Skip to main content

What Do You Mean You Don't Care About My Blog?!

Yesterday I went to English class for immigrants, and I helped out with a few projects—we discussed how to read through the want ads and sort through garage sale ads in the paper. We talked about all the great things we'll find at the new farm market opening in June. I administered two spelling tests. And we talked about rhubarb, which apparently doesn't exist in Central America. It was an eventful morning.

In the middle of all of it, I caught sight of the T-shirt one of the Guatemalan women was wearing. It was emblazoned with the phrase—"I don't care about your blog."

I'm sorry. What? You don't care about my blog? Are you telling me this thing filled with my personal photos and stories and ideas and general word vomit doesn't interest you? I'm crushed by such blanket rejection.

I decided this woman was wearing the shirt not because she was fed up with bloggers forcing her to listen to them go on and on about their online rambling, but because it was cheap or even free. I suspected, given her experiences here so far, that she probably didn't know what "blog" means, so I didn't take offense. I probably wouldn't have taken offense even if she had intentionally worn the shirt because I know bloggers can become overexcited when they start talking about their stories or the people they have met or the new widget they've just added to their sidebar. Not that I would ever do that.

My suspicions were confirmed a few minutes later when I saw the woman with the shirt stretch it out so the other women could read it, and one of them was flipping through the Spanish/English dictionary. I asked if they were looking up the word "blog," and they giggled as if they'd been caught at something and then asked what it means.

Well, don't worry, ladies. Not only can I tell you, but I can show you. I quickly pulled out my iPhone and went straight to my blog. I equated it to a diary or scrapbook and then proceeded to make them look at pictures of my daughters and of my cats. I told them all about how you can read blogs (web logs) written by people all over the world and leave comments on their stories, and sometimes they'll leave comments on yours. I scrolled down to show them my recent posts and said, "See, you can write all kinds of stuff and keep it all in one place." blah blah blah blah blah

So, go ahead. Tell me again that you don't care about my blog, and see what happens. Next, try telling me you don't care about the jazz piece I'm trying to learn for horn lessons or how hard it is for me to count, and suggest you'd rather not hear about how I prefer wild-caught salmon to farm-raised and why I have formed that opinion?

Tell me you don't care about something. I'll give you something to care about. I've got your not caring right here.

Comments

kyle@sift said…
Remember when we talked about people in Africa wearing a Clevland Indians T-Shirt? She probably aquired it through the t-shirt recycling business.
I bet she WOULD care about your blog if she read it every day!There is much to care about.
I saw someone wearing a T shirt that read: "I don't care that you don't speak English"
LOL marvellous, Robyn! I bet they're converts and, if they get the chance, they'll be looking again.
Shazza said…
You go girl...tell em!

Popular posts from this blog

No More Mr. Nice Guy

It's good to be a nice person--to say nice things, to do nice things, to write nice things--but I declare an end to the use of the word nice. Nice is what you say when you can't think of any other adjective. Someone shows you a picture of their back yard--that's nice. Someone tells you about their afternoon adventure--that's nice. Or someone describes their childhood in great detail and sometimes with painstaking effort--that's nice. It's a lazy word, and it's non-descriptive. Nice is like mashed potatoes with noodles and chicken gravy all in a big pile on one plate with some canned corn for garnish. Everything is the same color and texture and base substance--starch (this is a favorite Amish dish). Nice is like a partly cloudy day in April when outside feels like inside, and you can't tell a difference between the lighting and the temperature of your living room and the lighting and temperature of your front yard. Nice is a glass of lukewarm water. ...

Ish People

Tell an Ish person to show up around 9 a.m., and you'll see them somewhere around 9 a.m. Tell them to show up at 9ish, and you'll see them anywhere from 9:05 to 9:20. You have given them license to dilly dally, and who wouldn't take advantage of that? The other night at the big shindig dinner party, one of the drummers said the rehearsal the next morning would begin at 9ish. "I am an ish person," he says. Immediately the clanker goes off in my head--oh, good, I thought. I can deliver my daughter a little late. No Ish person is early, so if you say 9ish, that does not mean give or take 5, 10, 15 minutes. It's exclusively a taking phrase. Take an extra 10 minutes to drink your cup of coffee. We won't mind. We're Ish people. Sunday's rehearsal started at 2:00. Because it was conducted by the same people who conducted the Saturday rehearsal, my understanding was 2-ISH. My daughter is worse than I am about taking liberties with Ish time frames, so she d...

Long Live Anita Bowser

You know I occasionally check my hometown newspaper's website to scan the obituaries (morbid, I know, but I'm at that age). Over this past weekend, I read the obituary of Indiana State Senator Anita Bowser . She was a noted Democrat who championed causes protecting the neediest in the state's population. She was respected on both sides of the aisle for her intelligence and plain and outspoken approach to law making. The picture on her senate page is lovely. I remember none of those things about Anita Bowser . My first year or so in college was spent at a branch of Purdue University, and in the early 80s, Anita was a political science professor. She taught my American Government class my freshman year, and she was a mess. Somewhere in my old text book, I have a sketch of her drawn on a particularly dull day in class--her hose sagged at her ankles, her slip showed at least half an inch all the way around, her hair had been slept on but not brushed, and her bright red lip stic...