Since the day my blog was born, way back when, I have been struggling with how to handle one issue.
And just in case any of you fear I got hit on the head and am wandering through life thinking it’s 2015 and I’m happily living in sin with Anderson Cooper and my skinny self, rest assured. I know perfectly well that it’s 2008, that I’m nowhere near skinny, that I’m happily living in wedlock with Nate, that my blog was born a mere seven months ago and that seven months does not, in any way, constitute “way back when” unless you have barricaded yourself in your closet with your pre-maternity clothes because you’re huge, retaining more water than the Hoover Dam, and are sick to death of everyone yelling MY GOD, HAVEN’T YOU HAD THAT BABY YET? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WAITING FOR?
So I’m aware we’re talking about a youngster here. I mean my blog, not me. I’m an oldster. With cellulite. But that’s neither here nor there. By the way, Anderson? Call me.
I’ll come back to the aforementioned blog issue in a second because I’m fairly sure I bought a round trip ticket on the Tangent Express, so just bear with me for a moment while I stop off at Left Field and tell you about the time when Zoe was eight or nine and there was a guest speaker at one of her girl scout meetings. The speaker was rambling on and on about how teaching methods had changed since she had gone to school – I wasn’t really paying attention because there were other moms there and I was in my glory playing grownup and having a conversation that didn’t include me yelling BECAUSE I SAID SO.
However, I did happen to catch the speaker’s words at one point. And judging by the clamor of jaws dropping to the floor all around me, so did every single mother around me.
The speaker was describing how she had been taught division in elementary school, which was “back in the day.”
She couldn’t have been a day over twenty.
After we scrounged around for our glasses, dropped to the floor amidst creaks and cracks and pops and groans, retrieved our jaws, reattached them to our faces and slowly tried to stand up as straight as our joints and bloated reproductive systems would allow, we stood there, looking at the blasphemer. She of the peaches and cream complexion, bright eyes, shiny and shimmery bobbed hair, perfect boobs and lithe body. No wrinkles. No cellulite. No age spots. No gray hair. No stomach. No visible veins, varicose or otherwise. No mortgage, no car payment, no husband spending $80 on two chia pets, no kids playing Who Can Kill Mom First Using Just Their Thumbs. Nothing but taut, unblemished skin for as far as the eye could see. She had to be at least 2.5 kids, 42 Halloween costumes, 903 renditions of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on a leased trumpet, 872 soccer games, 12 camp outs, 2 bouts of chicken pox, 4 cases of poison ivy, 695 scream fests and 3 MOM! I NEED TO BUILD A FOUR FOOT DIARAMA BY TOMORROW MORNING’s away from her first botox injection.
Back in the day? What, when you were an embryo?
Come back when you have a stretch mark or two and gravity is no longer sending you Christmas cards. Then we’ll talk.
OK – I’ve disembarked from the Tangent Express and I’m quite exhausted so I’ll get right to the point. Since I started blogging, I have struggled with one issue. Actually, I’ve been struggling with lots and lots and lots issues, only some of which are actually blog related.
If you leave a comment on a blog, oh say, this one, do you expect to get a reply from the blogger, oh say, me? And are you completely ticked off at a certain blogger, let’s say, me, because you’ve received no such reply and you’re wondering if I’ve got the social wherewithal of peat moss?
If so, I just wanted you to know that I mean no disrespect to anyone and I am not related whatsoever to any decomposed plant food, even if my skin says otherwise.
I typically don’t post replies to individual comments in my comments section. I actually never knew that any blogger did this until recently and then I thought to myself: Holy damn crap, am I doing this wrong? Because that is what I say to myself whenever I do anything new or strange, like give birth or raise a teenager.
Unfortunately, there’s not enough time in the day for me to reply to individual comments on a consistent basis and if I can’t do something consistently at 110% with absolute perfection, my borderline OCD condition doesn’t let me do it at all. Between writing my epic long posts and making sure my family is fed and wearing clean undies and my kids are doing their homework so they don’t become dumber than dirt and my husband is not outspending God and buying the entire world off the Internet, I have approximately three hours left in the day and I spend them trying to get some sleep which is no easy task considering I sleep next to a 6’2″ tall, dark, handsome, diesel engine. I’m speaking in a strictly snoring sense, mind you.
There were a few times at the beginning, way back when, when I emailed a few people in response to their comments and then I never heard from them again. I have visions of them looking at their inbox and running in the opposite direction, screaming something about some crazy ass stalker. And then my paranoid self said to my schizophrenic self HAH! THEY DON’T LIKE YOU ANYMORE. YOU SMELL.
Nevertheless, I love your comments. Adore them. I have, in fact, become quite addicted to them, much to the consternation of my family who would like me to develop other, more family oriented addictions, like, say, vacuuming.
While you can’t see me from your side of the monitor, over here on my side, I jump up and down excitedly each and every time I get a comment, yelling at no one in particular OH MY GOD, SOMEONE READS ME, I ACTUALLY DO EXIST at which time my family shouts up at me in no particular order #1) can I keep it down; #2) can I get a life; and #3) what’s for dinner.
So, if you’re a blogger, what’s your take on the comment scenario? Reply? No reply?
And if you’re a reader, on what side of the fence do you stand? Or sit?
I used to be able to sit on fences, way back when, before my hips cloned themselves. Speaking of fences and hips, if anyone needs some tickets on the Tangent Express, let me know. I’ve got plenty to spare.