I love blogging. I really do. It’s like free therapy. I can lay down on my own couch and spill my guts to a world who really doesn’t care if I’m crazy or not.
I rarely blog about anything important or serious, because this blog is for fun – my fun. I get to share photos and talk about the silly things my kids do and say. This blog is the reason I took the time to write our love story and remember the details associated with the birth of my children. It’s like a giant memory book for me, and I can pull it up on my laptop and let it sit on top of the coffee table if I want. Originally I thought I’d write for friends and family, but I suspect few of my friends read this and almost none of my family does, but that’s ok.
Because I never kept a diary when I was young, I sometimes think I would not write if no one read; however, not keeping a diary was really an issue of Imightdieathousanddeathsifsomeonereadsmydiary. I didn’t think I could adequately hide my diary from my mother. That’s the real reason I didn’t write. Now I’ve grown old enough to realize I’m not the only crazy woman in this world, so who cares if people glimpse into the abyss that is my mind.
Although I will admit, the idea of writing a lifetime’s worth of delicious diaries filled with silly stories delights me. My kids would find them when I’m gone and spend the rest of their lives wondering if mom’s stories are “truth” or “fiction”. How I could mess with them!
But instead, I blog and a few random people read my blog.
The thing is, I love you random people. I feel like some of you have become friends, people I would invite over on Friday nights for a pizza and burp night. (Don’t ask about the burping. Please.)
There’s just one thing that makes me loony about blogging and it’s in the stars. Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star is on auto-play in my mind and I can’t shut it off. At the end of each post there’s a little strip of stars. Have you seen it? It’s right down there at the bottom.
Hardly anyone ever notices the stars. In fact I forget that they’re there until a new post pops up in my right sidebar. There’s a little widget that keeps track of my posts with the highest ratings. Apparently they are the posts that you, the reader, likes, because you take the time to click on the stars.
One Star = Very Poor (this is the MOST pathetic rating)
Two Stars = Poor (a little less pathetic, but still LOSER)
Three Stars = Average (it’s like being a “C” student)
Four Stars = Good (ok, but you could’ve done better)
Five Stars = Excellent (like very good baby, home run, atta girl, etc.)
These stars are a report card of sorts and I absolutely hate failing. You should have seen me the time I got a “D” on a Shakespeare test in college. I was certain I saw Juliet roll over in her grave.
When I made the stars to automatically appear at the end of each post, I didn’t think anything of it. It was just an option with a little box I could check, so I did. I mean, why not? Who cares? It’s just a few stars, right?
Wrong. So miserably wrong. I’m addicted to checking the stars, not for my astrological readings, but for my bloggy report card. I hate to say it, but I’m a failure more often than I’d like.
Most of the time I get zero stars. I’m totally good with this, but when I get two or three stars, I put myself on detention and make myself stay late after school so I can practice writing words that make sense.
And then it happened.
The other day, while I was still jet-lagged from my trip, I got one star. One pathetic shooting star. It crashed and burned right by my new family photo.
Obviously I’m not making the honor roll anytime soon. I think I’ll tuck that post into the file with the Shakespeare paper. Juliet will never rest in peace.
So now I’ll sign off and try to forget the stars, because I love you all, even the person who gave me one lousy star. Hope you have a delightful weekend! Remember tonight is pizza-burb night if you want to come. 😉