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I think knowing that I restrained myself from titling this post “prose before hoes,” will make me look better in your eyes.

I did my undergrad in Fiction Writing which, I always joke, I was never very good at. I just really liked doing it. When I’ve come across stories that I wrote, I always cringe because they sound like…well, they sound like a melodramatic 21-year-old with little to no responsibility wrote them. Sure, they have moments of “good,” but for the most part they suck and I always get an urge to contact my undergraduate professors and apologize for making them read yet another story in which the protagonist guzzles a bottle of wine and then offs herself because heartbreak and stuff.

While I still write fairly often here and other places, I don’t journal, which seems to be a common de rigeur activity for people who identify as writers. Every once in awhile, I’ll jot something down, but it seems like I don’t really care to write if I won’t have an audience. Not sure why that is. And when I do slip into some prose now and then, I like it much better than my short stories from my college days. So, I’ve improved somewhere, somehow. But it’s not an exercise that I make myself do as a matter of routine.

But every once in awhile, I’ll get that itch, and that happened the other night when I was brushing my teeth and noticed some shifts and lines in my face. I wrote a few things down about the experience and figured I may as well share them here. (Note that it was late and I was delirious, which is why it kind of sounds like the treatment for a movie called something like Fever Dream Flailing or something.)

Ahem. *taps mic*

Now, when I tilt my head just so while brushing my teeth late at night, I see a soft, grey apparition in the mirror. It takes me a second to realize that it’s not the smoke of a dream I just woke up from. Instead, it is the new murmurings of places where light has never hidden. They yawn to let the light nestle, and the puffs of its contented sighs cast a delicate haze that drifts slowly down to settle on my face. In the lines that peek back at me from the future, I am able to travel through time to some existence not yet conceived.

I’m not certain, but this misty lady seems content. I retire to bed to see if I can recreate and reshape this trip in my dreams.

I’m a terrible blog mommy (note: not mommyblogger, though I don’t care if you call me that, but mother to this blog, as I gave birth to it and whatnot…had to get an episiotomy and everything). On August 3rd, this little blog of mine turned four! Prior to my first real entry here, I had been slinging words around on LiveJournal since 2002. That means that I’ve been oversharing on the internet for 9 years. If there’s a strata to the internet, I’m silt…or something.

Anyway, just wanted to say thanks to anyone reading this for indulging me, supporting me, calling me out on my nonsense. It’s cool to have people to talk to.

This is me, pretty much all the time now:

I feel like all I do is work and then come home and fall asleep on the couch. In between all of that, I mentally toil with some stuff, but nothing that I feel comfortable sharing here. Maybe I could do like the blog equivalent of Mad Libs?

“Kelly [adverb] [verb]ed some [adjective] [noun] with [person in the room]. It was a [adjective] [noun] and it made her [verb].”

I can tell you that I got my hairs cut the other day.

The oily T-zone was free

My desire to keep the salon blowout has prevented me from washing my hair, so picture me today with a stringier, somewhat Kelly-Cutroneish version of the cut above.

I have, however, been keeping myself busy around these here internets. I wrote on MoxieBird this week about Arianna Huffington, the iPad 2, legislative fetuses, $14,000 prom dresses, and gender roles in toy commercials. On MamaPop, I wrote about the aforementioned Kelly Cutrone, Kate Middleton, Oprah, and, of course, Big Love (or, as I tend to call it nowadays, “God damn fucking Big Love,” because I write out the events of each week’s episodes and sprain my eyes from rolling them so hard. Who knew a show about polygamists would turn out to be absurd? Oh, wait…). Also also wik, I’m writing on the new iteration of Sweetney. I wrote last week about what my “Mommy Card” might look like, and this week I wrote about how bitchin’ roller skating is.

I’m hoping that Daylight Savings ending next weekend will help. Winter seems to kick my ass harder and harder each year. SIGH.

The baby, not surprisingly, is shaping up to be quite the smart ass. When he was leaving for school the other day, he said good-bye to the husband, who told him (as he does every day) to do well in school. The baby replied, “Thanks for the words of wisdom, Daddy.” I’m so screwed.

