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Posts Tagged ‘desperate attempts to get more traffic to my blog’

IT’S OFFICIAL! Über -blogger and long-time hero of mine, The Bloggess has formally endorsed my campaign for the title of Best Australian/NZ Weblog in the 2010 Bloggies.

And by “formally endorsed”, I mean she’s posted something about it on flickr.

“How did this happen?” I hear you ask.

Well, a few days ago, I wrote her a series of emails politely requesting her support. And by “politely requesting”, I mean “pathetically begging”. And for the record, I do a very good line in pathetic begging. Don’t believe me? I’ll let you be the judge:

_____________________________________________________________

TO:  The Bloggess
FROM: The NDM
SUBJECT: READ THIS EMAIL OR I’LL EAT THE VEGIE PORN STAR

Dear Jennie,

I am one of your blogging peers. I, too, am a finalist for the Bloggies. Except, well, if the truth be told, you’re like a finalist for the Bloggies and I’m like a finalist for the distant and possibly inbred cousin of the Bloggies. Yes, I am one of five Australia/New Zealand finalists. It’s a pity there couldn’t be six finalists because then all our region’s bloggers would have had a chance. Yes, I can make jokes, you know.

Anyway, I’m up against some tough competition… Is there some way you could please help further my cause via twitter or your blog? Wouldn’t you like to see the under-dog win? Although I’m loathe to use the term “under-dog” because I’m always worried it means the dog who’s taking it up the arse from the other dog on top of them.

ANYWAY, as a present to you, I am offering you this picture of a porn star I once made out of vegetables with my friend. I’m afraid that parts of her *did* get eaten some months ago – so my threat in the subject title was a little hollow. Although I’m sure part of her is still at the bottom of the compost bin, so I technically could still eat her except I expect that threatening to eat six month old compost won’t exactly spur you into action. But it might. You never know.

Yours sincerely and just an itsy-bitsy bit desperately,

The NDM


_____________________________________________________________

TO: The Bloggess
FROM: The NDM
SUBJECT: RE: READ THIS EMAIL OR I’LL EAT THE VEGIE PORN STAR

PS. Did you like how I spelt your name “Jennie”? It’s just incase you were offended by the email and then I could claim it was intended for someone else.
_____________________________________________________________

TO: The Bloggess
FROM: The NDM
SUBJECT: RE: READ THIS EMAIL OR I’LL EAT THE VEGIE PORN STAR

PPS. OH AND MY FRICKIN’ BLOG TITLE IS “NOT DROWNING, MOTHERING” AND THE ADDRESS IS HTTP://NOTDROWNING.WORDPRESS.COM

It’s no wonder Australia never wins wars or anything. We’re fucking hopeless.

_____________________________________________________________

FROM: The Bloggess
TO: The NDM
SUBJECT: RE: READ THIS EMAIL OR I’LL EAT THE VEGIE PORN STAR

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thebloggess/4308592975/ For you.

_____________________________________________________________

My sincere gratitude goes out to the Bloggess for a) indulging me with her flickr post and b) not alerting the authorities. And also to all my friends and family who have put up with endless rounds of emails begging them to vote for me this past week. I promise it won’t happen again. No, really. 

Please feel free to add your own endorsement in the comments section below and remember to Vote 1 for “Not Drowning, Mothering”  before 31st January 10:PM EST (That’s somewhere-in-America time).

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Yes, the rumours are true. Through a heady combination of persistence, persuasion and outright blackmail, I’ve managed to get myself named as a finalist for the Australia/NZ category of the 2010 Bloggies.

Now, before anyone starts muttering “Whoopie-fucking-shit” and hinting that making the Aus/NZ finalists is like qualifying for the Alice Springs Ski Squad or being selected for the English cricket team, let me say this: there’s a lot of talent out down under and I feel very honoured (if a little surprised) to have made it thus far. Fact. 

Okay, so that’s enough of being gracious and modest and that. Let’s talk Strategy…

Honestly, it’s like an episode of The West Wing in my humble little house right now, what with the amount of campaign talk going down. Except that instead of all that walking and fast talking, there is a lot of running (kids) and loud shouting (me). Also there’s no talk of the Iowa Caucus because, although I’ve watched all seven seasons of The West Wing a number of times, I still have no idea what a caucus is or what the hell it is doing in Iowa. I just know that someone ought to clean that shit up.

