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When we were on our little writers’ retreat in Las Vegas last year, I admitted to the MamaPoppers that I don’t really like much of the stuff that I write. I think a lot of people are that way. It’s like hearing your recorded voice played back to you. Your voice always sounds like you’re 10 and your writing always reads like gibberish and bad metaphors. I mean, there are plenty of times that for whatever reason I don’t put forth my best efforts and I think that’s easily detected and sometimes I try with all that is in me to write something I like and it just doesn’t happen.

This post just kind of came out of me. It’s not perfect, it’s not even proofread, but it felt good to write and I even enjoyed reading it. I actually wasn’t embarrassed by it and told a few people that I would like them to read it.

Yesterday, Lisa Stone informed me via Twitter that that post had been selected to be featured on BlogHer.com’s Voice of the Week column and I nearly cried. It meant a lot to me that someone read that and related to it and perhaps felt a little less alone…or at least liked the writing.

The meltdown that I wrote about wasn’t the last one that I would have that week. I had a doozy on Saturday. I think the lesson that I need to take away from this is to have tiny meltdowns more regularly rather than bottling them up and exploding every few weeks. Less angry, more often. That’s my motto.

This morning I was thinking that it would be hilarious if I decided to become a life coach. My clients would come to me and say, “I don’t know what to do with my life. I’m unhappy.” And my advice would be, “Well, first you’re going to need a cake or three. And gin. Set those aside for now. Then I want you to lash out at everyone for things that you can’t change. Now, you’re going to want to crumple up your face and sob until your shirt has snot all over it. Finally, slice up your cake(s) and dip the slices in gin. Consume. Repeat as needed.”

Not really related to either of those things, I’ve gone back to a full RSS feed. I had originally gone to excerpts last year after some sort of feed-scraping incident freaked me out. Hopefully, that won’t be a problem again. And hopefully you bums will still click through and comment.

If you travel in the same circles of the internet that I do, then you doubtless ran across this fantastic compilation of the 100 greatest quotes from The Wire.

But, of course, all definitive lists are made to be analyzed, picked apart, and perhaps dismissed. This list was pretty good, but I thought that there were a few glaring omissions.

Omar’s explanation of his profession: “I rip n run…I robs drug dealers.”

Bunk and McNulty’s verbose investigation of a murder scene:

Snoop’s last words and just this scene in general:

This scene always kills me and the lieutenant’s eulogy is gorgeous, particularly his line about Baltimore being a dark corner of the American experiment.

So, I had this really crappy headache all day yesterday. One of those that’s, like, on the side of your head. And after work we went to a pizza party for the baby’s soccer team and, surprisingly, a room full of screaming kids didn’t really help. When we got home, I took an inadvisable number of Aleve and gulped a glass of ginger ale before calling it quits and going to bed early, probably before most farmers and senior citizens.

Consequently, I forgot all about posting and have therefore failed at NaBloPoMo. I’m so irritated.

In much more important and serious news, one of our own, Anissa, suffered a stroke yesterday afternoon. I met Anissa at BlogHer this year and she is amazing. She’s a young wife and mother who’s been through a lot in life and we need her to get better. Please think good thoughts for her and her family and if you are interested in helping more, go here for more info.

I just want you all to recognize that I made the extreme sacrifice of peeling myself off of the couch and trudging over to the desktop to write a post. The wireless router in our house died so I can’t use my laptop and I started to tap out a post on my iPhone until the little voice in my head whispered, “You are stupid.” For all of its loveliness, the iPhone is not quite a computer. Whenever they work out the holographic projection of a keyboard and a display, then it is so on.

Prior to this, I went to the kitchen to first finish cleaning up and make myself a cup of tea, when the husband chose that moment to barge and declare that he was making popcorn. He also suggested that I cut up some pomegranates, because he knows how much I like squirting purple juice all over the kitchen. What a doll!

Anyway, I finally have my tea. And I need to have you guys over at some point because I made a Bundt cake this weekend that I think is pretty yummy but the husband and the baby aren’t interested.

