I was reading my friend KayKay’s blog yesterday and she gave a great SEO tip that I’m totally stealing today. I’m not sure if she knew she was giving out a great SEO tip or not, but she sure as shootin’ was.
(If you don’t know what SEO is then grab your first born and sacrifice him or her in the name of the founders of Google. Because once you know about SEO you can’t unknow it. I’m not going to tell you what it is. You’ll have to eat that apple yourself.)
For good or for ill, I do know about SEO. I also know about Alexa and Klout. Klout’s now my Gangsta Pimp and I’m his dirty, low self-esteemed whore. Just for kicks I went to see what Klout’s Gangsta Pimp name would be and wasn’t surprised to find out that it is:
On a daily basis, Cow-Tippin Monkey Hunta lets me know what the other
kids on the playground people in social media think about me. Every day Monkey Hunta sums up my social worth in a random number based on some inexplicable metric that nobody really understands.
Yesterday my magic self-worth number was 54. Here’s Monkey Hunta’s Social Media advice to me based on this number:
Now the truth of this is that my Klout went up day before yesterday, but does Klout reassure me that I’m Okay, You’re Okay? NO! Monkey Hunta is quick to remind me that the other kids are less likely to trade their HostessTM Ding Dongs for my bologna sandwich today because I SUCK. But it holds out the carrot that if I just try harder maybe the other kids WILL like me. Maybe.
Since I learned about this number out there that rates my social value, I wake up every morning and promise myself that I won’t care what Klout says about me. But every day I look and I end up caring. But that’s not our topic.
Our topic today is our new SEO: Pretty Toes. I figure if I can become the Pantyhose Queen, over and over, again, then the title of Pretty Toes Princess is within my grasp. Maybe I can lure some more guys here from Google’s search engine to come and ogle my blog and make vaguely suggestive comments that scare me a little bit.
I’m not a total sell-out. I needed to do a pedicure anyway. That’s because I’m going to BlogHer and I know for a fact that the other women there will decide in 3 seconds whether I’m a person of worth or not based on my feet. Having my worst fears confirmed, I know that my entire blogging future rests not on my ability to turn a phrase or make links out of images but on the appearance of my feet and the footwear I place upon them.
Men don’t have these problems. My husband has never anguished over the state of his feet or the cuteness of his footwear. EVER. And he never, ever will. But then he’ll never get to know the joy of having his genitals ripped wide open giving birth to another human being or having sore and bleeding nipples either. Poor man.
Now that I blog like a demon, meaning that I live in terror of waking up one day and having nothing to say, not that I’m actually a demon, everything in my life is a potential blog topic. And today’s topic is feet. Pretty feet. Specifically, pretty toes.
Of course, you are saying to yourself, “Hey, Chloe, go get yourself a salon pedicure!”
I used to love getting salon pedicures. That was until Paul (I don’t think that was his real name since he was Vietnamese and didn’t speak a lick of English) gave me an STD-FF (Salon Transmitted Disgusting Foot Fungus). While Paul’s magic hands were bringing me more pleasure than should be legal in a shopping mall, he was also giving me a nasty fungal infection that took months to cure, leaving me to lament that while there is Safe Sex in this world there apparently is no such thing as Safe Salon Pedicure. So, just like the 80s all over again; I’ve had to learn to do myself.
Since it was a rare lovely warm summer day on the Mountain, I decided to do the deed on my front porch.
So here it is, the obligatory humiliating before picture:
Looks like a foot mug shot from this angle.
I keep all my nail supplies in this little organizer.
I lay out my supplies real neat-like:
And then the cat that I hate comes and ruins everything.
You’re thinking, “Oh, what a sweet little cat, why would Chloe hate him?” But I do. One day I’ll tell his sad tale of woe, but for now let it be known that I HATE this cat with the heat of a thousand suns. Maybe you’ll understand why in a minute.
And here’s the money shot:
Yes, you can keep your cat-loving ASPCA-threatening hate mail. I’m not the one picking him up this way and I’m not the one who took the pictures. It is just what happened.
And then I could soak my feet in peace.
Then my daughter graciously did the polish for me.
But the cat came back and nearly ruined my polish.
But he still wouldn’t leave.
Now this is the part that gets really real. I thought it would look great to get a picture of my feet from my hammock, but my daughter just thought it was hilarious. I almost messed up the polish again. Don’t look at the part where I’m bra-less and wearing pajama bottoms at 3 in the afternoon, okay?
I hope these feet are good enough for Blogher.
I can’t wait to see if I end up with +Cow Tippin’ Monkey Hunta for Pretty Toes.