I spent most of yesterday on the couch, tooling around on the internet and watching TV, which is what you’re supposed to do when you’re sick. I think the giddiness that I experience at the prospect of being able to partake in such activities without a smidgen of guilt is what jump-starts the recovery process.

I watched things that wouldn’t cause me any grief if I were to fall asleep during them. Daytime TV is made for that sort of thing, but that’s also what makes it kind of enthralling, leaving me napless. First was The Family Stone, the plot of which captured about 3% of my attention. The rest of them time I spent thinking, “God, I LOVE that house.”

Then I watched a particularly absurd episode of MTV’s True Life, which was about young psychics. One young woman was having trouble in her relationship with a guy whose name I believe was Squash because he didn’t believe in her abilities. There was also the not insignificant issue of her Christianity and her psychic gifts were not in line with the Bible. Squash went to Chattanooga to buy guns and then they broke up over the phone. She started dating a guy she met at a psychic expo and made out on camera, but then broke up two weeks later. (Insert joke here about why she didn’t see that coming.)

There’s a soap opera channel and they were showing an episode from the first season of Beverly Hills 90210. I realize now that the only reason that I ever liked that show was because I was 12 and a moron. I wanted to smack Brenda so badly and Jason Priestley does nothing but furrow his eyebrows the whole time.

At some point in all of this, I saw a commercial for Rent-a-Center starring Troy Aikman and Hulk Hogan. The, um, plot was that Troy talks up the great deals at Rent-a-Center for a few seconds and then Hulk Hogan wanders into the frame wearing an elf costume. He then utters the words, “I have an elf wedgie.” And that’s it. That’s their commercial. That’s how a company chose to sell themselves. I have an elf wedgie. If viewing this commercial caused you to consider patronizing a Rent-a-Center, please drop a bag of hammers on your foot.

Later on that night, the husband and I ended up watching Spies Like Us, which is way more hilarious than I remember. We were cracking up over the training sequence, particularly the Radical Vertical Impact Simulation exercise.

We then ceased being able to breathe when the husband read the comments for this video. Someone actually formed this thought and then typed it:

They watched the explosions, the bog of pig shit with machine gunfire, flamethrowers, g-force exercise, and an airplane smashing into the ground, and THAT was the detail that gave them trouble.

I’m taking this week off of 30 days of truth because the topics that I would tackle this week, my views on religion, politics, drugs, and alcohol, are way too long-winded to crank out during a lunch break blog post. Next time!

The actual conference was Friday and Saturday. My official, stated goals were to: not sleep through breakfast, meet people I didn’t already know from the internet, attend sessions, and nerd out as much as possible.

Struggles that I Overcame:

I realized that whatever lingering childhood shyness that I used to have that would cause me horrendous anxiety when thrown into a group of strangers has all but disappeared. If anything, it’s made me more empathetic to people who feel the same way. Look at me! Growing! Changing! Not mumbling into my oatmeal and avoiding eye contact or eschewing society all together to tremble in the ladies’ room!

The handful of people that I sat with at breakfast were lovely and we had no trouble chatting. After the opening keynote address, there was a “speed-dating” session that sounded like it would be chaotic, but I managed to just remain in my seat and allowed people to come to me, like I was the Godfather or something. The key to these things is to act like you’re super important. Next time, if there is a next time, I’m hiring somebody to stand behind me and look like Secret Service. Then watch the business cards pile up. That’s how 50 Cent got where he is today.

My other struggle was referencing American Psycho when I went to lunch with several MamaPoppers at this place called Johnny Utah’s. It was suggested that we go there because there was a mechanical bull. But I guess lunchtime on a Friday isn’t prime bull-riding time, because it just sat there like…well, like a giant inanimate bull in the room. I mentioned that the restaurant reminded me of the no-longer-popular restaurant that Patrick Bateman takes Paul Allen to in American Psycho and everyone got kind of quiet. Like, maybe referencing a misogynistic serial killer that was dreamed up by a bougie misogynistic a-hole is a faux pas in the midst of a women’s conference. I don’t know, I’m not always in tune to these subtle social cues.