This actually brings me to the, erm, point, such as it is, of this post. The Bundt that I made is a Pumpkin Apple Spiced Bundt and I got the recipe from The Food Librarian. She is doing 30 days of Bundt cake recipes and I’m going to type Bundt here just to bring the Bundt count of this post to a healthy six. The 30 days of Bundt cakes are part of her participation in “I Like Big Bundts,” (sung to the tune of Sir Mix-a-Lot’s seminal composition, “Baby Got Back”) leading up to National Bundt Day on November 15th. Did you know there was such a thing? The Food Librarian is rad in general, so I recommend checking her out, Bundt or no.

Every time I see the accompanying graphic of two Nordic Ware Bundt pans suggestively posed, I start giggling and can’t stop. Also: BUNDT.

Anyway, I find myself in the awkward position of being responsible for consuming the Bundt that I made, because I feel like going to work and saying, “Here’s a 3-day-old Bundt that I ate half of. Can I have a raise?” is kind of rude. So, please come over. My jeans beg you.

I’m going to attempt NaBloPoMo this year, after taking last year off. I am in between pee-wee soccer games right now, the first one being at 8 a.m., so you’ll have to forgive this obvious, “post for posting’s sake.” Sunday is when we also squeeze in laundry and grocery shopping, so I can’t offer much in the way of content. I’ll see yinz tomorrow.

I’m trying to not think about how far away Starbucks is and how badly I want a Pumpkin Spice Latte, so I started reading back through this blog’s archives and my LiveJournal archives.

October is, perhaps, my favorite month. It’s firmly in fall and has all of fall’s best features. It’s gorgeous to look at and the weather is fantastic. Plus, there’s Halloween, which I love, and my birthday (also on Halloween).

30 days from now, I will turn 31. That number sort of hit me yesterday. I remember talking to a friend last year about turning 30 and she mentioned being totally cool with 30, but 31 kind of got her because she could officially say that she was in her Thirties. 30 sounds kind of cute and grown up. 31 is suddenly, “Oh, this shit is real, huh?”

Anyway, one of the best things that I’ve done in life is to start documenting it on the internet. Honest! I never could commit to a regular diary or journal, but for some reason the internet and I were likethis. Now I can check in with my former self whenever I want.

So, if you like, come check out some past October 1sts with me…
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Due to the aforementioned *#(Y&(&@#(&) brand of busy that I have going on this week, I decided to outsource posting to a few people. If I had had this idea sooner than Sunday, I would have asked more people, but I think you’ll find that the two people who I did recruit are veritable goldmines of lulz and all-around rad writing.

This post is from JiveTurkey. I wish I could remember how I came upon this lady. But I’ve been hooked on her blog for some time. She never fails to crack me up. Bonus: she works right down the street from me and a few weeks ago I asked her out on a little blogger playdate, which was a really fantastic way to spend a lunch hour. We have plenty in common, including our subsidization of our more artistic pursuits with administrative jobs and tenacious commitment to big, old Pittsburgh houses.

During our playdate, Ms. Turkey told me this tale that nearly made me pee and I’m so glad that she’s recreated it here for you. Now, without further adieu…

Now Is The Winter Of Our [Rectal] Discontent

Wow. A guest post on kdiddy? Me? Really? Well, I suppose the only way to fully deserve this honor is to talk about rectal bleeding. No, seriously.

A tradition I think (and hope) is approaching its slow and painful death these days is the mailing of the annual Christmas letter. Ah, the annual Christmas letter – where you learn all the details you never wanted to know about the people you only see at large funerals and weddings. I don’t recall my parents ever sending out such a letter (although my mother still religiously sends out Christmas cards. And Easter cards. And Thanksgiving cards. AND HALLOWEEN CARDS. For real. You have not lived until you have gotten a card from your mother that reads “Happy Halloween to a Wonderful Daughter and Her Husband! You’re Loved So Much, It’s Scary!”), but I know for sure that we always received these inane letters from other people in the outskirts of our family and social circles.

