*Edited to include a little slice of humble pie. Just in cased you still thought I was a bit too big for my britches after reading this.

Today’s topic: Jealousy in the blogosphere.

(Or envy, feeling left out, whatever emotion you want to add to it. I think it all falls under the same umbrella, I just chose jealousy because who didn’t love that song by The Gin Blossoms?)

I am not the first to write about this. I’m not the second, tenth or probably even the eleventyhundredth to type out my thoughts and feelings about blogging jealousy. I am also pretty damn sure that many people have written about it far more eloquently than I am about to.

Yesterday, I posted a link that I found via Megan the Beautiful (Otherwise known as Velveteen Mind). It really resonated with me because I could have written a lot of it myself. I found myself going back to check the comments (something I do not do very often simply because of time) because I wanted to see what other people had to say.

Then, I got a comment on this blog on my “Postsecret-esque” post that allowed anonymous comments in reference to the link. (And? I am so sorry I left that post up so long. My internet died for a couple of days and then it was the holidays. Still, holy cow you all are totally fascinating. It’s an illustration that we are all walking around with baggage that is unseen by most of the world. )

This comment was left by what I am assuming is a regular reader and I really wanted to address it because I have wanted to talk about blogging envy for some time and now seems as good a time as any.

Anonymous says:

I read your sidebar and the post that it was linked to and I had to comment here.I’m using a cloaker just to make sure you really don’t know who I am.

I hope this doesn’t come off as mean, but I am eaten alive by jealousy of your blog and other big bloggers. You have so many friends and so much traffic and I even though I check your blog almost obsessively, I also have so much envy that I am beginning to think it is unhealthy.

I try to comment on blogs and still only have a reader or two. You’ve never commented on my blog and while I understand that you have a lot going on, I still get hurt, but then I feel like a pouty kid on the school bus and am ashamed. I’m actually crying here. How stupid is that?

It seems like so many people I read have success after success while I try but seem to fail. I expect it from some of the snarkier bloggers. For instance, I’ve been trying to get Black Hockey Jesus to follow me on Twitter or his blog but I sort of expect the rejection there.

I can’t even seem to get the attention of the nice bloggers.

You aren’t the only one that I am talking about, but you are the place where I can vent this anonymously and get it off of my chest.

I really admire you and think that your blog is wonderful. I hope that this didn’t come off as too mean. I am just having a hard day.

Dear Anon, I wish you would email me privately. I would love to talk to you at length because I have been right where you are. No, this didn’t hurt my feelings at all. Don’t be afraid that I think you’re “Mean”. I don’t. I did something similar to my beloved Kerflop and am still amazed that she didn’t think I was the world’s biggest jerk. She was understanding about my naivety and was, and still is, all kinds of awesome.

There are a few salient points that I would like to talk about, if you don’t mind.

Having traffic doesn’t make feelings of inadequacy magically disappear.

I doubt that there are many bloggers out there that would label themselves as “Popular” and I certainly don’t classify myself as that. I AM very aware that I have awesome and loyal readers and commenters AND I AM SO DAMN GRATEFUL FOR IT LIKE YOU CANNOT BELIEVE, but it doesn’t mean that I am not critical about myself. On those down days when I over-analyze everything I start writing “The List” of things that are negative.

Wanna peek inside my feelings of inadequacy? Here you go:

I have never been asked to review one product, go on one paid trip, drive a car around, write for any kind of blog/newsgroup/blogging magazine or speak about blogging at any formal blogging function save the one where I was a total asshat and ended up saying someone was pretty much the equivilent of a dirty, urinal whore. (Good thing that just made me go up in her estimation, huh?) I am not a channel editor, award winner, nor do I even consider myself a good writer. I just count myself blessed that I have a quirky enough life/personality to have the following that I do because I use CAPS! EMOTICONS!! EXCLAMATION POINTS!!! And as my English major friends will attest, very inadequate grammar skills.

Book deals, Camp Baby, Feedburner buttons with subscriber numbers, Technorati rankings, television interviews, write ups in major newspapers, coveted guest postings, Stumble reviews, Twitter followers, convention speaking, and howmuchisyourblogfreakingworth, I could go on and on and ON about the things that I think I am inadequate at or have been excluded from that good friends have been privileged to enjoy. And it stings and sucks sometimes. I am so genuinely excited and thrilled because all of them truly deserve it, but (again) I am human and want to participate, too.