ANYWAY, so far the only vaguely strategic thing I’ve managed to do is post a link on facebook. Oh, and I’ve briefly contemplated streaking at the Australian Open with N-D-M emblazoned across my ample arse. 

Yes, I’m a winner alright. 

Now, let’s talk Message. 

As I write, my quiet little blog is being trampled by hundreds of Bloggies Tourists wondering what the hell “yet another Mommy Blogger” is doing in the finalists. In fact, my Campaign Media Liaison (i.e. me) uncovered one critical remark on twitter accusing the Australian/NZ nominations for being “basically women’s mags done as blogs”.

I was deeply affronted by this allegation. For one thing I couldn’t think of a single women’s mag on the market that would call Elmo a prick, advocate anal botox or suggest microwaving underpants to get them dry.

Nor could I think of a single women’s mag that would publish this photo:

fridgedustbaffle

This is why you should never remove the dust baffle on your fridge, people.

 

Or this one:

vegiepornstar

Vegie Porn Star

 

Or even this one:

vomitingbear

Too many gin martinis for the class mascot

 

Basically, you could say I’m “just another Mommy Blogger”. But if all Mommies (and indeed Mummies) are like me, then you should also start praying for the future of our planet. After you’ve voted for me HERE, that is.

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It’s no great secret that my mind works in strange ways.

Just the other day, on of my Twitter followers (and “IRL” friends) LSK, tweeted me the following pertinent question:

Are you sure you weren’t born with two brains? One for all the normal stuff and one for, um, everything else?

My reply was swift but simple:

What normal stuff?

I felt that I had raised a fair point. Especially considering my recent shenanigans on Twitter where I decided to make a fake version of myself. 

“A fake version of yourself NDM?” I can hear the usual suspects exclaim. “Honestly! It’s bad enough that you even joined twitter, let alone blog about twitter. And now you’re wasting our preciousssssss time with tales of fake twitter accounts. Two words: Grow. Up.”

Oh COME ON, you people who ask questions! Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same given half a chance. Why, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and that guy who played Dudley “Booger” Dawson in “Revenge of the Nerds” all have fake versions of themselves on twitter. Absolutely everyone is doing it, darling.  

Still, I have to concede to those people that yes, I was extremely bored when I did this. I had been up since 5:15am, had already published my blog post, made Mr Justice’s lunch, laid out everyone’s clothes, found everyone’s shoes, made breakfast, done the dishes and I still had an hour and a half until I was officially late for school. What’s a Not Drowning Mother to do? Make her own fun, is what!

And so “TheFakeNDM” burst onto the twitter scene at about 7:27am on the 10th June, heckling her real counterpart by calling her blog post “vomit in a bucket” and tweeting deep ontological questions such as:

I wonder how many fake versions of celebrities on twitter have managed to get the real celebrity twitter account suspended.

By midday that same day, TheFakeNDM tweeted:

Being a fake version of a non-celebrity isn’t turning out to be as much fun as I thought it would be.

And then…

The problem with being a fake version of yourself is that you STILL have to do the dishes. You’d think there would be more perks, really.

By 2pm the next day, after asking how many black hairs you had to grow on your chin before it could be considered a beard, TheFakeNDM finally fell silent, the joke well and truly spent. Although whether the joke had any buying power in the first place is highly debatable. 

And yet, nobody can deny that I did what I am always telling a bored Mr Justice to do: I made my own fun. And it was truly very much “my own” in that it was really only fun for me. And nobody – nobody! – can ever take that away from me. Except maybe Twitter, when they suspend my fake account for “strange activity”. 

 twitsup

______________

For the record, Curtis Armstrong, the actor who played Dudley “Booger” Dawson in ROTN, does not have a fake version of himself on Twitter. But he should. If I was his publicist, I’d be so onto him about it. You know I would. 

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Imagine my excitement when I heard that Twitter is being overrun by robots.

“At last!” I thought to myself, “The robot uprising has begun!”

I was imagining something kind of like “The Terminator” and that Flight of The Conchords song set in “the distant future, the year 2000.” But my friend Mr C set me straight.

