Like My Xanga Of Yore

Posted by Angela Cronin on

Ah. A blog. I've been told for years this was something I needed for MollyGirl. Let's face it - I can barely remember to maybe post a pic of some yarn with a 30-word caption below it once a day. Doing something structured like a blog is probably beyond me at this point. Between working at MollyGirl full time (and overtime), working at a little office job part-time, adulting (ie. grocery shopping, laundry, all that fun crap), and taking care of the furbabies and my husbunni, I can hardly remember to brush my teeth most days.
 
But who knows? Maybe this will be cathartic. I used to "blog" rather obsessively back in high school. Back then, Xanga was the thing, and eventually that moved onto LiveJournal. I was an avid LiveJournaler for many years, well through the latter years of college. After that I journaled on my computer for a hot second, but life started to pick up speed at that point and it sort of fell off my radar. And I know a blog for my yarn company isn't the same as the horrifyingly personal LiveJournal account I was so fond of (it's been private for years, so don't even try to find it!... please) but it still seems a daunting task. Sort of like how you (by which I mean me) start a sweater and you're super excited about it for the first 30 rows. And then you muddle through the next couple, because hey, once you finish the raglan increases, it's all downhill, right? And then once you finish the increases, you're like, "Gee, let me start something else, take a break, I'll come back to this when I finish this quick little interim project!" ...And four years later, that sweater is still sitting in its project bag. In a corner. Collecting dust. And then you're intimidated to pick it back up again, because what if you can't get the same gauge. And you'll kick up that cloud of dust that will aggravate your allergies and make you miserable for 24 hours. And also you don't really want to do that pattern anymore... but it's a single ply alpaca-blend and it won't frog nicely anyway.... Yeah, we're still talking about me. I swear I'll finish that sweater at some point. I will. Maybe. That's how I get with these blogs. Which is why I will probably never, ever publish this. Probably.
 
This is not the first attempt at a "professional" blog I've made in the past decade. Oh no, there have been several spectacular failures. It seems to me like the best-run blogs are planned out, mapped out, edited by a person who's not me after a long day and a glass of wine, and then scheduled to post at optimized times. I could be totally wrong, this is just the impression all those marketing classes NYU made me take left me with. And seriously, ain't nobody got time for that. But I've never been at my best when I operate like everyone else. This is something I've come to learn and accept about myself over the last few years. I accidentally wound up with all of the best things in my life. Dog, husband. My best-selling colors are frequently ones that started out as total accidents. This whole company is really an accident, if you think about it. Owning an independent yarn company was never on my radar; I was actually notorious in college for NOT wanting to be in charge of a business. I started out doing this for the lulz and now it's become my full-time gig. Definitely an accident.
So maybe if I take that same approach with this blog, this won't totally suck! As one of my part-time co-workers says constantly, "2018 is the year of positivity!" So there it is, today's blurbie of positivity. "Don't plan anything and then it won't suck." You're welcome. Except that I won't publish this. Probably. Except how can I deprive the world of that nugget of wisdom? Maybe I'll post it and just hope no one notices until I have something concrete and related to yarn to say. That sounds like a plan. Let's do that. Well shit, here goes nothing.
 
P.S. - Something for y'all to note going forward: I swear. A bunch. It embarrasses my mom, but it's not my fault I got the "swears like a trucker" gene from my dad. In fact, she's probably embarrassed now and isn't sure why, since she doesn't know I'm doing this. She can just feel me swearing from here and is mortified. Sorry, Mom.

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