Last year when everyone was preparing to go to BlogHer 2007? Even though I was happy for those going I also wanted to make badges that said, “I’m NOT going to BlogHer 2007 and you all can just BITE ME!”

I hated that I wasn’t going and hated how jealous I felt of those who jetted off to Chicago. So, I made a plan. I worked and saved. I reached out to people that were going. I joined the BlogHer Network and have done everything I can to prepare. I am proud that I am going and it is a dream come true for me so I am writing about it. I know that this will probably hurt some that feel how I did last year, but I would hope that they would also be understanding about how hard I have worked to go and let me be excited and write about it. I wish I could take you all with me (although that would probably be uncomfortable for my very awesome roommates.)

Most bloggers have many more failures than successes. Also, don’t take it for granted that awesome things just “Happen” to bloggers. You may not know the full story.

I fail much more than I succeed. Look at the above section, for Pete’s sake. Not that I haven’t had some successes with blogging, I have. I would be sad if I hadn’t because I invest a crapload of time and energy into it.

I was written about in my local paper (No CNN or New York Times for certain) for making a blatant ripoff of Matt Harding’s Dancing Man video. I made an ass out of myself by dancing around Cache Valley. Weirdly, people loved it. Yes, I am the world’s WORST DANCER and yes, I misspelled “Blatant” in the opening credits. Awesome.

One awesome bloggity pal asked me to guest post in her stead (STILL one of my favorites, ever) and I’m listed on Alltop. Guess what, though? I wrote and asked to be considered. I wasn’t just noticed and thought the world of and included. I wish that was the case (and it was for MANY) but nope. Not me.

I wasn’t even formally invited to the Alltop/Kirtsy party being hosted during BlogHer and I’m on the freaking Alltop list! It’s embarrassing to admit but it’s the truth. I could have gotten hurt by it, but I just wrote and asked if I could crash and they were very lovely and said everyone was invited, so it is all good. I am going to go and have a wonderful time.

I get rejected all the time. Pointing to a specific example listed in the anonymous comment, Black Hockey Jesus does not reciprocate my following on Twitter, either. There could be loads of reasons for it and I could drive myself crazy at wondering why, so I just don’t. However, if you call him a little bitch he will apparently adore you, so you may want to give that a try. Heh. (Untwist the knickers, people. I’m quoting him.)

Bloggers are human. (Even the really popular ones.)

Everyone has the same 24 hours in a day to work with. Everyone has varying levels of time that they can put into blogging and despite the fact that you may read every syllable that a blogger publishes or even email them or tweet them to death, you can’t know the how’s or why’s that go into why or why not someone does or does not read you or comment on your blog.

I used to read and comment on the blogs of everyone who commented on Looney Tunes because at the time I was capable of managing it. I am sad that is no longer the case. I may and I may not read you. I can’t read everyone as much as I GENUINELY would love to, even if it was just to make everyone feel as happy as I do when someone reads me.

I think that I am like a lot of people who blog. I have different, mostly unknown, reasons why I read the blogs that I do. I also change them frequently and lurk much, much more than I used to. In fact, I am considering dumping the whole Google reader thing all together and starting off fresh. I don’t know. I have been thinking and pondering blogging balance and how to achieve it for a long time. I am not alone in this.

So much of it is just an issue of time. Truly. I have had to cut way back on my online stuff to tend to in my real life stuff. I am sorry if you feel neglected and I need to stress that I try my best. I am so bad at so many things like emails, comment response and even thanking people for the lovely things that they do and send me. Boo on me! Truly, though…I don’t mean to hurt anyone.

Every blogger out there was a “Newbie” once.

Not having readers can suck a duck. Some people really are fine with it and either turn off comments or just find an inner peace that they write for themselves. (I am not one of those people.) However, with some exceptions, pretty much all bloggers start at the same place. Where you have no readers except for a handful of people that you have to force/bribe/promise your firstborn to to get them to read your blog. I went months and months with my sister Linny and faithful friend, Karen as my only readers and commenters. Hell, even Dooce started out talking about a carton of Carnation milk and I am pretty sure that no one was clamoring to read THAT post when she hit the publish button.