Apparently these robots don’t want to kill anyone. At least not yet. Instead, they spend their days trawling through the twitterverse for keywords. And these keywords are specified by companies (and motivated individuals) wanting to hook up with people who might need their services.

For example, the robot might be programmed to automatically follow anyone who mentions “auto insurance” or “personal injury” or to search for phrases such as “I wish someone could tell me how to make Big Money Fast!!” and “Don’t tell anyone but I really do suffer from embarrassing erectile dysfunction problems”. 

So, all you have to do is innocently mention something like “lactating asian babes” on Twitter and you instantly get “auto-followed” by the Breastfeeding Association of East Anglia, The Chowking Chinese Food Chain AND @HotLesboticChicks69.

And yes, for the record, you can mention lactating asian babes innocently. I do it all the time, actually. 

Sometimes, however, the link between what you’ve just tweeted and who suddenly starts auto-following you isn’t that clear. 

Why, just the other day I found myself tweeting a lot about dead cats and seconds later a very buxom lass started following me, trying entice me to some “Adult Dating Site”. I couldn’t for the life of me work out why she’d appeared, unless, of course, she worked as a part-time pet mortician to supplement her adult “dating”. 

“Now, hang on a moment, NDM” I can here some people say. “Let’s go back a little there. Why, exactly, were you talking about ‘dead cats’ on twitter?”

Sheesh, you people have to know everything. Can’t a girl retain some sense of mystery?

But if you really must know… (*sigh*)

You see, I’d signed up with a Twitter-based service called “Mr Tweet” to try and maximise my twitter exposure. You know, as part of my strategic plan to become an Internet Phenomenon like Susan Boyle, Perez Hilton and “The Keyboard Cat”.

Anyway, Mr Tweet analysed my twitter activity and concluded that there were dead cats that were more “engaging”. Okay, so that was my (wrong) interpretation of his report. But let’s just pretend, for the purposes of this post, that Mr Tweet’s exact words to me were: “NDM, frankly there are dead cats on twitter that are funnier than you”.

Understandably, I complained bitterly about this on twitter. I also complained about the fact Mr Tweet had recommended I follow Ashton Kutcher (Mr Demi Moore) above all others on Twitter.

What the…? Is Mr Tweet Ashton Kutcher’s bitch? My next tweet said something along the lines of:

Follow Ashton Kutcher? I say to Mr Tweet: “Over my dead cat’s body!”

And it was at this point that my well-endowed pet mortician friend started following me. Shortly after that I noticed my number of followers had dropped and I tweeted:

Someone stopped following me after those “dead cat” tweets. Don’t know who but must have hurt their felines… Yes, I am drunk.

And for the record: I wasn’t exactly drunk. Okay, so maybe I was just a little. But listen, I’m not the enemy here. 

However I do appear to be the only person concerned that some evil genius out there has invented a robot to look out for the term “dead cat” so he (or she) can entice them into his pornographic adult XXX dating lair. And I strongly urge everyone with a twitter account to randomly include the tag #deadcat in their next tweet so that we might smoke him out of his hole once and for all.

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Ever had one of those Friday nights where you have a splitting headache, your husband is out, your children refuse to go to bed, and you find yourself signing up to Latest Social Networking Phenomenon “Twitter” only to then find yourself “tweeting” away inanely to an Audience of One, who happens to be your very first boyfriend from when you were 14 and who is now happily married and has five children, thank you very much?

Well, I did have one of those Friday nights. And I’d like to think that, for my Audience of One, it was a little like having a private audience with one of the Greatest Comic Minds of Our Time, but actually it was probably a lot more like being cornered on an express train by a mad-woman who may or may not have shat her pants. 

A lot of people say to me “What exactly is twitter, NDM? And why have you signed up? And don’t you have enough on your plate as it is without committing yourself to further social networking? Quite frankly, you should be concentrating a little more on the State of Your House.” And then I get all cranky because those people, even though they are all total figments of my imagination, are always cranky and so damn critical. 

Still, those of you who are a little less vocal, might not know what Twitter is and since you’re being so polite and quiet about it, I’ll answer these naysayers’ questions.

