one else cares to read it.

That's the crux, I think. Do I care if no one else cares to read it?

I'll always think wistfully about what life would be like if people – strangers – actively cared about the writing I do. Anyone who ever dreamed of being a novelist has wondered. But this blog isn't my ticket to fame and fortune, and I don't want it to be.

* * *

This week, Fletcher had his four-month checkup. His weight is average for his age, whereas his height is off the charts. Why do parents get excited when they find out their kid is special in some way like this? As if we didn't already know how incredibly special he is?

He was a trooper as he was given more shots and oral medication. The nurse was shocked by Fletcher's strong gag reflex, and I have a love-hate feeling for the hilarious face he made every time she put that medicine in his mouth.

The doctor wants us to take Fletch to the children's hospital to see a skin specialist about his cradle cap and eczema and some funny bumps under his scalp. She also wanted us to apply another special cream, but at a cost of over $100 for one tube I raised my eyebrows at the pharmacist and wheeled my squeaky cart elsewhere. I wonder what kind of bill we'll get for the children's hospital.

Fletcher's next doctor appointment is the day after Thanksgiving. I can't believe the holidays are coming. I can't believe I'm going to blink and Fletcher will be six months old.