It’s human to want to be noticed by people you admire.

I am not going to lie and pretend that I am not thrilled to my very tip tippie toes when a blogger I admire that has a big following actually notices that I exist. I wish that I could say that I am immune to it but I would totally be lying due to the fact that just this morning I ran in circles like a rabid dog on meth screeching, “She likes me! She likes me!!” when a huge blogger that I adore and thought maybe, MAYBE might have my name ring a bell when I tackled her at BlogHer and that want to totally make out with on a regular basis wrote me an email telling me that she loves my blog despite just being a lurker.

(She obviously doesn’t mind humungo run-on sentences and over abundant use of parenthesis.)

I realize this may look like bragging and I don’t mean it to be. I would not mention it at all except to illustrate the point that I can totally be a star-struck DORK when it comes to people whose work I admire. DON’T YOU ALL REMEMBER WHEN I TOUCHED AIR SUPPLY?????? I’m human, so shoot me.

All bloggers are not equal, despite what the fairytale says. You may never get to be one of the A-listers. And to survive and keep blogging you have to be ok with this to some degree.

The words and writings of some bloggers carry more weight in the blogosphere. That is just reality, friends. It doesn’t mean that as a person they are worth more than others, but I can’t make the blogging world into a Marxist fairytale where all bloggers have the same status.

There may not be a “CLUB” but there are bloggers that are DAMN AWESOME and they have buttloads of people who read them that think the same thing. To pretend that there are not “A-listers” out there is as stupid as thinking that they are all condesending writers that are incapable of paying attention to people that don’t have equal readerships. (Not to say that it doesn’t ever happen.)

There are ALSO some bigger blogs that are popular and I really have no idea WHY or HOW that happens. Hell, NO I am not going to link to them. For one, obviously some people love reading their stuff and I don’t want to insult someone’s taste and two, I do not have an internet-drama DEATH WISH.

This is just a reality that everyone has to come to grips with and to find a way to deal with it in their own way or you will make yourself miserable.

It will probably never be enough. At least some of the time.

Humans are not meant to be stagnant-very few can stay in one place without continuing to reach or strive to other levels. Blogging is no exception. If you have a 100 readers, at some point you will probably want 200. If you get 20 comments on a post you will aim to get 50. This is not a bad thing. Having goals is good. It makes people grow and succeed.

Like most things, just try to keep it in check because you also want to be happy where you are and have fun.

There is downside to popularity.

Your mother was right about that. With more traffic and exposure comes, well…More traffic and exposure. You have more obligations, more people to care about, to worry over, to email, to read, more haters, trolls, and people who can be so fugly and suckass in their comments it would make your eyes bleed and your skin fall off from the scathiness of them.

Your words can be mocked and patronized. You can make people so damn angry over the slightest comment or opinion. It can get ugly to the point that you are scared to write ANYTHING and agonize before hitting the publish button for fear of who you will piss off.

The bigger you are, the more weight your words carry and the ramifications of an opinion and how you state them can be effing HUGE. (NOPE. Not specifically TOUCHING THAT ONE. Enough has been said already eleventyBILLION times over.)

Friends and family can get hurt or irritated or angry and sometimes it can get to the point that you don’t recognize who you are writing about because you feel like you can’t write about ANYTHING for fear of fallout.

It isn’t fun. No, not at all.

Luckily, this isn’t constant and most people learn to suck it up and deal and create boundaries pretty damn fast about what they are comfortable writing about.

Still, be careful what you wish for.

At some point, Loralee will run out of finger strength,lose her balance and fall off the soap box, or just get to the damn point and finish this ass-long post, already.

The point of all this VERY LONG rambling is that we are all in this together and you aren’t alone. Everyone has jealousy. It is to what level you allow it to reach and what you do with it that matters. Just don’t let it get out of hand.Take action, do what you can to remedy the situation, talk to people about it! If you are having jealousy to the point of it really causing problems, that sucks. Mainly for you, because that is the person it will ultimately hurt the most.

“The jealous are troublesome to others, but a torment to themselves.” -William Penn, Some Fruits of Solitude, 1693.