In 140 characters or less: “Twitter is just like facebook status updates except you don’t have to be ‘friends’ with someone to receive them, you just become a ‘follower’ instead which sounds a bit like you’ve just signed over 10% of your earnings in some kind of Messiah-Disciple-cult-type-arrangement where you get to sit at their feet and hang off every single wise word but, in reality, all it is a constant stream of updates – in 140 characters or less – about which people just went to the toilet and how their faeces might be classified according to the Bristol Stool Chart and…” Oh shit, I just blew the 140 characters, didn’t I?

“By over 400 characters. If you really want to know, NDM,” those usual people just can’t help but point out.

Yes, thanks for that, people. In all honesty, I’m not really made for the 140 character limit that Twitter imposes on you – it takes me 140 characters just to get warmed up and at least 300 characters to even start being funny (and for the record the Bristol Stool Chart is real and was brought to my attention by the unstoppable force that is the Bearded Iris – see her post “On the Bright Side” for more. If you’ve got the stomach for it, that is.)

So, why have I signed up? It is all part of my Cunning Strategic Plan to become an International Internet Phenomenon. At the time of publishing this post, I had increased my Twitter “Followship” from one to ten so I am clearly well on my way. Clearly. 

As for the full plate/state of my house remarks, I shall not even dignify those questions with an answer. But I shall say that the floor was recently spotted in the Back Room. No, really. Apparently, according to the source, the carpet was a brown-ish colour. Brown? Fancy that. I could have sworn it was blue when we moved in. 

So what do I think about Twitter so far? It’s hard to say, really. Unlike “The Book of Face”, nobody has thrown a sheep at me, poked me, super-poked me or sent their zombie army to attack me. Or even invited me to take part in the quiz “Which Secret Seven villain do you most resemble?” and “If you were facial hair on a 1970s Australian cricketer, what would you be?”. Which is kind of a relief, because the less I know about myself the better, really. It’s hard to blog with all that self-knowledge. 

And listen, here’s the really exciting thing about Twitter: if I wanted to, I could “follow” Lindsay Lohan. No, really! Or perhaps better still, I could follow the FakeLindsayLohan who gets up to all sorts of fake alcohol-fueled antics with her fake Lesbian Lover.  It’s difficult to imagine any circumstances where I would ever want to follow either, but isn’t it nice to have Options?

And famous people might just start following me! My friend Mr C had Uncle Kev (Prime Minister of Australia) follow him for twenty-four hours – he never knew why he came or why he went away. But for twenty four hours, Mr C had the ear of the Prime Minister – or at least some lowly aide from the PM’s office in charge of twittering. Personally, however, I like to think Uncle Kev is keeping tabs on the mood of the people via “Twitterberry“.

Now, if I could only get Uncle Kev’s ear for even one hour, let me tell you this much: he’d sure as hell learn a lot about my bowel movements. Come on, Kev, click http://twitter.com/theNDM and let the fun times begin. You know you want to.

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The other day, I was expressing some mild frustration at my flatlining readership figures by ranting and raving (somewhat like a rabid monkey), when my aunt Care Bear – a much nobler creature than I – gently interrupted me by saying “But isn’t the whole point of your blog to have a creative outlet and not just take part in some online popularity contest?” 

“Um, yes, it’s about the joy of writing, most certainly,” I replied. “But… but… but I want to be everyone’s favourite, too!!!!”

There. I went and said it.

The truth was that those rabid monkey blogs (which rate higher than mine on technorati) got me so het up with all their simian gags and bad spelling, and yet people can’t get enough of them. And don’t get me started about the chunk of cheese that has more than 5000 followers on “twitter” and god knows how many people logging onto its blog site every day. Granted, it’s a very talented chunk of cheese. But still! It’s cheese, people.

Anyway, it’s no point comparing myself to them. They’re in a different league from me altogether. But what was it about my blog that stopped the readership figures from growing? Was it that my readership quickly tired of me, left and then got replaced by three new people? Or was it that my readership-of-three flatly refused to share me with anyone else (“NDM, my precioussssssss, we don’t like those other bad tricksy readerssssss”)? Or was it just that I kept rehashing my jokes (such as the Gollum one)?

Whatever the reason, I was determined to do something about it. Since coming up with fresh or interesting material just seems like too much hard work, I started signing up to things that all the Big Time bloggers use, such as “Technorati” and “FeedBurner”. And pretty soon there I was, activating FeedBurner’s email subscription service and then merrily subscribing to my own blog to see if the thing worked. And lo! Half a day later, I had the utter thrill of receiving an email update from myself (the resulting frisson was a little like flushing the toilet before you rise) and felt that, surely, my star was now going to rise and those subscriptions would come rolling in. 

