Do they make blog Massengill?

Sometimes when I think about my blog I feel…not so fresh.

Like at night, when I’m lying in bed thinking about things I want to blog about and I imagine millions of other people lying in bed—or showering or flossing—all doing the same thing. It seems so hokey. Divulging your intimate, personal details in the hopes that someone—anyone—will leave you a comment or find what you write to be meaningful or relevant. Click clacking away hour after hour, day after day.

For what?

Charles tells me that the blog will be a nice log of Junior’s beginnings. Of our lives. (I think he just likes reading about himself.)

But it’s eerie, isn’t it, how overly conscious you become of your life when you’re micro-analyzing it all for your blog? Sometimes I feel like a peeping tom—peeping myself. Sometimes I feel like shouting at myself, “Go away I want to cuddle on the couch with Junior and not obsess about how to translate this sweet, innocent moment into words so someone can read about it on my blog!”

Yet I keep coming back. Here I am right now.

Did you know that there are there are more than 175,000 new blogs created every day? That there are 112.8 million blogs? I didn't just pull that out of my ass; I found it here.

Having a blog is now as cliché as wanting to be a writer.

When I recently told some of my friends I have a blog I actually felt a little…ashamed. Dirty. I think I would have preferred to have told them I own a Celine CD. Or that my husband likes to dress up in Medieval tunics.

Oops. Sorry, honey.

For a minute or 12 I thought of stopping all the blog madness. I wasn’t going to read any more blogs or post any more blogs and for fuck’s sake I was going to stop the widget acquiring madness. I mean, I now belong to so many blog networking sites I’ve mistakenly tried to befriend myself.

Hmmm, whose this new chick? Look at that cool avatar. And she’s even a fellow Mullet-monger. Married…to…someone…named…Charles. “Will you be my…” Oh wait. Oh. It’s me.

And then I read Dto3’s blog about musical enemas and I thought hell no. If I hadn’t squeezed out a kid and started a blog I never would have stumbled upon his crappy post (that's a good thing: it's funny as hell).

I like the people I've "met." I get warm and fuzzy when I think about them. So I don't know their real names or if they use deodorant or if they recycle. I don't know those things about my neighbors and they're right next door. Letting their shrubs grow into my driveway.

So that's that. Phew. Poo.

(If you happen to wander over to check out Dto3 and you have a delicate stomach you might want to skip the last few paragraphs…I’m just sayin’).