Blogiversaries, Blog Birthdays, & Post Parties

 

Apparently, I’m supposed to celebrate my blog. Throw a party or something. All the cool kids are doing it.

 

BlogBirthday-sig

 

“I’ve been blogging for a year!” *party*

“I’ve just hit my 200th post!” *party*

Of course, this means I should know how many posts I’ve published and exactly how long I’ve been blogging.

Which I don’t.

I can sneak a quick peek over there –> where a convenient list of months and years is shouting at me from my sidebar.

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It’s been a year. Actually, a bit over.

My blogiversary has come and gone. I’m not sure what was required of me, anyway. There are different types of virtual celebrations: leave-a-links, quiet acknowledgments, give-aways, favorite posts…

I didn’t forget, I just didn’t think about it. But everyone celebrates their blog in some way. I’m the odd duck out, I guess. (Do not correct my mixed metaphor—not right now. I’m fragile.)

I don’t understand. Why do people give their blogs birthday and round-numbered posts parties?

Seriously, I see this all the time. On blogs I follow and love. From bloggers I follow and love. I’m hoping those bloggers can chime in and help me understand this confuddling concept.

 

My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less.

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Do you throw parties for your blog? Have you ever celebrated an anniversary or specific number of posts? Are you acknowledging that you’ve kept up with your writing or appreciating your readers or…?

 

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Words, Don’t Fail Me Now

 

Why am I stuck? I’m trying so hard (first clue) to put my feelings into words (second clue) for this momentous occasion (and…there’s the third). ThoughtBubble

What happens when you sit down to write something inside a book or card for a special event? A birthday, wedding, or anniversary? A letter to your newborn or college-bound child?

These things leave me utterly speechless, in a writing sort of way, and I wind up with an embarrassing outpouring of unintelligible sentences or an empty page.

When I’m forcing myself to write, I often can’t. Simple as that.

When I attempt to put deep, profound feelings on paper, I find the words aren’t meaningful enough.

The pressure of finding a sentiment that is perfect and unforgettable sends me running from my keyboard and diving under the covers.

Words are my world.

They can’t fail me when I need them most. This is the irrational thought I have before I beat myself up.

Why can’t I write this?!

Though I’ve basically answered my own question and outlined the reasons why, I still have a nagging feeling. And I think to the words, “Please. Don’t fail me now.”

 

I can't write - sig

This is what I have so far…

 

My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less.

 

Sugar Mountains

 

Yesterday, I got a text at 8 AM.

It said:

Do you remember making me a sugar mountain in college for my twentieth birthday? Doesn’t seem that long ago.

To which I responded:

Oh my gosh! I forgot about that!

I didn’t. I loved it. It’s a very clear memory.

I can’t believe your baby will be twenty today.

I know. I’m going to make him a sugar mountain.

This is making me cry.

Weird what things in life end up special memories. A paper cone with sugar packets stuck on it is forever in my memory and now (maybe) his. See what you did? You started a tradition. I’ll never forget that. Thank you.

I did, indeed, tape a piece of paper together to make a cone and staple sugar packets on it. Why? Because you can’t be twenty on sugar mountain. (Also, we loved Neil Young.) My best friend was leaving sugar mountain and I wasn’t. I wanted her to have a place she could return to if she wanted. That sculpture stayed up in our dorm room like a trophy for months.

I also unintentionally started a tradition. Yesterday, twenty-three years later, she made a sugar mountain for her son.

It isn’t always the big things (weddings, funerals, et al.) that make memories. You never know what will stay with someone, what will become a cherished memory. Sometimes it’s the smallest acts, the simple stapling of sugar packets to a paper cone.

Her last text message said:

Your boys are still there. I’ll remember to send them sugar mountains.

 

My random thoughts in 200 words or less.
(Excluding the texts—which I’m not counting. Yes, I’m cheating.)

 

Turning 41

 

That title doesn’t have a ring to it, does it? You know what I mean. Something like “Reflections On Turning 40”. ThoughtBubble

There is a difference between being 40 and being 41. Do you know what it is?

“Ooh! Pick me!”

“Okay, you in the corner.”

“One year.”

“No.”

Last year, I wrote a post about turning forty (Over the Hill or 40 is the new 20). Although I complained a lot a bit in that post, I got used to being 40 pretty quickly. Much faster than I thought I would. It was fun to tell people I was forty.

And an ego boost to boot.

“You’re forty?! You don’t look forty.” They’d say “forty” like it was something they’d stepped in and wanted to wipe off their shoe. Apparently, 40 is not the new 20. But I took those as compliments anyway.

Now, though, I have to say that I’m forty-one. People have lost that I-smell-something-bad look but it’s been replaced with pity. Pity. Holy crap, really? Once you have to add a number (any number) after “forty”, it’s officially a pitiful thing.

You can’t say “I’m forty” you are now saying “I’m in my forties.” BIG difference.

 

My Sunday thoughts in 200 words or less.