P.S. No matter how hard you try or want them to? Some people just AIN’T GONNA LIKE YOU. Sorry, but again, a reality you have to face. Just try to realize that is humanity and appreciate and love on the people that think the sun shines out of your ass, or if worse come to worse-that can tolerate speaking to you in five minute increments.

P.P.S. If none of the above advice works, just exclaim to the internet that you have magical boobies. Totally worked for me.

*In conjunction with today’s post on blogging jealousy, there is nothing quite like having your Technorati ranking plummet almost 200 points in ONE DAY.

Ouch.

When you are married to a man named “Jonathan” and you have other “Jonathan’s” in your Google chat box, you MIGHT want to prepare yourself that you MAY send a message beginning with “Honey” and ending with “Could you pick up some dinner on the way home?” to a Jonathan THAT IS NOT YOUR HUSBAND.

Luckily, the “Other Jonathan” found the humor in it all.

Considering that he is married to Christopher’s CUB SCOUT DEN MOTHER and lives up the street, I’m just grateful that it wasn’t a lustful IM full of boobie and penis emoticon’s because THEN I would have to relocate to some remote hovel in Syberia and spend my days raking coal under the alias “Svetlana”.

You wouldn’t think that a request at the butt-crack of dawn (Ok, more like 8:30) to drive three hours and rush a forgotten passport to the airport would be greedily welcomed like a Starbuck’s Frappuccino to Britney Spear’s gullet, but it was.

Oh, how it was.

Yesterday, my husband followed through on shoving our anniversary plans into the garbage in favor of sushi (Which he doesn’t really like) and bowling (Ditto) with his department at work. The same department that he sees every single day. The same department that he lunches with every week on his own dime and every month on theirs. The same department that, while full of nice people, does NOT contain my “Magical Boobies” or a vagina that he is allowed relations with.

I hope that the time he spent was full of rainbows and bursts of diamond sparkles because there is not going to be a whole lot of warmth in our snug little cottage any time soon.

He came home and said, “Hey! Let’s grab some dinner!” I replied, “Hey! No thanks!”.

Maybe that is my bad, but at this point? Don’t care. I wasn’t trying to punish, I did not want to spend my night with someone who so easily tossed me aside. I’d rather be by myself with my computer and some Christmas music than eat a dinner that is only meant to placate me and prove he wasn’t totally abandoning the day. It all left a bad taste in my mouth, so I declined.

He did bring me a Diet Coke and a mouse for my laptop, which was nice.

Anyhoo, I know you want me to move off of this topic.

Besides, I’m sure that you are all dying to know how I spent the day instead because you think I am awesome and you hang on all of my awesome words. Really, I don’t even know where to begin because being me is a WHOLE LOT OF AWESOMENESS to try and segment into tiny, daily posts. I don’t know how I do it some days. (It’s probably because I’m, ya know, awesome.)

Sigh.

I spent the morning running to the rescue of my dear friend, Chelle. She is taking her family to Whistler, B.C. for a ski vacation over the Christmas holiday. In the shuffle, her son’s passport was left behind. So, glad of a diversion, I hopped in my Jetta and drove the hour and a half down to Salt Lake City.

It was lovely to see her before she flew out.

While I was in the city, I took some time to shop and browsed Barnes & Noble (Which I adore) and ate a divine lunch of Sushi (Ditto) with my beloved sister, Linny (Who I adore the MOST.)

All was well until the drive back.

There was standstill traffic on the freeway due to an accident and the eleventyhundred Diet Cokes that I consumed during lunch caught up with me in a big, ‘ole ugly way. The next 20 minutes of my life were full of pain and agony and trying to distract myself from thinking constantly about my overwhelming need to pee.

It didn’t help that I kept singing the following in my head: (To the tune of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, if you please.)

“I need to pee…I need to pee…I need to pee, I need to pee, I need to pee..I need to pee, I need to pee I need to pee..I need to pee (I need to pee), I need to pee (I need to pee), I need to, NEED. TO. PEE!”

After an eternity, I was able to get off of the freeway and stagger into the bathroom in the very nick of time. I really shouldn’t have made so much fun of my best friend in high school for doing “Pee-Pee Push ups” and lecturing me to do the same thing. What can I say? She wanted eleventyhundred children and didn’t want to be peeing her pants regularly by age thirty as a result. Now, THAT is thinking ahead.

