>Bobbed

>I’d like to say that I was busy ironing or something when I blithely paused by my computer, pressed a button, and discovered to my great surprise and delight that I was a Best of Blogs finalist.

Because I wouldn’t want you to think that I got up at 3:30am Wednesday morning, snuck downstairs like a criminal and checked to see whether the BoB list was up (It wasn’t. But I wouldn’t have known that, because I slept like a baby Tuesday night). And I certainly wouldn’t want you to think that I sat hunched and bleary-eyed over my laptop yesterday, pressing the refresh button until I developed a weird tic in my right index finger. No, no. That wouldn’t do at all.

So instead, picture me wearing a stylish von Furstenburg wrap dress, gaily laughing as the flowers and balloons and messages from well-wishers arrive, saying something like, “I just can’t believe I’m a finalist! Thank you! Oh! Thank you!” Picture me standing on my front porch gasping as the high school marching band plays “When the Saints Go Marching In” in my front yard. Because that’s what it felt like. So we’ll say that’s exactly what happened.

I am staggered by all the new visitors who’ve stopped by. Damn that cannoli story. You guys probably think I’m a freak. You may be right. But I have had a brush with fame before, so I like to think I know how to handle myself now that I’m older and wiser.

Yes, as a much younger lass, I was a perky morning television anchor in Podunksville. My station’s ratings left a little something to be desired (Why else would they have hired me?), but I didn’t care. I was famous. My name was destined to be in lights.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have many fans. I can only think of two, in fact. A bag boy at Harris Teeter known as Butchy Wutchy… and my gynocologist.

Butchy Wutchy had coke bottle eyeglasses and a tangled mass of sandy blonde hair. He also had an extraordinarily loud speaking voice. Really, I can’t think of why he was wasting his talents at Hairy Tweeter when he could’ve been announcing play-by-plays from the press box of the local middle school football field. But anyway.

“Hey!” he’d shout each and every time I showed up in the checkout line. “Hey! It’s Lucinda! From Channel 2! I watch you! I watch you! Har har! Everybody, look!”

I have Butchy Wutchy to thank for my mastery of the smile-cringe.

But honestly, the gynocologist was far worse. I only had to see him once a year, but still. The last thing you want a man between your legs to say is, “So! You have got to give me that recipe for Chicken Parmesan! I could tell you were really enjoying it last week! Oh, and everything down here is looking just fine! Tell me, what exactly was in that recipe?”

“Um. Chicken.” I’d say through clenched teeth. “Tomatoes. Uh. Maybe… oregano?”

“Oregano!” he’d shout gleefully. “I knew it! Okay, this might pinch a little.”

I think we’ve had enough of this trip down memory lane.

Let’s get back to the present now, shall we?

I would like to say that all things are merry in Lucindaland. That my former 15 minutes of fame prepared me for this moment in the cyberspotlight. But unfortunately, it appears the competition already has cycled into high gear. And I feel like I’ve been pushed into some sort of blog battledome.

While half the finalists are busy getting sloshed, another who shall remain nameless appears to be using her superhero status to plot her ascension to the Mommy Blogger throne. How else can you explain the pile of flaming dog poop I found in my inbox this morning? There was no note attached, but I seem to remember that a certain someone has been going on and on about her adorable new puppy dog. I’m not pointing fingers. I’m just sayin’.

No, I feel very certain that all of the nominees will behave with grace and dignity. We are mommies, after all. And everyone knows that mommies are nothing but nice.

So thank you, BoB. And thank you to all of you who’ve sent me kind e-mails and comments. I think I’ll get back to my ironing now.

Oh, and confidential to PP: Game on, my friend. Game on.