In recovery
Hi. My name is Captain Mom (not really, but here it is). And I’m a blogoholic. In recovery. This little spot in cyber space is a small effort for me to maintain, and great effort for me to not blow out the wahoo with linkety links, linky love, buttons upon buttons, rolls o’ blog, memes and more memes, and every I’ll link you here under the blogging sun. And if you’re reading this, I’m going to tell you to pull back. If you know. In your heart of hearts. You. spend. too. much. time. here. Or anywhere else in the blogosphere. Knock, knock. This is your life calling. You have actual people around you who’d love to hang. Not just watch the top of your head while you update yourself on people’s live whom you’ll probably. never. ever. ever. meet.
It starts out so innocently. The desire to have a creative outlet. To vent. To connect with people who may be like minded. To get that affirmation when you say something brilliant. Which we all do, of course. You pick a template. You get moving. Upload pictures. Agonize which picture of you makes you look less fat. Scrutinize screen names. Go real? Go with a pseudonym? Reveal the children? Your husband (if you’re a married woman)? And what, oh what, to call your precious blog, that most accurately reflects you, who you are, or better yet, who you want others to think you are.
You start writing pithy and insightful observations. You surf others’s sites similar to, and not so similar to, your place. You notice this little thing called a site meter. Hey, they’ve got 7326 hits. And they’ve only been blogging for 3 months! What the he…And she’s got 14, 587 hits! And at least 34 comments PER post! Why do I have no comments? I want comments. I want hits. So subtly, you have been lured. You check out the sites with high traffic. You could be the next Dooce. You could write a book like The Mommy Blog. All. you. have. to. do. is get. traffic. What do these sites have, besides really good writing, good common content that we all identify with, and in some cases, liberal use of the f-bomb? Traffic.
You check out other sites. They do blogrolls! Oh, link them to me, and they may link me to them. And the more places I’m linked, then the more chances I get hit, and people discover how wonderful I am, and keep coming back. They do memes. I’ll do memes. They do Who are you in the World of Pooh personality profiles. I’ll do Who are you in the World of Pooh personality profiles. You install a site meter, and watch for the numbers. And wait. And write. And wait. And tag some more unuspecting bloggers. And beg Ellen to make you a queen. I mean, I’ve heard some people do that. And then the little dings start coming in your inbox. Comments. Comments! More and more comments. People love me! I’m on my way. And they say stuff like you said exactly what I was feeling…why aren’t you writing a book…that was hysterical…I read you every day…and then you’re hooked. Like that first great hit of smack. Or so, I’ve heard. And the more you get, the more you want. You have to have it. And when you go a few hours without the ding, you get restless. Nervous. What’s happened. Did I offend someone. Lord help if I offended someone. Oh NO. If I ever revealed a truth about me or the world, and someone was offended, I’ll take it back! I’ll smooth the way. I’ll make it right. Got. to. get. traffic. Got to be poplular.
Soon, the quest for this traffic has you checking 172 other blogs, daily, to leave comments for stuff about which you do not give one tiny rat’s ass. Their granny smocks. You comment,Oh, I had a granny that smocked. I just love that. Please keep us posted. You don’t have a granny that smocked. You just know that if you leave a comment, blog etiquette dictates that they come to your blog, and comment. There’s even that Delurking thing started by someone. Designed to see just who is reading you, so you know more about your traffic. You have to keep up the visiting, to keep being visited. By all means necessary. Including starving your family and letting your husband wear the same dirty pair of underwear 3 days in a row. I’ve heard some bloggers do that. You in there, hunched over your computer, and it’s 8 pm. And no one’s eaten. And laundry’s all over the house. And you’re saying just one more blog, just one more blog, while your children and husband languish around a kitchen 3 feet deep in dirty dishes. You’re frantically typing My prayers are with you in your time of sorrow over having to put your kitty down…oh me too! I know exactly what it’s like to be married to 3 men simultaneously! Wish you lived here!…Vegans rock!…Carnivores rule!…I love Afgan Hounds!
And then, you have this suspiciously familiar feeling that you’re in highschool again. And you get the heebs. In highschool, via the internet, by choice, letting it rule your life, unable to get anything done for running to the inbox to continue to see how awesome you are. And meme-ing to keep the traffic up. Me? I pulled the plug. But oh, you say, here you are again. Yes. But this time, it’s different. I only write when I want to write, and I do none of the other stuff. Because I like to write, whether or not anyone else likes it, I spend about an hour a day, usually less, doing just that. Not visiting. Not linking. In fact, I disable the comments here. And. it. is. heaven. Really. And instead of checking out how everyone else out there is doing, I’m spending more time in my own life. With my own peeps. What a concept.
You know, I do think it’s funny that something that is supposed to connect us to the world, can actually disconnect us from people, from relationships, right under our own noses. When our daughter begged me one afternoon please don’t get on your blog, I knew. I had to quit. Second hand blogging can be toxic to children, and husbands. It’s not proven yet, but I’m sure it will be. What happens if you really make a friend in the blogosphere? Here’s a thought. Email. Phone call. Write. a. real. letter. Wow. Imagine the possibilities. What kind of friendships are just comment for comment, anyway? Here’s a comment. Use your mouth and have a conversation. With someone in your house. It can be more messy, but it’s generally more rewarding.
