See what I did? Notice how THAT didn't work out very well? Don't do it THAT way, okay?
11 Years

In Blog Years, I Should Be Friggin' Rich!

9 Years

9 years ago, I had a momfriend over for a playdate (remember those?!?) and, while we did share stories about our kids, fueled by tall glasses of spearmint iced tea and assorted kid-friendly snacks (probably fishy crackers and gummy bears, don't judge!) my friend and I waxed poetic about the days when we both dreamed of becoming famous writers.

Okay, mostly her, because she was (and still is) a screen writer (for real) and I just liked to pretend as if I were just as...you know...writerly.

"Have you thought about writing in a weblog?"

Smiling politely, I slowly refilled her glass and effectively acknowledged the fact that I had NO IDEA what a weblog really was.

"What the frig is a weblog?"

I'm from Jersey, enough said.

Aaaaaand, the rest my friends is...as they say...hysterical.  No, really.  Looking back at those first few posts, I swear, it's pretty obvious that I am in no way, shape or form as writer-ly as I pretended to be.

Still, living out my life online, sharing stories that I now treasure (okay, more like cling to like a forgotten child) and the extreme privilege of getting to know and eventually meeting some of my best friends in world...priceless.

Something that, up until this very day, a lot of folks still can't seem to wrap their heads around and that's totally okay.

It's hard to explain, I guess I'm just not that writer-ly.

So, for your reading pleasure and in celebration of my 9th blogiversary, my first blog post ever with no revisions, left as is when I first wrote it, one big friggin' paragraph of misspellings and all:

9/02/2003
 
Every pillow in my house has been relocated to the center of my living room. Why? The oldest of my four children, who is 9, has a playdate and it's raining outside. Enough said?!? My daughter's little friend is a well mannered, intellegent little girl who happens to share in my daughter's facination for pretend. One would think that at 9, thanks to Brittany Spears, Bratz Dolls and belly shirts, MTV would hold their interest rather than the giant maze totally constructed of pillows growing ever taller behind me. I mean every pillow, down to my youngest, who is 2, crib pillow. She was not very happy at first, but with a lot of reassurances made by her older sister, she gave up her pink frilly pillow for a promised entrance into the once completed maze. Everyone is in the act. My second oldest girl, who is 7, is busily adding her inventory of pillows. My son, who is 4 and the only boy in this house besides the two cats at the moment, has been accepted into the fold as well, light saber in hand. Play dates are very difficult to control in my house. With good intentions, I invite the 9 year olds, the 7 year olds and even a 4 year old friend (my son is in desperate need of male bonding) for some summer or after school fun. I have a 9 room house, 2 of which are bathrooms, 2 of which all 4 of my children share as bedrooms, 1 of which is my room dedicated to stock piles of clean and dirty laundry. This basically leaves the main part of the house (where, by the way my desk is smack dab in the middle of) open to attempted organize play. We bought this house because of its, "kid-friendly" potential. Today, I find myself retreating to my computer and reflecting on the mountain of pillows, soon to be dissassembled if anyone even thinks about getting any supper placed in front of them. My four year old son, who is half naked with a feather sticking out of his head, is screaming somewhere toward the back end of the house ("He's an indian for goodness sake!" I only asked.) My 2 year old is happily slamming the bedroom door upstairs ("She's thunder! We need thunder 'cause it's raining outside!" Again, I only asked). My 7 year old is bent out of shape ("They never want to play what I want to play!" No, we cannot have Kaitlyn over this afternoon.) The 9 year olds are running back and forth between the upstairs and the downstairs bedrooms screaming, "Can you hear me now?" ("The commercial is totally hysterical, Mom!" I didn't ask this time.) I look at the clock and see that the play date has an hour and a half to go and so do I, because thunder just pooped!
- posted by Liz @ 9/02/2003 03:38:00 PM

See, I told you.  Not very writerly-ish, right?  To me?  PRICELESS!!!

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