I have 50 or more bookmarked sites, most of which are as neglected as my snow blower: blogs I don’t read anymore, political analysis I can’t stand to read anymore, media commentary on TV shows I no longer watch or radio stations my son no longer works for, eagle and hawk cams of empty nests.
The blogs I like are personal, the more personal the better: exactly the opposite of Celebrating Time, which, at least in the past, has tended to celebrate events as far removed from my own life as possible. I can’t imagine being Heather Armstrong, for example, of dooce.com, who took us through getting fired, getting married, depression, the birth of two children, even more severe needing-hospitalization-post-partum-depression, separation, and divorce.
Or her former husband Jon, whose blog blurbomat comes right after hers on my list because, for a while, they were both writing about how difficult their separation was (now he just takes processed pictures and tells us how he does it, which is so boring his is one of those I rarely visit).
Heather has a new boyfriend, I deduce (pun!) between the lines, but apparently he’s laid down the law, so all we get to see is his feet and hers at an airport.
One of my favorite blogs, just eat your cupcake, is written by a lesbian child psychiatrist who just married her partner. She writes about their lovemaking and their fights and her teen-aged daughter and the one-night-stand father of her daughter and her obnoxious secretary and someone who stalked her and the explicit conversations she has with her best friend and I can’t imagine none of these people reads her blog, especially the stalker and the bad secretary.
Dooce.com makes so much money that Jon, when they were together, quit his job and started working for her (part of why the marriage broke up, undoubtedly). Writing is a catharsis for the cupcake lady, obviously.
And me? It’s not for the money (obviously), or cathartic (obviously), or even for the three, maybe now five, people who so thoughtfully appreciated my return. And even though after every post WordPress congratulates me and shows me ways I could promote myself, I’m not even sure I want more readers. If I did, I might have to get divorced, or depressed, or turn myself into a lesbian child psychiatrist.