Obviously, we have email, blogs and social networking sites to thank for facilitating the end of the Christmas letter. Even my most technology-backwards relatives are online these days, which makes it easier to stay in touch, but harder not to reply to my aunt’s 150th “I Said a Prayer for You Today” forward with “I did not die for your sins so that you could fill your niece’s inbox with bad clip art and sentences that begin with >>>>>. Love, Jesus.” Now that everyone can communicate so easily and immediately, there’s no need to send out three typewritten pages on your family’s yearly doings every December. The most I get these days is a handful of red and green cards with maybe a school picture or two thrown in, and that’s just fine with me – especially because I don’t send Christmas cards to anyone. It’s not that I’m some kind of cold-hearted motherfucking Scrooge, it’s just that I’m lazy, I don’t care, and I think it’s a waste of money. In other words, I’m a cold-hearted motherfucking Scrooge.

But as absence makes the heart grow fonder (…of mocking things), I’ll be damned if I don’t JUMP at the chance to get my hands on a real, live annual Christmas letter these days. Because, honestly, the only people who still write these fucking things are either a) dinosaurs, or b) arrogant enough to think that people still give a shit. Either way, the result is COMEDY GOLD.

Case in point: the distant relatives of my in-laws who took the time to detail – on watermarked, cream-colored, holly-bordered, 100% cotton resumé paper – that their cat had learned how to use the toilet. Let me repeat that: the news that these people decided to share with one and all in the Jesus-reason-season was that THEIR CAT COULD SHIT ON THE TOILET. Happy Holidays, y’all!

But nothing compares to the gem that was bestowed upon us this year. Actually, it was more of a “Christmas in July” thing, because my mother-in-law had forgotten to forward us the letter until she ran across it this summer. I usually only glance at the things my mother-in-law takes the time to fold into threes and mail to us (usually it’s just misspelled clippings from her local paper or a panel of “Howard Huge” that she found especially poignant), but this letter – in all of its typewritten glory – drew me in. And I’m so very glad it did, Internet, because now I have the distinct pleasure of sharing this marvel of the written word with you.

BEHOLD! The most awesome Christmas letter of all time! These are actual excerpts, my friends. ACTUAL EXCERPTS:

“JON is still living with CATHIE, hasn’t found a job but continues to film his former high school football games.”

The all-caps gossip-column style? All hers. I’m entirely sure “JON” appreciates his unemployed status being trumpeted from the rooftops during this blessed holiday season. But no matter – if he’s upset, he can just complain to that whore with whom he’s still (still!) living in sin. (Also, does anyone else picture Uncle Rico from Napoleon Dynamite when they try to picture JON?)

“WILL is still at the metal shredding factory. CATHIE and I like his live-in girlfriend Amber very much.”

Ooo, snap! No caps-lock for you, Amber, you live-in hussy. “Very much,” indeed.

“CATHIE will finally have hip socket replacement on Dec. 22 and will likely spend Christmas in the hospital.”

Joy to the world!

“Brother GEORGE also developed peripheral neurology in his feet. He is enjoying get-togethers with his wife’s family.”

I submit that he is not enjoying much of anything right now because OW MY FUCKING FEET.

“ALICE and DALE went to Olympic National Park for a week. Unfortunately, I seemed to collapse after they left.”

Hold on tight, Internet. Things are about to get super fucking festive up in here.

“My feet burned as if I was walking on hot coals and the ointment I was using gave no relief.”

So…no wassailing then?

“On Nov. 8, a stroke in my right eye has left blurry vision.”

Oh.

“On Nov. 18 while in my doctor’s office I had what appeared to be a heart attack.”

Let me take this opportunity to remind you that you are not reading the Journal of the American Medical Association. YOU ARE READING A CHRISTMAS NEWSLETTER.

“An EKG showed some heartbeats with slow pauses. I left the office in an ambulance for the ER, had a pacemaker implanted the next day and came home the following one.”

Oh my. Well, here. At least have a Christmas cookie.

“This was another December with rectal bleeding.”

Nevermind.

OK, hold up: another December? There’ve been others? And when did it ever seem like a good idea to include the word “rectal” in a CHRISTMAS LETTER?

