You know why I love the Internets?
Because the Internets doesn’t ask questions.
If you tell the Internet that you were in Glamour magazine, they promise to run right out and buy the issue as soon as it hits newsstands. Hell, they’ll probably be the first ones to tell you they saw you in a national magazine. They won’t piss on your 5 minutes of superficial vanity with pesky things like “what were you in Glamour for?”
The Internets appreciates the value of unearned recognition.
If you tell the Internet that you were quoted on MSNBC.com with an actual link to your blog, they jump up and down to congratulate you. Hell, they’ll probably be the first ones to tell you they saw it – because apparently the Internet actually reads news web sites.
I’m thinking of trading in my family for the Internet.
My Dad called last month. “Hey, I just got a call from your step sister. She said you were in Glamour.”
“Yeah! Isn’t that cool! I just found out today from a friend who said she saw it!”
“Yeah, so, what are you in Glamour for?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what did you do? Is it something you wrote?”
“Um, er, no. Um, it’s just a few lines about couples who dated their friends. And, um… IT HAS MY PICTURE!”
“I heard you called Jared a dork…”
“Oh, Dad, you’re breaking up…. I can’t….shsheeherhdh… what was that? Love you! Gotta go!”
Later that month I finally got my hands on a copy of that Glamour magazine. Apparently they don’t send free copies to people who are mentioned in a few lines and don’t actually do anything to get into the magazine. I showed it to my daughter.
“Look, Emma! There’s Mommy and Daddy! In the magazine!”
“Oh! Look! It’s Mommy and – hey!!! Are those pink boxing gloves? Can I have some pink boxing gloves?”
“What? No. No you cannot have boxing gloves of any kind. Did you see -”
“Hey, who is this lady? She’s pretty! Do you know her?”
“No, I do not know Giselle. Never mind. Give me that.”
Yesterday I found out that an article I’d been interviewed for went live on MSNBC.com. A real, live, actual media outlet. And this time, it had a link to my blog.
“Dad! Guess what!”
“Hi, Britty. What?”
“I’m on MSNBC.com today!! An actual story!! And it quoted me and linked to me and EVERYTHING!”
“What channel is that?”
“No, not the TV show. Just.. um.. just the internet.”
“Oh. So who did you talk to? What interviewer?”
“Um… someone named Diane… I mean… it wasn’t like Katie or anything… but.. um… SHE’S A REAL REPORTER!”
“Oh. Right. I’m sure she is.”
“Yeah. So, anyway, it’s this story about people who blog about their marriages and they posted a link in the story to Miss -”
“By the way, I heard you started smoking again.”
“What’s that? Oh yeah. Well… dfhsfhsdfh… crap! Dad, bad reception again… fsjfksjd… love you! Gotta go!”
Later that day I decided that I’d post a link to the story on Facebook. I mean, sure, Facebook isn’t really the Internets – but it’s damn close. I mentioned that I was worried the posts on the front page on my blog weren’t really representative of my awesomeness and might have come off as a little dull. You know, if you were a first time reader FROM MSNBC.COM!!!
My brother-in-law commented on my status.
“Oh, yeah. I was going to mention that. But I got bored and started googling vaginas.”
My mom chimed in with her support.
“Oh, who are you kidding? You’re just worried about how many times the word ‘vagina’ is likely to show up on the front page.”
It’s like these people think they know me or something!
I knew I’d have my vindication that night when Jared got home. If you can’t count on your husband to bask in your famousness, who can you count on?
“Did you see the link I sent you?”
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“I didn’t even call you a dork this time!”
“Yeah, thanks for that.”
“Jared! This is an actual real live media outlet! And it linked to MY blog! I’m practically FAMOUS, you know!”
“You know, none of you fuckers appreciate how awesome I am.”
“Hey – did you put your laundry away yet?”
I’m telling you, these people suck. It’s like they think I am just some normal person or something.
Clearly they don’t know who they’re dealing with.