HOWEVER, the next time I went to FeedBurner, this is what it told me:

feedburner

Zero subscriptions? Not even my own? Hang on a minute… Could it be that, even though I tricksily used another email address and everything, FeedBurner knew it was really just me in disguise and therefore won’t count it as a real subscription? OR could it be that I actually have hundreds – perhaps thousands – of subscribers and FeedBurners has been instructed to hide them from from me?

And who, you may be asking, would instruct such a thing? Well, let’s just say I think that the folk from Google might have been on the phone to FeedBurner, since Google recently bought FeedBurner and now FeedBurner is Google’s bitch. And let’s face it, Google are all too aware of what a sad sorry little person I am. Not only do they know that I have – one more than one occasion – googled the term “Google” because I had nothing else meaningful to do with my life (as previously confessed in another post), but that I regularly google such terms as:

“bacon bra”

blow job Big Brother

dark chocolate Incas

do the boys ever sing in the Venga Boys?

esther head trapped bleak house

excessive itchy bottom at night only

moo milk man milk

stalker pathological obsession

“Today Tonight” shocking expose house slum

thing at the bottom of the fridge

“you wouldn’t shit in your neighbour’s hat”

So knowing all of this and guessing what I might be capable of, Google probably thinks the only course of action is to break my spirit and stop me from blogging. It’s the only way I can explain why FeedBurner would show that I have no subscribers.

But I’m not going to let Google win. Oh no, not I. You see Google might be a mighty search engine and all but I, too, am a force to be reckoned with. I have access to such tools as “The Secret” website (which I had to find using google, unfortunately) and Photoshop and thus am able to change FeedBurner’s so-called Feedstat graphics into a positive affirmation, helping me utilise the Law of Attraction and “empowering me to live a life of joy”:

feedstats1

So it has been photoshopped and so it shall come to pass…

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The more observant of my readers may have already noticed I’ve created a Brand New Section to my blog called “The Gallery of Domestic Godlessness”. Since my first “simulpost” with the Bearded Iris (“The Booger Heard ‘Round the World“) where I called for readers to send in photographic evidence of their own domestic squalor, the photos have been coming in thick and fast. All two of them. And yes, okay, one of them I sent in myself. Although I didn’t actually send it *to* myself because that would have just been sad. Kind of like commenting on your own blog under an assumed name. Sad, sad, sad. 

ANYWAY, I created the “Gallery of Domestic Godlessness” as a repository for these photos, which will always be available for your viewing pleasure by clicking on the tab at the top of the page. Until I get bored of the whole thing and take it down, that is. 

Now, I have a confession. I was going to try and totally Rickroll you all just now by linking that tab to Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” video instead, but according to my cousin L-Beer (who is more tapped into the zeitgeist than I am), that’s soooooo five months ago. 

Interestingly enough, an estimated 18 million people across America have been Rickroll’d so far. So I got thinking… Perhaps I could start my own internet meme to drum up a bit more traffic to my blog…  If one or two of my readership-of-three sent a link to my Gallery of Godlessness by, perhaps, pretending it’s a way of getting Free Champagne, I could increase my readership to, say, five. Or maybe even six. Imagine the possibilities!

And so I urge you all to email a friend with the following message as soon as it is humanly possible:

Dear Friend,

Spend a minute filling in the online form at  https://notdrowning.wordpress.com/free-champagne/ and you’ll get sent a box of free champagne – no strings attached!! It really is that easy!!!  

(No really. Click on the link, okay? I’m under quite some pressure here from this mad blogger in Australia – I think she may even know where I live. Just please click on the URL before she gets violent again – there have been balloon stabbings and everything.)

Hope you enjoy that free fizz!

Love from [insert your name].

And of course when that someone clicks on that URL, they will have the extreme pleasure of being “Haus-Frau’d” (like it?). I ask you: what greater gift could you possibly give? Can’t think of anything? Didn’t think so. 

Go on. “Haus-Frau” someone you love today. You know you want to. Or at least you know that I want you to.

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