There are a couple other paragraphs after that one, but really. There’s no topping that. I mean, look, I get it – old folks like to talk about their ailments. My grandmother certainly did, and it used to really depress me until I realized that if you tried to get her to branch out into other topics of conversation, she’d just end up saying things like “That Barry Manilow is really talented; it’s too bad he’s a faggot” in public.*

So, Internet, promise me this: if, in my twilight years, I ever start blogging about my various and sundry medical conditions (especially those that contain the words “rectal,” “anal,” or “bum-bum parts”), please drive to my house immediately and push me down the stairs. The world simply cannot handle another December with rectal bleeding.

*Yes, she totally said that. IN PUBLIC.

I’ve been taking the bus to and from work. The driver that I’ve had in the morning likes to get on the PA as we cross the Smithfield Street Bridge into town and say, “Good mornin’ ladies and gentlemen. We’re abaht ta enter bee-YOO-tee-full dahntahn Pittsburgh.”

It never fails to make me smile.

I am super busy this week at work and my class (last one EVER!) starts today. However, I’ve recruited a few fabulous people to provide some content. Look for that over the next few days.

Love yinz. And have a bee-YOO-tee-full day.

Saturday, I managed to wake up in time for breakfast and went to the opening session, which included a cooking demo using all Wal-Mart ingredients. Helpful, sure, but it’s all Wal-Mart all the time at my house and sometimes I can use a break from the endless parade of Great Value products (Dana commented on one of the unnamed-sponsor lunches, “I don’t want to eat the shit I make at home!”).

There was also an interview with Tina Brown and Ilene Chaiken and another Important Woman who I’ve totally forgotten. I was barely paying attention because I didn’t grab enough coffee. I know that they talked about various forms of media migrating to the internet…which was basically saying, “Print and TV and film are going to take over…soooo bloggers better recognize.” Well, not exactly, but that’s kind of what I read into it. But maybe displaced bloggers can take over TV and movie studios and newspapers? And those will become these retro media giants? And we’ll go back and forth with this power struggle like the Star-Bellied Sneetches? Who have blogs upon thars?

I went to a panel about blogging identity that was pretty interesting. I’m not uncomfortable wearing the title of “mommyblogger,” though it sounds a tad precious. I’m a mother and I write about parenting sometimes and I’m proud of that, but actually the only time that someone has called me a mommyblogger is as an insult. But they were tiny people with the acuity of applesauce anyway so it’s not really even worth considering.

I don’t think the panel touched on the use of the term “mommyblogger” as a pejorative, because that wasn’t the focus. But I guess I was assuming that they were going to talk about how to focus your blog if you’re a parent but write about other stuff, too, but it was more for people who have very topical blogs that aren’t about parenting. Not totally relevant for me but it was interesting.

Things did take a weird turn when there was some vaguely anti-parentblog sentiments thrown around. Well, maybe they weren’t anti, per se, but there was some level of irritation over the fact that mommybloggers receive the most attention from marketers and whatnot. I can imagine that if you’re building a blog audience about a topic and your audience is sizable, it can be very frustrating to be passed over. But things change and, seriously, blogging as a serious industry is still very, very young. I wouldn’t be surprised to see the balance shift in the next year or so.

But I did think about this site and how I kind of just write about whatever. If I wanted to, I could probably build a larger audience by focusing solely on one thing.

The husband’s blog really took off because he has a super-specific topic and there just aren’t many people writing about what he does. (I call him Dooce sometimes because he gets all gushy about his huge readership, which makes me wonder if this just all relates to penis size, and then I threaten to shut his site down because I run things.) But that’s not me and that’s not this site. I’m a human being and therefore multi-faceted. And I’m not sure that the world needs another memoirist so I’ll just plop shit here like so much slop in a trough with the occasional complete steak and let you guys come to it. And I think I just called my readers pigs. I didn’t mean it. I just…I missed the panel on storytelling and metaphor and that was obviously a big mistake.

Lunch!

I can’t remember if I went to another panel on Saturday, besides the MamaPop session. I don’t think I did. I’ll do better next year. But the MamaPop session was REALLY good. There was lots of interesting discussion and debate about pop culture and if there’s a feminist way to gossip. And I’m pretty sure that we won the Big Word competition for “schadenfreude” and “Aristotelian” being dropped.

