Definition: Cuddleblogger.

Back in 2004 when I started blogging and even earlier in 2003, when I lived in Boston and flirted with the idea and started really reading blogs, I liked a certain kind of blog. The author would be a fan of Amelie. Tea/coffee. Fancy notebooks. A Mac or otherwise non-standard computer. Funky glasses. No cussing. Only nice things to say. Fondness for books, especially poetry. Sharing recipes. I was joking one time that there was a uniform for the Cuddlebloggers: Amelie soundtrack, Moleskine, Timbuk2 bag, gel pens or, better, a fountain pen with some obscure color of ink in it like Nipple of Venus Rose Pink. I formerly identified some Cuddlebloggers as hipsters (read here), but it has lasted far long enough to be official in some way. I think.

I don’t mean this in a bad way, really. I have so many Moleskines that I need a shelf. Not to mention my affection for Amelie and utter and complete caffeine addiction. I’m just saying is all. And, to be sure, I totally tried to be a Cuddleblogger at first, whether I realized it or not. Until our car wreck, that is, when I let loose with my first naughty language (here). That sumbitch in the land-yacht changed everything for us, literally knocking us out of a pattern of contentment that was leading us to somewhere we did not want to be. But that’s another story.

I like making up words and definitions. Cuddleblogger. You know what I’m talking about, though they are certainly a dying breed. I’m hard pressed to think of more than one or two who still blogs regularly. And I miss them.

This is posting in the future, when I’ll be off to Harper’s Ferry for a nice day trip and hike up to Maryland Heights. I went there the day after Thanksgiving in 2002, too, and they had homemade cinnamon rolls with fresh icing poured generously with a ladle at the ice-cream shop. It was cold, and the plates of heaven steamed on the porch when I confessed to a friend of mine that I was a vegetarian.