Sessions that I Attended:

The first was a session on resume-writing and social media profiles and it was really, really good. My internet-writing experience is not insignificant. Far from it. But I really don’t know how to incorporate that into my resume and I don’t know how to get over my fear that people will see that and read, “I WRITE INAPPROPRIATE THINGS AND SHAME MY EMPLOYERS! CALL ME! LOL!!!ONE1 twitter.” So it was really helpful to hear from people who have done so successfully and see examples of resumes that do this in a professional way.

There were a couple other social media sessions that I wanted to go to, but I ended up lugging my camera to a photography session that ended up being more about composition than actual, hands-on technique. And I kind of already know a little bit about composition from taking a couple history and theory classes about photography in college. I was hoping for more practical advice on getting comfortable with adjusting manual settings for various shots. But I have a book for that, I just need to find it.

Parties that I Attended:

The MamaPop writers spent some quality time together, drinking, eating burritos, and doing karaoke. Funny. Drunken karaoke sounds a whole lot like shouting and giggling. This was actually my first foray into karaoke and Laurie and I belted out “Me and Bobby McGee.” I got a little too into it, I think, because after I handed off the mic, Amy looked at me and said, “That was…something else.”

Injuries Sustained:

I banged my knee on something getting out of a cab and got a small but healthy scrape. I dramatically declared that I would soon be coming down with hepatitis in that knee, but so far it seems okay.

People on Whom I Mouth-Breathed:

I know for sure that I met these people at breakfast or during the speed-dating: Pine Creek Cottage, Hide the Cheese, The Bellini Bunny, Dana from Rodale, and Naomi from Ketchum. I know I’m missing a few but I’ll do a round up of all of the cards that I’m having trouble placing with memories later. I also bumped into Jason and TwoBusy in the morning who were in search of that fine lady Mrs. Potato Head. Pimp! Adam P. Knave met up with us for drinks before the MamaPop party and I talked to him and his friend for exactly 2.5 seconds. I finally met Melissa and called her Christine.

Pictures that I Took:

This was the view from our hotel room. When we first walked past that LOVE sculpture, I pointed and yelled, “HEY! IT’S THIS THING!” I should be a tour guide.

Adam, Friend of Adam, and Palinode

BHJ and Amber

Schmutzie!

Jodi, Tracey, Palinode, and Ryan. I don’t know why there’s so much bending in this picture.

Kelli, Laurie, Schmutzie, Sarah, and Marilyn cracking up over something with a cardboard cutout of somebody. Based on the direction of their gaze, I imagine it’s something PG-13. I don’t remember taking this picture or what was going on, which is weird because I really didn’t even drink that much.

Karaoke action with Palinode, Tracey, Amy, Catherine, Schmutzie, Amy, Amber, and I believe Miss Banshee is back there, too.

This picture doesn’t do them justice but Jodi and Amy are, like, radiantly beautiful in real life.

Last year, when I went to BlogHer, I didn’t feel like I had really taken in the conference. This was mostly my fault, as I cut too loose the first night that I was there and spent the first day of the conference recovering. The rest of the time, I mostly focused on soaking up as much time as possible with people that I had been friends with online. It was fun, of course, but not really the best use of the hundreds of dollars that I had spent to go there.

This year, I was determined to get my money’s worth. See, I had bought my ticket back when we thought the husband was about to start a job, so I nearly burned a hole in my MasterCard, reasoning that we would be paying it off within a few weeks. Then the job evaporated and I agonized over whether or not I should move forward with this trip that we definitely could not afford. But, obviously, I decided to go, resolving to squeeze every last drop, knowing that I probably wouldn’t be back.

But my experiences of every day that I was there can be summarized into one of a few categories: Struggles that I Overcame, Parties that I Attended; Sessions that I Attended; Injuries Sustained; People on Whom I Mouth-Breathed; Pictures that I Took.

Let’s start with Thursday.

Struggles that I Overcame:

I screwed up planning my flights and landed at JFK at 4:30. I nearly fell off the airplane because they let us off right onto the tarmac and I didn’t know you could do that unless you were the Beatles or on a private jet. Amber swooped by in a taxi and then I got to experience rush hour in New York City. My jaw is clenching just thinking about it. About two hours and countless brushes with death later, we burst into the hotel looking for our fellow MamaPop writers, who were in the lobby bar last we’d heard. And Amber was all, “I HAVE TO PEE!” and I was all, “NOBODY’S HERE AND THEY’RE NOT ANSWERING THEIR PHONES!” Eventually I got a hold of Danielle, who told me they were at the SocialLuxe party. I apologized to Amber as I ditched her around the taxi line because I really wanted to go to a party that I’d been invited to at the Martha Stewart offices.