With a few hours to kill, Dana and I ventured about 20 feet outside of the hotel and went to Niu for dinner. We had, no lie, the best sushi either of us had ever tasted and incredible mojitos.

I hit up the CheeseburgHerz party for a little bit but it became extremely crowded and I had to roll out. In the morning, Dana and Tracey and I went to the recovery breakfast and said some goodbyes before heading to the airport.

My only regrets were not seeing more of the city and not meeting more people. Obviously, I met a lot of people that I’ve known online for awhile in real life for the first time, and that’s always fun. But as far as people that, for whatever reason, I just didn’t know about until bumping into them at BlogHer, I can only say that I met a small handful. So, if I go next year, my mission will be to just branch out.

My only criticisms were that the wi-fi issue was just kind of ridiculous, considering it was a blogging conference, and that the expo booths were a little too girly. More nerdy tech stuff!

The last matter I want to address about BlogHer is the people that I met and hung out with. There is absolutely no way that I can make a complete list (see also: drunk on Thursday; 1,500 attendees). But I do want to touch on a few key encounters:

– Receiving a huge hug from Tanis within minutes of arriving at the hotel and later laughing with her about trying to fit into college writing desks while pregnant
– Receiving a huge hug from Grace after randomly bumping into her in the lobby
– Doing a slow-motion run through a field of daisies on a sidewalk when we first spotted Amber and Miss Banshee and Lena
– Discussing existential crises with Katie
– Flopping around on the Chi Bar couch with Miss Grace (both of us only vaguely recall this, but I’m pretty sure it happened…unless that wasn’t her tattoo but, in fact, Where the Wild Things Are coming to life before my eyes)
– Grinding to Ludacris with Y
– Trying to convince Amy to pull the bottom of her dress up between her legs, diaper-style
– Forgetting that I had gum in my mouth and nearly choking when I ate a piece of unicorn cake, and, though I didn’t introduce myself formally, having Bossy exclaim to me that she had just done the exact same thing.
– Finally succeeding in meeting Kristabella and Izzy
– The MamaPop group hug at the end of Sparklecorn, during which Heather gave me a gigantic kiss on the cheek, complete with, “MmmmmWAH!”
– Reintroducing myself to the lovely Kate, another casualty of Thursday’s beverage-induced amnesia
– Creepily lurking outside of Erin’s door looking for stickers that she placed there for me (feel better soon, lady!)
– Teasing Neil with his cattiness comments
– Just getting to hang out and giggle with Dana
– Just getting to pinch the cheeks of Schmutzie and Palinode, both of whom I love and want to put in my pocket
– Sleeping with Tracey every night (boom chick a bow wow) in the amazing beds at the Sheraton
– Anyone that I didn’t mention here that I even brushed up against that weekend

I also need to send a special thank you to Kim, who sold me her ticket to the conference after she realized that she couldn’t attend. I know that she was extremely sad that she couldn’t go, but she promises to be there next year. Go Kim!

I’m headed to Baltimore this weekend to visit Tracey (she can’t get enough of me) and Angela and some other assorted Baltimore characters. Note to would-be burglars: my very ferocious husband and my very ferocious cat will be home so BACK OFF.

This title was an attempt at some clever adaptation of Superfans.

Get it? Da Bears? Da Blawggers? Chicago?

Anyway. I went to Chicago! I went to BlogHer! It was grand!

I arrived Thursday and met up with Tracey and Dana at the hotel. I had had a gin and tonic on the plane, despite the scandalized glances of my rowmates, because a) my vacation had officially begun and b) the baby sent me off saying, “Bye, Mum! I hope your plane doesn’t crash!”

Safely on terra firma, I was still preoccupied with the vacation aspect and spent the rest of that day drinking and meeting people and forgetting that I met them. I remember at some point crashing some private event and yelling at the bartender, “GIMME A GREEN ONE!” and double-fisting frou-frou drinks at the SocialLuxe party prior to taking the stage to help accept MamaPop’s award for Guilty Pleasure Blog.