Diet Coke will make you pee like a racehorse.

Speaking of Diet Coke, I have cut back on my habit of imbibing in the Dark Waters. This is not something that I should really get a pat on the back for because it wasn’t done on purpose. It happened because I went APE SHIT POSTAL in the middle of my favorite watering hole and now as a consequence, I will never step foot inside again.

Looking back on it, I never should have gone to the gas station that day.

It was the day before Thanksgiving and things were crazy around my house. Little did I know that it was also day one of what was to become “The Great, Hideous Illness of ‘07″ and that I would soon have three weeks of pain, illness and misery. I woke up with pain in my lungs and a cough. (“I think I’ve got the black lung, Pa!” ) and so I stayed in my pajama bottoms and t-shirt.

All day long, I rested in bed, chugging cough syrup and munching on vitamin C tablets, hoping for a miracle and that I would be well by Thanksgiving dinner.

Not.

So there I lay, like a mucous-infested bump on a log. Hacking, typing, blogging, sniffing. After awhile, I really wanted a Diet Coke. It was the only thing that sounded good. I was in a foul mood. I had haphazard pigtails from the day before, I was in my pj’s with no bra and mismatched slippers. I figured that since I wasn’t going INTO a store, just through the drive-through, I would be ok.

The only vehicle that was there for me to drive was “The Butt”. It is a humdinger of an station wagon that debuted the same year as E.T. It sort of rounded out my total white-trash look.

I drove to my favorite gas station. They have a drive up window. They charge you an extra dime for each item when you use it. While it is worth it, it adds up to quite a bit when you couple my fierce streak of lazy with as much D.C as I drink.

I drove to the drive through and waited. And waited. And waited.

Judy was working.

I.freaking.loathe.this.girl.

Judy had been working there for about three months. During that time my dislike grew, and grew, and GREW. She was constantly on her cell phone, ignoring you standing right in front of her as she chattered on and on and on and gave you looks of incredulous annoyance if you acted like you should actually receive service. Orders were wrong, change was always incorrect, and she had a gross habit of sitting on the counters and making the weirdest exclamations like “I have the HUGEST zit on my back right now!! Someone needs to pop it!”

She was one of the worst cashiers I have ever encountered and she was also the only employee at that store that I have ever disliked. She was particularly bad at the drive through window. Still, I held my tongue because there were other people that worked there and they were all great.

It WAS busy that day. There were 5 people at the counter and I was fine waiting for that. They left and she just kept helping people in line that arrived there after me.

She helped FIFTEEN PEOPLE that came in after I did.

Normally, I would have gone in or driven off, but this girl had already pissed me off so many times over the months I wanted to see how freaking long it was going to take her to even acknowledge that I and the three cars in line behind me even existed.

I was there for thirty.two.minutes.

Now, you need to know that I am a nice person. I do not like yelling, I do not like anger. I have never, EVER lost my temper in public. EVER. I can’t even send food back that sucks in restaurants because there is nothing that I hate more than public confrontations.

The mere thought of them makes me nauseated and anxious to the point that my nipples get hard with fear.

Yes. My nipples get hard with fear sometimes. I’m not really sure why that is, exactly. It’s actually odd that I even notice because…duh…I’m scared at the time. Something else to focus on I suppose. Actually, I should be glad that my nipples can get hard at all. If they can’t it is likely that you have inverted nipples and everyone should know and be cautious about them because they can be a sign of inflammatory breast cancer, which is horribly deadly and…

What? What’s that, you say?

Shut the hell up about “Nipples, this!” and “Inflammatory breast cancer, that!” and get ON with it already?

FINE, then! See if I ever talk to you about my nipples again, you ingrate!!

Where was I?

Oh…Fear of public confrontation.

My aforementioned fear of public confrontation ceased to exist for me by the time Judy finally came to the window. I didn’t even make eye contact because I was afraid that they would send out explosive death rays that would blow up the earth. Instead, I put my money firmly in her hand and snipped out in cold, even tones:

“I.would.like.a.Diet.Coke.PLEASE.”