Parties that I Attended:

The aforementioned Martha Stewart thing, which was…well…I don’t want to say it was bad. It wasn’t. But it took forever to get there and then we stood in line so that we could stand in another line so that we could shuffle through the hallway and then squish into a tiny room with an admittedly amazing view. And I’m not complaining about that, really, I was just worn out at that point and gripped a glass of Prosecco and kept an eye out for the male model that was dispensing refills. At one point, we called him over and his eyes widened in alarm. Whatever, dude, just stand there and look pretty with a heavy hand while I veer into baby-cougar territory. Kelli then asked him if he watched Party Down and he got all irritated. But maybe he just doesn’t have cable.

When I told my mom and grandmother that I was going to this thing, their eyes rolled back in their heads and they clutched their pearls and asked what I was going to wear. (The correct answer to that, by the way, is a black shirt and white and black skirt and thirty buckets of sweat and angst.) But rumor was that Martha was in and out promptly at 6 leaving us to mingle with the staffers who were good sports but who were obviously thinking, “I’m so glad I could stay at work until 8 on a Friday so that this chick from Pittsburgh could stare at me.”

On our way out, I noticed the test kitchen and pressed my nose up against the window. And then I tried the door and the security guard made a move toward me. It was locked, but I guess he was concerned that I was going to try to take a refrigerator with me.

I was glad that I got to see the offices, but my first private party left me with the impression that they aren’t really worth the strife that they seem to cause. They’re just parties, man.

Sessions that I Attended:

Nothing official was happening that day but we did have an impromptu panel in our hotel room. I don’t remember what we talked about.

Injuries Sustained:

Four insect bites of unknown origin that are still red and angry looking nearly a week later.

People on Whom I Mouth-Breathed:

At Martha, I met the Bitchin’ Wife, KBestOliver, Tall Tara, Always Home and Uncool,
Cagey and two of her lovely friends (we shared a cab over there and I’m so sorry that I didn’t get their names), and got in Miss Grace’s faces who had the stunning Califmom with her. I also met Charlie for the first time, who gave me the fiercest hug ever.

After our hotel room session, we ventured about two blocks away from the hotel to find food and managed to find the one diner in New York City that closes at like 10:30. Part of the closing process includes glaring at the table full of bloggers who are shoveling food into their faces and having a cook pointedly punch a pile of meat. I don’t know, man.

Pictures that I took:

Just these two, with my phone.

Vintage Heimlich instructions in 10 point typeface posted in a corner of the room that will surely be of great use should someone start choking.

Tracey is not falling asleep at the table but taking pictures of our dinner mates from an artsy angle.

I know multi-part BlogHer posts are obnoxious but that’s too bad for you. More tomorrow

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.

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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Yes, I am in the weeds, to use a term from my waitressing days. Lots of stuff going on at work, I’m doing some after hours stuff for the project I’m working on for class (I will tell you more about that later, because it’s really interesting), three freelance writing things are due, and I’m still vomiting pop culture all over MamaPop and shiny baubles on WeCovet. Also, I have hazy memories of having a baby and marrying a guy at some point in the past few years, but I might just be delirious.

Also, the G20 will be here next week and I’m getting, like, secondhand stress from it. The baby has off of school and it looks like I will be off Thursday due to my work building being on super lockdown. I may also take off Friday just because I know the commute will be hellacious. And as much as I respect the freedom to assembly and whatnot and most likely agree with the stances of many of the protesters, I would much rather watch that unfold on TV and not, you know, 10 feet away from me. Tear gas makes my hair frizz n’at.

Because of all of this, my misanthropy gland has been pulsing overtime and I’m currently much more irritated with everyone ever and their dumb fucking thoughts and actions than I usually am. Which is to say, just fuck off already. But in a nice way.