It was fun and sorely needed release, but I felt really stupid when I kept reintroducing myself to people only to have them blink and say, “We met on Thursday.” Granted, I met a LOT of people those first few hours, so I was a little overwhelmed regardless. But that convinced me to take it easy the next two nights so that I could actually experience the whole thing.

Friday, we woke up late and while my much deserved hangover wasn’t too bad, my uterus got wind of the 1,500 women on the premises and got the brilliant idea to sync up with its fellow cramp enthusiasts. I groaned through one session in the morning then kind of shuffled around until it was time for lunch, then shuffled around until it was time for one of the mingling breaks (read: more food), then made my way to the Community Keynote. I was really glad that I made sure to attend that.

I think/hope that the prescriptivist hand-wringing over what blogging is doing to writing has died down somewhat. Or said hand-wringers are too busy losing their shit over Twitter’s role in the demise of civilization. Because what I had the honor of listening to at the keynote was some astounding writing. And I mean your professor from your undergrad writing class, the one who first drummed showing-not-telling into your head, would have been dumbstruck…that level of good. A few pieces were funny, a few pieces were serious. They were all inspirational. And not in a corny, wind-beneath-my-wings way, but in a, “Wow, I fucking love writing and I can’t wait to get a moment to be alone with my words and shape them into something even remotely as fantastic as what I’m hearing,” way. I cried a couple of times and completely lost it during Catherine’s reading, which I think scared Jodi a little bit. “Um, can I hug you?” she asked, concerned, after the keynote ended. I gratefully accepted because I needed a hug and something to wipe my nose on…like Jodi’s shirt, for example.

Certainly all of the subjects that are covered by bloggers are not for everyone. I was never a victim of childhood abuse, but I couldn’t help but be stunned by Grace’s reading. I have never experienced the devastation of a child’s death, but Tanis and Heather’s readings gave me just a taste of that unimaginable grief. It really doesn’t matter WHAT we write about, just HOW we write about it. And if you can spin a yarn then you have my attention.

The (thankfully) few times that I’ve received a harsh comment here is when people (trolls) have bashed me for writing at all. They don’t care what some mom has to say about her life and I’ve wasted their time by even putting it out here for them to stumble on. The question of WHY someone would bother to read something that they know they will hate and then take the time to complain about it is not worth pondering.

Anyway, I’m getting off topic. Friday night was MamaPop’s Sparklecorn party and Tracey and Catherine had been running around all day getting ready for it. They asked us to meet them before the party, so we gathered in this beautiful bar in the hotel for drinks and appetizers. There they presented us with the most heartfelt gifts and thanked us for our hard work on the site. I was overwhelmed. The gifts, of course, were lovely but the thanks were so touching. I sat on the couch and glanced around at this goofy group of people, who were all dressed for the party and looked amazing, and realized that not only was I lucky enough to know them at all, but I had the opportunity to be WITH them in a gorgeous city amongst a thousand or so people who understood my compulsive reading habits and frantic scribbles of thoughts. I realized that I have it pretty good, that I’m a really lucky person, and I need to acknowledge that more often.

Now, all of that mushiness is fine, but there is, of course, a much goofier side to me. Somehow, Tracey and Catherine reached inside the collective MamaPop body and grabbed whatever gland it is that makes one ponder things like the feminist and cultural statements of Weeds. They took that gland, ground it up in a Cuisinart, and sprayed that shit all over one of the Sheraton ballrooms. There were posters of all of our favorite cult movies. There was glitter. There were tiaras and boas. There was a unicorn cake. There was rye. I wish I had thought to take video of everyone running around and freaking out at how amazing the place looked.

As the party’s attendees filed in and people got a few drinks in them, the dancefloor filled up. The DJ was fantastic and coifs soon became frizzy shadows of their former selves. It was a blast.

At the end of the night, the last track was Bill Withers’ “Lean on Me.” A small group of people put their arms around each other…then a few more joined them…and soon there was a gigantic circle of tipsy writers, thrilled to be in each other’s company, shouting along to the music. It was fucking awesome.

I’ll have to write more tomorrow because it’s getting a little long-winded as it is. Go get a Vengeful Unicorn. On me.