Less is more. And amore.
A common complaint among bloggers is that their cats aren’t as cute as mine. This is accurate. The truth shall set you free.
Bloggers also gripe about a lack of readers. I’m guilty of this as well. My self-esteem is intricately tied to my site stats. I feel sad when they’re sad. And then I feel even sadder, because I get that Barry Manilow song stuck in my head. If you only knew what I’m going through. Even when my stats spike, I wonder why they didn’t climb even higher. I always want more. More daily hits. And more comments. And more cowbell.
My grandma always said, “If you have a few really good friends, consider yourself wealthy.” Impeccably manicured, Grandma also used to tell me, an incorrigible nail biter in my youth, “If you grow out your nails, I’ll paint them for you.” One of those lessons might apply here.
I don’t have a billionty readers, but one happens to be Allison Goldberg, an actor and co-founder of a production company who unexpectedly plucked one of my posts and propelled it onstage. A few nights ago at Under St. Marks theater in New York City’s East Village, my friends, my mom — of course she came — and I watched as the effervescent Alli performed one of my essays in a knee-slapper of a new show called “Blogologues,” which transforms blog fodder into monologues. I have yet to fully process how fucking cool this is — that a silly little rambling that I lazily launched into the interwebs expecting only a few folks to read came to life in front of an audience. For the first time as a blogger, instead of seeing LOLs, I heard actual laughs in response to my writing.
I had hoped that the actor playing me would be much prettier and thinner and more charming than I, and Alli didn’t disappoint. See for yourself:
If you live in New York City or on Earth, I highly recommend you check out this show, and I’m not just saying that to suck up to the producers because they picked my post and I hope they use more. I legitimately loved it and I’m sucking up.
The good nurse gave me a key chain with a feline on it, because she apparently just assumed that I like cats. I don’t know what gave her that idea.
Another web buddy, Laurenne, put me up for a few summer nights at her apartment in Venice Beach, California. Both aspiring writers, we made a pact that if one of us ever achieves success, we’ll make room on our coattails for the other. I will hold her to this.
While out West, I connected with Roxanne, who had previously shipped me a care package when I was nursing a broken heart and asscontaining treats for Teva and Isabel, cat-shaped cookies and the most hideously awesome cat-print silk blouse I have ever seen.
And a few months ago when a reader in South Africa named Claire asked me what I’m doing for my birthday, and I replied something like “cats” and “alone” and “with,” she asked whether I might want to celebrate turning 31 in Cape Town. I’m told there are big and fast cats there. She twisted my arm. While on the other side of the world, I’ll visit ‘net crony Kyknoord, a glass-half-empty kindred spirit with whom I do all my best wallowing.
Beginning today, I’ll be dropping off this series of tubes for a few weeks while I go continent-hopping, which wouldn’t be possible without the generosity (and probably insanity) of the wonderful people who’ve found their way here. With your kindness and support and pledge of coattail-riding, you’ve all taught me that it’s not how many readers but who’s reading that counts. From now on, I’ll remember that when I’m feeling Mani-low.
What I’m saying is, I’m wealthy because I want to paint all your nails.