Friday, June 27, 2008


One of the things I adore about this beautiful blogging community is the way it allows bloggers to communicate with each other. You leave a comment and, if you've done everything correctly on your part, I can respond to you via the email you have set to your blog name.

Can I just take the time to reiterate how you need to pair your email with your comment name? It's so frustrating when I want to respond to a question or a great comment and I have no where to send my reply. (Smeagle, this means you. Bren J, you're another one. There's more, but I'm drawing a blank right now... not enough coffee.)

Stacey is actually one too, but because she emailed me out of the blue one day, I have her email addy at the ready. I'm pretty sure it was the post that said that I wanted to know who was willing to talk to a stranger and she emailed me her number and said that she'd call when she got a chance. She was pregnant then, so I'm pretty sure she had other things on her mind. Sniff, sniff.

So. Anyway...

Yesterday, in the comments, Stacey said :

I would have done it in the pan, too. You're not the only one! As far as the
cake goes, it's not shocking that you tried to rescue it... that would have
crossed my mind for sure :o) Maybe he'll surprise you with chocolate cake one of
these nights!

To which I replied something like, "Yeah! That would be awesome!" - or something equally brilliant.

(Now you need to understand that I have my comments set to go to my work email since that's where I have the most time to respond to comments. When I send out a reply, sometimes I don't erase my work number from the outgoing emails because a) I forget or 2) I know the writers well enough via the blogs that I'm comfortable enough to have that number get into their hands.)

Stacey replied immediately with "Personally, I think so! Maybe I need to send him an anonymous tip :o) You don't know how many times I see your name and phone # below and think, 'I should just call and surprise her!' Then I chicken out and don't go through with it."

Screeeeech! Why on earth would anyone be afraid to talk to me? (Jeana, don't answer that.)

So I did what I should have done long ago. I called her... and got her voicemail. My message was short and to the point. "Hey, this is Shalee. Quit being a chicken, you big dummy." Click.

Now wouldn't that message just make you want to talk with me?

She called about 10 minutes later with a laugh and an "Alright, alright." I inquired as to why she was chickening out and she said (and I quote) "Because you're The Great Shalee with the big blog and the big audience, and I was too scared to talk with you."

Huh? Am I being Punked!? I mean, it's not like she's talking to Boomama, Shannon, Dooce or anyone like that. I'm just Shalee who puts her pants on the same way that everyone else does: by holding in my stomach and praying that the zipper won't bust. (What? You don't do that? Whatever.)

And that's when it really hit me: It's all in the eye of the viewer. Though I may feel small and insignificant at times (okay - more than I want to really admit), there are others who are intimidated by me and my 8 - 20 comments (on a good day). At least I hope that's why they're shy. It's not my breath, is it? I brush, honest! Someone who has hit the big time is different for me than it is for someone else. And that's okay. It's all in our perspectives.

Stacey and I had a wonderful conversation, by the way. It lasted at least 20 minutes, which if you know me, is a marathon in my book. She's funny, sweet and way more patient with her kids when she's on the phone than I ever am. I sure wish I had her around to mentor me when my kids were little...

Anyway, I just wanted to set the record straight. I'm not intimidating really. I laugh too loudly and I'm usually slightly higher on the wacky-o-meter, but really I'm just like you. I like chocolate, I want friends and I sweat the small stuff that doesn't deserve any attention. You know, normal. So don't be afraid to speak out on the blog or in real life. I might even answer my phone when you call. (Poor you.)

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