Until last week, there were two times in my life when I felt famous. The first was when I won a hula hoop contest. Before you imagine anything resembling a hot woman wearing a skimpy costume and gyrating her hips, I will tell you that it was when I was ten years old and it was for the championship of my temple. Hey, in my world, I was famous.
The second time was when, last year, I published an article that was meant to be really funny about how I went to a Black Crowes concert at Wolf Trap and, in the article, I identified Chris Robinson as “the guy who was married to Goldie Hawn’s daughter but they split and now she is with A-Rod who used to be with Madonna but split from Guy Ritchie.” There was more, but that was enough.
The comments started flooding in from irate Crowes fans who had apparently clicked onto my piece, expecting to see a Rolling Stones-caliber critique of the Crowes concert. They were, instead, treated to me discussing celebs. They went wild and their fingers couldn’t move fast enough across the keyboard to hurl epithets and accusations at me. I was famous in a different kind of way than the first time.
Last week, one of those “People at WordPress Who Somehow Have Time to Read Hundreds of Thousands of Posts Each Day,” chose one of my posts to place on the WordPress “Freshly Pressed” homepage. I was so excited when I saw it that I immediately emailed my son Josh and announced what had happened. He responded back with “You’ll have to tell me what that means.”
“It means I will be famous!” I emailed back. “Everyone will read my blog!” Based on my experience with the Black Crowes response to my article, I quickly calculated that the usual eight or 10 hits I got each day might go up by ten times that amount. That happened in the next hour. I panicked. I called my daughter Yael in London. She has a blog about her life in London (“The Part Where We Move to London”). She has been featured on the “Freshly Pressed” page a couple times. I asked her what I should do.
An aside: My daughter is the kind of person who handwrites thank you notes, remembers everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries and their children’s birthdays and the anniversary of the day they got their dog, and she never sends a greeting card without writing her own long note on it. Clearly, she was the wrong person to ask.
“Mom, you have to answer every comment. Thank them for reading your post, and see about linking their site to yours.” By the time I hung up, there were 300 hits. There were dozens of comments. I actually started to answer each one. Then I started to have an anxiety attack. I shut the computer down and left town (I was planning to leave town anyway).
I called my husband from the beach and asked him to check my stats. There were 1300 hits the first day, 1100 hits the second. There were almost 150 comments. I didn’t ask him to check the stats after that. Normally, I would have gotten a swelled head over all this, but I was having a couple serious clown hair days at the beach (even more clown-like than normal, which really concerned me), and that brought me back to earth.
I’m back home now. The hits have gone down precipitously, but are still a lot higher than they ever used to be before my moment of fame. I have answered a number of comments, and I am trying to look at as many of the commenters’ blogs as possible. I am blown away and so grateful by so many people reading and commenting on what I have written. But, after the hula hoop win and the Black Crowes thing, I’m aware that fame comes and goes. My hair, on the other hand, wakes up with me every morning.
Time for a visit to Mike at the hair salon for an emergency hair trim. Fame will have to wait.