The short BlogHer version, which will be woefully disappointing to many of you: I had a great time. It was super low-drama. I don’t have a lot of complaints. Everyone I met was lovely, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart, in total sincerity, no snark whatsoever.
I realize that makes this kind of boring. I’m sorry. But like everyone else, I have to say it, because, well, I paid for the damn thing, let me have my recap post, please!
First of all, the best part was easily my roommate, Jennie. (Tell me you love Jennie!) I can’t begin to tell you how wonderfully we got along, or how our friendship is sort of, um, epic in its awesomeness (LIKE BEACHES) (MORE ON THAT IN A SECOND), and it was so easy to be with her, and it made the whole conference worth it.
The other best part was that my OTHER, OLDER (in terms of friend-time, not age, although Mer and I are same-aged crones to Jennie’s youthfulness) epic Beaches friend, Meredith, met Jennie. And PEOPLE. IT WAS BEACHES, BUT WITH THREE PEOPLE. They loved each other, and both texted me separately to tell me so, and it might have been the best thing in the world, having two people you love so, so much (so beyond blogging or writing online or any of this stuff, I mean Real Life Friends) love each other! It was a VERY BIG DEAL for me, and I’m touched and tickled and thrilled and excited to see them both again.
Everyone was lovely. And pretty! What’s with all the pretty? I thought we were all supposed to be dorky and smart and socially awkward? I didn’t meet an unattractive person! Not one! Amalah was lovely and funny and exactly as you’d expect, but even prettier! STUNNING, in fact. What’s up with that? Who is that pretty in pictures, then takes it up a whole notch in person? WHAT IS UP WITH THAT?
People were so nice and friendly and exactly what you’d expect, and if they weren’t, they were better than you expected, even if you had high expectations. Linda! Jodi! The New Girl (who I already knew and is always beautiful)! Kelli! Cass! AndreAnna! Samantha! (btw, I’ve now told Sam I love her eleven times. She is scared.) LEAH! HELLO I LOVED LEAH SO MUCH I WANT TO TELL EVERYONE TO SEEK HER OUT AND MEET HER. SHE IS SO WARM. Metalia! Ali! Slynnro! Kristabella!!
Anne! I loved Anne. And Julie! Julie, for the record, has been the kindest person to me in ways no one even knows about, and I can’t tell you how special it was to meet her. It was a moment, if you will.
Also special was Suebob, whose blog I’ve been reading Way Back When, and is the person you want in your corner, for real. Damn, was she warm and wonderful. Meagan!
Miss Britt! Y! ALEXA. FOR GOD’S SAKE, PEOPLE I MET ALEXA. No, I didn’t just meet Alexa. I FANGIRLED at Alexa and spent ten minutes, dead sober, telling her how talented she is. (SHE IS.) Pseudostoops! Sara! The Ladies of Style Lush! TwoBusy, who I have the ability to see again and again! Ms Picket to YOU! DITTO, BITCHES.
I’m wringing my hands, because I know I’m forgetting great people, and it’s not because they were forgettable, but it’s because I am dim, and it’s almost 11 p.m. and I’m repeating people and picturing faces of people I’ve known for years, and yet cannot recall.
ALLYSON. See? SEE? I cannot be trusted with links. AND LETTERB. Liz! My old boss, who I love and can see again soon! SHIT. I am so fucked with this list. Please forgive me.
However, here are the only two photos I took at the entire conference, because I am an idiot. Behold:
It’s ANNA! I loved Anna even more in person. You guys, she’s funny and smart and beautiful and has a smile that lights up her whole face. And please note: She does not have horns. If you ever have the opportunity to hang out with her, please do so. Just introduce yourself! She is lovely, and I’ll cut a bitch who says otherwise. My bra is also making a special appearance here, as it did all weekend. My right boob, for some reason, did not enjoy being contained.
Worst picture of me ever, but you know, I don’t care, because it’s Holly and AB! AB, you need to know, was my first blog ever, before they were called BLOGS, tied with Mike Monteiro’s Henry’s Diary. I’m all, IT IS AB CHAO, BITCHES. I started reading her … Jesus, I don’t know, ten years ago? When her daughter Mad was in like, THIRD GRADE, IF THAT. (Mad is now one year away from graduating. WTF.) Meanwhile, when poor AB tries to tell me things she did in 2005, I’m all, “Dude, I remember that.” WHICH HAS TO BE CREEPY.
And poor Holly. Poor, poor Holly, who asked about the realities of having kids, and Jennie and I regaled her for an hour and … oh poor Holly. There were a few times I was thinking, “We should be stopping this!” and yet I went on. For many hours.
And AB was with Drunken Bee! Who I also read years ago, when I was jealous of everyone who went to JournalCon and stuff, and yet I had my dorky little overwrought Diaryland account where I think I composed POEMS, OH MY LANDS.
(I was in my early twenties. Please forgive me. I think I was generally an asshole.)
(PS, Drunken Bee does the Friday Night Lights recaps on Television Without Pity. They’re awesome.)
Now for the bad parts: There were assholes. I was treated astonishingly poorly on at least two occasions, one of which was SUPAH SHOCKING and almost funny in its awfulness, but you know what? There are assholes everywhere, and they were not people I knew well or cared about. There are more assholes on my street right now than I met at BlogHer, and that’s a fact. You can’t have a conference with 2400 people and expect there to NOT be assholes.