I know. I wasn’t nice. She knew I was pissed. That is how I wanted it. It would have been fine if she would have just, you know, GIVEN ME THE DAMN SODA, ALREADY.

Nope.

In a voice that was seething with petulance, she said, “You don’t have to SCREAM at me, MA’AM”

Eight words.

EIGHT.

And the dam of ALL HOLY HELL broke loose and spewed forth onto the fertile fields of Cache Valley.

(Personally, I think it was the “Ma’am” part that sent me over the edge. Because who REALLY enjoys being a “Ma’am”?)

I told her that I “WASN’T SCREAMING!”

Which was true, but in a very, very short time, I WAS.

Screaming.

Not talking loudly.

Not yelling.

S-C-R-E-A-M-I-N-G.

LOUDLY.

(Do y’all know just how loud that is for me and my huge voice? FREAKING LOUD is the answer, for those who don’t know.)

Then the wild gesticulation started and it was a frigging free-for-all.

It escalated to the point that she threw my money back at me and slammed the drive through window.

At this point, did I calm down and just go home like my normally sane(er) self would have done on any other day?

NOOOOOOOOOOOO….

I drove around, parked haphazardly, flung open the door to my ‘83 wagon and LEFT IT LIKE THAT WITH THE MOTOR RUNNING and ran into the gas station in full on “TO THE PAIN!” mode.

At that point the HOLY HELL that occurred at the drive through was replaced with the ALMIGHTY, NUCLEAR WRATH OF ANGER AND DESTRUCTION!!!

It was like 33 years of repressed, bitter, venomous ANGER all released out of my body in one loud, ugly, terrible moment.

I threw the money back and screamed at her.

I demanded to see her manager and screamed at him.

Then I screamed some more at the woman who was behind me in the drive through line who came in to say that the “Poor attendant” shouldn’t be fired because I was a psychotic hose beast that was clearly disturbed.

Thing is, at that moment?

She was right.

I was standing there, sweating and panting in my pajamas and wildly unkempt hair with no bra on (Which matters because of that whole ‘Nipples hard with fear’ thing) and mismatched slippers. People probably thought I was totally strung out on meth.

I’m a little shocked that the police were not called in. At least if they had been I would have been throughly prepared thanks to the “Don’t Taze me, Bro!” guy.

I took a deep breath, apologized to the manager and got back into my still-running station wagon and drove home to cry.

I know that there are parts of this post that are humorous, but the situation was horrible.

I am so ashamed of myself. I regret my lack of self-control. I regret scaring the bejesus out of customers who probably thought I was going to pull out a handgun and go “Columbine” on their asses. You know, kinda like this:

(Thanks, Photoshop Dave!)

Luckily, there were no children in the store.

Whatever valid and just complaints that I had about this girl were lost in my anger and lashing out. I am beyond embarrassed and will never set foot in that gas station again.

I started my period the next morning. A-ha. It was early and unexpected but the day before I start has gotten worse and worse over the years. I have never, ever responded like this. I don’t entirely blame it on PMS because there was a major event of pain and anger and frustration that happened around my birthday and it sent me in a bit of a spiral about my entire life. I am working through tons and tons of past issues that frankly? I have a lot of suppressed anger about.

It’s sad that I let it loose on innocent people.

Not that Judy was innocent, but still…She did NOT deserve what I dished out.

As for her? She’s still there. The best employee they had quit because they wouldn’t fire her. Everyone was appalled on MY behalf because they cannot stand working with her and they know me to be a kind, friendly, and courteous customer. I found out later that she has had at least a dozen complaints about her and many costumers won’t go there anymore because of her.

I’m trying to keep it in perspective and look on the bright side, which is that this is a big clue that I have got to deal with some issues and take preventative steps to deal with my whacked out hormonal cycle. It is also good that I have cut back on a really vicious and out-of-control habit and that my pocket book is a little fatter because it isn’t all being poured into a 44 oz. cup.

Still…

I feel so horrible and embarrassed about this and it has almost been a month. I know that there will be very few of you who have lost it to this level, but if there is ANYONE out there that has even come close? I would love to hear from you so that I can feel a bit less hideous about myself.

If you’ll all excuse me, I have to go curl up under my blankie in the fetal position…