Today I’m going to rant to you guys about blog etiquette. I know, you’re looking at this and going PFFT. Alice is gonna talk to us about etiquette like she’s freakin’ Emily Post? Yeah, okay, I realize I’m not the best at this kind of stuff. But there is one thing that bugs me about some blogs. And that’s when they don’t answer comments.
I realize this is controversial to some. Like making a “thanks” or a smiley face in response to someone’s comment takes TIME, folks. I realize that people have lives (what is this life business?) and I don’t think you should have to respond immediately. Maybe it will take a few days. Or a week. Or a month. Especially if you become Queen of the Mucus People, or you know, you just don’t feel like it. Or if you’re someone who gets eleventy billion comments on every post. But eventually, it just seems polite to at least acknowledge that the person acknowledged you.
I guess I’m just still so thrilled that people read me and find enjoyment in what they read. And as I’ve said before, the comments can be funnier than the posts themselves. You get to know people that way. And I don’t think you should ever stop trying to get to know people, no matter how big your blog gets. I got some new followers with the pressed business, and I am working on checking out their blogs. It will take me a while, but I promise to visit each one. Because, well, I just think I should. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find a new blog to read. I always need new reading material because I have the attention span of Squirrel and cannot seem to concentrate on anything longer than a blog post or a Cosmo quiz.
I’m not saying that you have to follow everyone who follows you, or that you have to go be best buds with someone because they left you a comment. But gosh, is it so hard to be polite? If someone gives you a present, do you just toss it aside in a pile and say nothing? If you do, are you related to the men in my family? Anyway, that’s the way I look at it. Comments are presents. Maybe the present isn’t just what you wanted (I don’t like being told I’m not Queen of the Internetz) but it’s the thought that counts.
I rarely follow blogs unless the bloggers respond to comments. It’s just so much more fun that way. There are one or two that are just so good that yes I follow them even though they don’t answer comments. But not very many. Most of my blogger buddies are awesome about responding to comments, and some of these bloggers have huge readerships. I respect that.
There must be some reason why some people do not respond to comments. Maybe they’re shy? I realize a lot of bloggers are introverts. That’s why we’re here. I am much more introverted in real life, at least I am when I don’t know you. If I get to know you and I like you, I will never shut up again. But I guess I could see how this might be a problem for some people who don’t have split personalities (ie extrovert online and introvert offline). Still, I would encourage these people to push past that fear. I had to push past some fear just to make my blog public. But what incredible rewards I have gotten in return. And I’m not talking about my blog bling, not even the big blue blog bling up there in the corner. (With the hearts. Yeah, that one.) I’m talking about the community of readers. I’m talking people who lift me up, who tell me “Hey you not only don’t suck, you’re pretty awesome.” That is the reward. And you miss it if you don’t engage with your readers.
And though I’m grateful to have been acknowledged by the WP gods and to have gotten new readers, my best bling is handmade. I’ve gotten personalized awards for covering that crappy 50 Shades series. I had a blogger draw a picture of my blog and write a poem about it – it’s up there on my All About Alice page. It even has Sad Pony and Squirrel! Heck, my readers are so cool they acknowledge my delusions and even have pretend relationships with them. You can’t find this kind of crazy awesome just anywhere.
So I figure the least I can do is respond. I also try to visit the blogs of my “homies” (Alice in da hood) and leave comments there. It’s not a chore. I love reading their posts, so I usually have something to blab about. Sometimes my comments are longer than their posts. But it’s my way of showing appreciation, especially since I still haven’t figured out how to make blog bling.
Admittedly, part of this is my OCD in action. There is a comment and I must answer it! Not only that, I want to answer comments on the blogs of other people. I even pushed my real-life blogger pal to go answer her comments on her blog because it was driving me crazy. It’s like going to a bookstore and OMG their books are not in order, so I start rearranging them and WTF I don’t work here! So possibly some of this is just the madness of Alice.
But it’s a good madness. Join me, won’t you?
Okay, so it’s another pneumonia related post, but since it’s still hanging on me, it can hang on you too. That’s just the kind of mood I’m in, peoples. I am much better, but tend to get exhausted after walking, like, ten feet. Our parking situation is less than ideal, which you’d know if you’d read my post (No Parking). So, since I get so tired so easily my boss suggested I get temporary handicapped parking.
Here’s where it starts to get fun, guys. I asked the doctor for a note and took it to the university’s parking services, because I figured they controlled everything on their campus (they try to, at least). Well, not that. So I went back to the doctor and he filled out a form and I signed and some notary person signed and I took it to the DPS in town and paid five dollars and ta-da I had a fancy new placard to hang from my rearview mirror. It’s not exactly stylish. I’m thinking of fixing it up with some glitter and rhinestones so it can be all handicapped blingy.
Wheee, close parking! Finally something halfway decent was coming out of this lung crapola. Granted, I would have preferred breathing clearly to having a nice parking place, but I’ll take what I can get.
But it gets EVEN BETTER, guys. I have no problems the first day, but the second day using my handicap bling I’m walking toward the library’s back entrance (which is just a short distance away – Score!) when another employee (not of the library) who by the way is fugly and annoying says to me ever-so-helpfully, “You know they’ll catch you for parking there.”
WTF? I’d like to say I swung around and flipped him off or some other appropriate response but I never do that because I’m just too stunned that anyone would be such an asshole. I don’t know WHY this surprises me, since there are assholes everywhere, but somehow it always does. Instead I say, “I have a placard.” Meanwhile it’s blowing cold air out in the fucking parking lot and I’ve got my face buried in my jacket defending myself to Mr. Dickhead. He responds, “Is it yours? Because that’s what they’ll look for, if it belongs to you.” Or some other such shit. Oh, great. So now I mug handicapped people for their placards? WTF???
