The Making of a Blog Post

You know how you used to see a guy walking down the street talking to himself and you'd cross over to the other side, just in case? But nowadays you know he isn't crazy at all, but is so extraordinarily important he needs a phone screwed into his ear so the world doesn't crack apart in the time it takes to pull a regular cell phone from his front pocket?

I've become one of those guys.

I haven't installed a phone in my head (too ridiculous and who needs the radiation?), but in preparation for the launch of my new website--which was going to arrive complete with its very own blog--I've been doing a lot of internal talking. More so than usual. Fabulous, fully formed posts flash into my mind and glitter for about an hour. These are seriously good posts, posts my mother might copy and send out as a bulk email saying, "Look what my daughter said today..."

There is one that begins with a rant about this year's black flies hanging around Northern Ontario way longer than any other year in history just when we buy our first cottage and how my husband never gets bitten because I'm his own personal No-pest strip. Then, because this first black fly post will be so comprehensive and adorable and I won't want to tax my blog readers (should I have more than one) with too much, too soon; I have a the next day's post all set to further examine black flies and their undocumented fascination with fuchsia sweat pants. Which could only lead into the next probing essay--this one about the psychology of and logic behind the wearing of fuchsia sweat pants in the first place (they were half price at American Eagle and it was early spring. Please, you'd have pulled out your debit card too). Then, as one might expect, this dissertation would be followed by a rant against the person who decided fuchsia should be spelled as if it should read "fucks ya."

I now debate cursing on the new blog. Do I want to appear demure and bookish? Or edgy and eccentric? It is at this point that all previous imaginary blog posts lose their gloss. My internal debate about swearing has brought forth the terrible truth that, still, after decades of vowing to watch Oprah but never noticing it was four o'clock, I still have no idea who I am.  Which makes the voices in my head go silent.

But then a black fly lands on my green yoga shoe...