I had a less-than-cool response to being Freshly Pressed.
I may have over-reacted. I may have caused a scene.
For those of you who don’t know, for those of you who are just now tuning in, I blog from Haiti, where not a lot of positive things have been happening lately, what with the January 12th earthquake, Hurricane Tomas, cholera, and now the close-to-coup political uncertainty.
To distract myself from this atmosphere of never knowing what’s next, I began blogging again after a year away from posts and comments—from Search Engine Optimization and RSS feeds.
I poured indecent amounts of energy into my renewed foray into the blogosphere. I was a down-right bloggerly drudge when it came to reading and commenting on the blogs of others.
I wrote and posted—
Wrote and posted—
Commenting maniacally in between.
For three whole weeks—
When I did my daily duty of checking Freshly Pressed, posted most mornings by 11 Eastern Standard Time.
I had developed a near religious devotion to this posting of posts, ten blogs featured each weekday on WordPress.com. I knew my duties as a devotee, arriving with the requisite ritual beverages (coffee and Coke Zero, of course). I knelt at the altar of blogging greatness— and clicked.
Strangely—the list of featured posts included one that had not only stolen the name of my blog, but the name of my post, as well.
This was a desecration.
A cardinal sin against the goodness that is Freshly Pressed!
Until it hit me.
Oh, may the gods of blogging forever bless the shrine of Freshly Pressed—for, in the name of blog, indeed,
Heavenly choirs were singing as I twirled my Port-au-Prince kitchen dizzy—
Twirling and shrieking—
Shrieking and twirling—a dervish of posting devotion.
And in this blogging frenzy, I did what any blogging diva worth her salt would do in such a moment.
I called my mother—
(Called my mother with the zeal of a six-year-old, just home from kindergarten, ready to show off her printing practice sheet, S’s marching capital and lower case across the page.)
“Mom, this is costing gobs of money, so I can only talk a minute, but I’ve been Freshly Pressed.”
“You’ve been what, Dear?”
“My blog. My blog has . . . “
(How should I explain it?)
“My blog has won a prize.”
“Well, that’s lovely, Dear.”
“What kind of prize?”
(I dare not mention “Freshly Pressed.” She’ll confuse that with French press or launch into a discussion of ironing!)
“It doesn’t matter, Mom, just a really cool prize. You should hurry and check your email. I sent you the link.”
“You sent me what, Dear?”
“The link. The blue LINK!”
“Oh, the BLUE ink, yes, I know, Dear.”
“But wait, let me write that down. I don’t want to forget—BLUE ink?”
(To better appreciate my mother’s memory issues see a post called “Airing Family Secrets via Haute Couture.”)
“Just go check your email, Mom.”
You know how the story ends—
Not with my mother delightfully 72, trying to figure out this world that was once Smith Corona and is now Google, Facebook, Twitter.
Rather with me—dizzy in my kitchen—reeling with the down-right, unabashed, writing-posting-commenting joy of it all—
The joy of FRESHLY PRESSED!