I say, “I have pneumonia,” somehow leaving off the “asshat” part and go inside. Meanwhile I’m still fuming. I mean, really? Where does he get off? So you’re not handicapped unless you’re in a wheelchair or on crutches or have an arm hanging by a tendon or something? Sorry, moron, but there are other disabilities, like, I dunno, LUNG DISEASE. It’s listed in the little form thingy that you fill out to get one of these awesome fucking placards. But you wouldn’t know that, would you? Because you’re a dickhead.
Another thing that really struck me was how he acted as if he was concerned for my welfare here. Like, oh dear, I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble with the law, sweetie. The policemen get madfaced when you park where it’s illegal. Really? No shit, Sherlock. I’ve only been driving for 20 freaking years, so I kind of picked up on that already. It’s not like handicapped parking is unique to the university. And if I have the placard? I must have stolen it! So I’m an illegal parker and a thief! I have this image of myself knocking over some little old lady, grabbing her placard, laughing evilly, and dashing off into the night with my prize. What.the.fuck.
But here’s the most important part. Even if I WAS a thief and illegally parking, why would this be his business? I’ve seen him around some, sure, but we aren’t pals by any stretch of the imagination. If I’m stupid enough to park illegally and rob old ladies, would I really listen to reason from Fugly Ass here? Just – shut up. Shut the fuck up. You’re not trying to help me. You’re jealous because I have a good parking place and I don’t look sufficiently disabled to you. My dear, I’d love to give you just an ounce of this pneumonia so you can see how it feels. Also a kick in the nuts. It’s none of your business.
So shut up. The world would be a much better place if more people just SHUT THE HELL UP. End rant.
You know how I said I was going to return to the horoscopes on Friday? Yeah, I lied. See, my physic abilities have taken a hiatus, and I’m not sure when they’ll be back. What I do have in abundance, though, is lots of AliceRage. So I thought we could do a nice Friday special about this. I call it “Rants with Alice”.
Today’s rant is about: Doctor’s Offices.
Now I spoke of adventures in the doctor’s office before in another post, but this one is different because this is like the 18th doctor’s visit I’ve had since contracting Lung Crapola (the saga continues!), so by now I’m just pissed before I even walk in the door. This is my second follow-up appointment, since it was determined at the last appointment that I was still sick and I got another week off.
My rage begins when I first get to the counter and meet the receptionists. What’s fun is the way they pretend they don’t see you. Their motto is “don’t make eye contact”. They will look off absolutely anywhere but straight in front of them. It’s like two-year-olds when they close their eyes and think they’ve disappeared. I want to say “I can still fucking see you.”
So I get through the receptaraptors, and now I get to wait on the doctor. And wait. And wait. I have no idea why they even schedule appointments, since the doctors are never on time. But the waiting is not so bad, because besides the T.V. (Fox News! Yes!) there’s always good reading material available, covered in lots of patient germs. Stuff like fishing magazines and Highlights for Children from 1985. Don’t you just love that Goofus and Gallant? If I were Goofus, I would have offed Gallant a long time ago. You know he wants to do it. No one is that freaking annoying and perfect and gets to live long.
Finally I get in and go through the motions, and then I usually see the doctor, but this time I am so lucky and get a blond doctor student. I have nothing against blonds, it’s just that I never bothered to read her name tag, so I’m just calling her blond student which beats what I want to call her, which is really not printable.
Blond student is way too fucking chipper to be in a doctor’s office. I ask for meds to help me sleep temporarily. She is so amused that I sleep so much during the day (because I’m exhausted from no sleep at night). “There’s your problem!” she says. “You just need to stay awake during the day!” Brilliant. I never fucking thought of that.
She examines me by listening to my lungs and checking my oxygen levels. “You sound great!” she happily exclaims. I inform her that I sounded “great!” when I my entire right lung was coated with fucking pneumonia. She gives me this “I’m going to humor this hypochondriac” look I just adore. She asks me how I’m feeling (fabulous, bitch) essentially asking for what I just told the nurse a while ago. I am forced to defend being sick, despite there being oh you know FREAKING XRAYS showing I was sick. Nope, nope, clearly I have Munchausen’s. If so, then put me in the damn loony bin and write me a note for work. At least I’ll get some rest there, and I hear the Jello is excellent.
I go wait for an Xray, because it has been an entire week since I’ve last been exposed to radiation. When I’m done, I get to wait some more! Blond student comes back. Shit. She yammers at me some more, but I just watch her stupid lips move and her head tilt back and forth and I realize she reminds me of that Janis puppet from the Muppets. I repeat everything I repeated already, again, and real doctor shows up! She grins and informs him that I sleep like four hours a day! Isn’t that fucking funny? Look, bitch, I’m still sitting right here in front of you. By the way, I hate you.
Real doctor tells me that hey, I can take Tylenol PM, when stupid blond student said I couldn’t take anything. Bite me, blond student. For the 80th time I tell someone, this time the doctor, about how I have tons of fucking paperwork to fill out in order to qualify for sick leave that will not kick in until a week after my regular leave runs out, which means there will be at least a week of me not being paid (hooray!) provided they fill out the forms right and then payroll does what they’re supposed to do and I really think that’s way too much to expect. I’m so not getting paid this month.
I am allowed the rest of the week off, which has so far allowed me to A) take care of sick child B) run around in circles trying to get this damn paperwork completed and C) have several mini mental breakdowns. So it’s going super well. Next week I go back to work half days, and this should be interesting since it’s been so long since I’ve been there I’ve almost forgotten what the hell I do. I can hardly wait. End Rant.