|For my Porch Sitters, with love & jelly.|
This is my 100th post! [cue wild applause, balloons, confetti and Michael Jackson dancing with Emmanuel Lewis. We all celebrate in our own way, people.]
According to Willard Scott, 100 is a big deal, worthy of jars of jelly goodness.
I also learned from Wikipedia that 100 is an anti-gonal number. Math was never my best subject, but I'm guessing that means 100 is a lesbian.
Most importantly, as someone who always dreamed about being A Writer but never quite made it there (read: spends too much time on the Internet), the 100th post says something to me. It mostly says, "Who the heck reads this stuff?!" You do, apparently. God bless you for that.
Still, I'll give myself a teeny-tiny bit of credit, since it's my happy blog-day. The 100th post also says I stuck with something.
Honestly, I began the Porch when I was lost. I didn't know where to go. I didn't know what to do.
Writing has always been a way of soul-searching for me, a way to sift, sort and, well, find my way.
Granted, I have spent most of my life writing in some form. When I graduated from college, I found ways to pay the bills by stringing sentences together in a mostly coherent way. For a while, I was a journalist (I don't like to brag, but I have interviewed both Pauly Shore and Pat Boone. It's okay to be super jealous). I also dabbled in marketing and public relations and even pretended to be a writing teacher for a while.
But I wasn't writing for me. I was telling stories, but not my own. The Porch was a way to change that.
At the time, I didn't know if anyone would ever read what I needed to say, but I knew -- way down deep in my polysorbate-coated-gut -- that it was time to write for myself. I even gave myself permission to write badly, as long as I was writing. The Porch, after all, has always been a playground for me.
Depending on my mood and the availability of my muse (she's flighty, that one), I have written silly things and not-so-silly things; bad poetry and self-indulgent prose (like this!). I am sometimes a mommy blogger; sometimes an ornery blogger (<--I like her); sometimes a casual explorer of life's randomness; and sometimes I've just had too much wine.
But the point is, thanks to the Porch, I found my way. I found a place where I belong.
I hope some of you have, too.
Some tell me I'm sappy; some tell me I'm vulgar. As long as I'm being told both, I figure I'm doing my job. I have conservative readers; liberal readers; gay readers; straight readers; old readers; young readers; guy readers; gal readers; Hatfield readers; and McCoy readers. I like to think that means that everyone can find something here, something that ties us all together in spite of our many differences (Hugh Jackman? I'm betting it's Hugh Jackman).
Thanks to those of you who have visited the Porch through the years. As unlikely as this is, some of you aren't even related to me. Google stats tell me that most of my readers are from the United States ('MERICA!). But I also routinely have Russian visitors. Maybe I am to Russia as David Hasselhoff is to Germany. Most likely, Russians read my blog to feel vastly superior to Americans, much like they did when their neighbor, Sarah Palin, was a vice-presidential candidate. Or maybe it's because of the dance I did that ended the Cold War.
No matter where you come from or what brought you here (took a wrong turn at the corner of bing and google?), I hope the Porch has been a welcoming place for you: a place to laugh, unwind and learn important facts about snack cakes - like how Ding Dongs tasted so much better in thin, foil wrappers.
To Southerners, porches are sacred places, where friends gather to sip and sit a spell (how long is "a spell"? That, my friend, depends on how much wine you have). Porches also are places to pause -- to breathe and soak up life. Thank you for being my guest and soaking up a little life with me.
To celebrate my 100th blog-day, I plan to eat jelly out of the jar. But since I do that every day, I also plan to officially call myself a writer now. Stop giggling. I'm gonna work it. I'm gonna work it so hard.
In between raising children whom I relish; working an important day job that I relish; and transitioning into my new life, that yes, I relish, I am going to write more. Notice I didn't say I'm going to find time to write more because I've looked for that time, and it obviously hides out with lost socks and gloves and great movies that star Jennifer Lopez. It doesn't exist.
But desire certainly does. I just have to match my passion with some work ethic and ba-da-bing! I'll be writing my 101th blog post in no time.
Like maybe next year.
Hey. I never set a deadline. There's way too much Internet out there for that. I'm going to open a jar of Smucker's and watch videos of cats walking on their hind legs now. It's how we party on the Porch.