I just really hope I wasn’t that asshole to any of you. If I was, please tell me, and let me apologize. Unless you are the woman whose foot I accidentally ran over with my bag the first day who yelled at me even after I apologized OR the people next door to Jennie and me, who called security on us for TALKING IN HUSHED TONES. TWICE. You are mean. Also, I’m glad we kept you awake, even when you banged on the wall at 10 a.m. (TEN IN THE MORNING) to tell us to be quiet.
*Lady Gaga. And obviously I was a poor paparazz…ist. Whatever.
Ah, Facebook. It’s such a strange cocktail of misery and usefulness, that I hardly know where to turn. Lunatics and Facebook Moms and crazy political nutballs and high school friends and coworkers and LOOK, WE ALL KNOW THE PERILS.
However, I’ve just made the best discovery that I can’t seem to get over. A guy I know has a Photograph Face, which is probably also his Mirror Face. And although I’ve seen this person many times — recently, even — seeing his Mirror-slash-Photograph Face is weirdly intimate, as Sex Face feels not that far behind and JUST GROSS, MAKE IT STOP. Mind you, many women I know have Mirror and Photograph faces, but men! This is new. And worse, Mirror Faces are never — okay, RARELY — the most flattering face on a person! And yet, people THINK they are, because that’s the face they perpetually see in the mirror and … oh dear. When Mirror Faces become Photograph Faces, it’s never good.
One of my dearest friends (NO I AM NOT TELLING, but no, it’s not you, I promise) has a Mirror Face, and for decades (literally, DECADES), it has mystified me, for she is beautiful, but her Mirror Face is … well, not. It’s awkward and funny-looking, if I’m being honest, and yet there she is, fixing her lip gloss with Awkward Mirror Face, and it remains one of life’s greatest mysteries for me. The second she resumes life without Mirror Face, and steps away from the mirror, she is once again beautiful. Fortunately for all of us, Mirror Face is not Photograph Face.
****
You know, another helpful tidbit, now that more than a few of you will be meeting me in person, is that I have attention deficit disorder, and not in the cute way of being all, I have ADD! I can’t find the pretzels! No, I actually have ADHD in a kind of not-fun way sometimes, although I’m not really sure what to do about it, if anything. On the one hand, it makes me quirky and fun, and it is, in large part, why my life takes the strangest of turns — I forget things, I zone out, I trip, I fall, I end up with six dozen donuts instead of one because I got distracted by the new pockets in my jean jacket. You know.
I mean, I was in Target the other day with Kate, and I got distracted because I couldn’t find my BJ’s card, which led to a few other thoughts about where that card might be, and how I’d given it to Sam in Land’s End Canvas and then, OOH! Land’s End Canvas! I wonder if those pants will fit like these shorts! Let’s see how these shorts fit! And I’m pulling the tag out of the back of my shorts and realize that the reason — the original reason, for God’s sake — I wondered about my BJ’s card was because I was supposed to be getting out my debit card to pay. I had FORGOTTEN that I was in TARGET in LINE and ABOUT TO PAY. I’m not exaggerating. Like, I got lost in this crazy Other Place and … well, that happens a lot.
And while I realize that’s kind of a lame example, there are others where things have been more, uh, dire. Nothing life or death, but sometimes, HOO BOY, things take me longer than they should, because I get distracted and carried away and oh look! There’s that phone bill. In the freezer. Right. (Sadly, not kidding.) In a way, it was easier when I worked as a full-time professional, because I could organize my day to work around it — by setting time limits, and tasks and small deadlines throughout the day, I was able to do what needed to be done without it impacting my work too much. Being busy and on heavy deadline in a job like journalism is actually helpful for people like me, although you’d think it would be the opposite.
But with an unpredictable toddler? OH HEAVENS. Coping is kind of hard sometimes, because I’m all over the place, and even people who DON’T have ADHD can become distracted and lose their minds.
I was medicated once, a long long time ago, and frankly, it sucked. I didn’t feel like myself; I felt like all of the things that made me, me, were kind of gone. Creatively, I wasn’t the same, because distraction is a good thing for a creative person — one thought tumbles to the next, and before you know it, you’re in a place you never expected.
I think I just answered my own question, which is to go back to behavioral therapy basics and not even think about meds again. At all. Like, ever. But! If I seem spazzy or you think you suddenly lost me in a conversation or I say I’ll be right back and hours later, you’re wondering what the EFF happened to me, that would be why.
So! Facebook. Is it not the worst thing to hit the internet? Am I not at the cutting edge of internet wisdom with that statement? God. The flame wars! The crazy political posts! The parents who post pictures of their children’s poop and worse, photos of their children on the toilet whilst potty training! UNSEE UNSEE UNSEE. And, just yesterday, some TOTALLY CRAZYPANTS comments from a woman (an adult who, as far as I know, is not special needs in any way) I know only tangentially, but am mysteriously friends with on Facebook involving … the death of her goldfish.
This woman, oh my lands, people, described how she “knew true love” because of this goldfish (named, appropriately, Girlfishi) and how an unfortunate Sophie’s Choice-like scenario (YES, REALLY, SHE SAID THOSE EXACT WORDS), left her having to move the goldfish from one apartment to another, causing Girlfishi horrible trauma and leading to her untimely death. She then left an indecipherable rant as her status about how some people aren’t properly respecting her mourning and how she’s learned who her real friends are by how they respond to the death of her, ahem, GOLDFISH, and how Girlfishi was a special fish and she is beyond heartbroken and … well, folks, I’ve got nothing here.
Wait, that’s not true, because I think I’ve got a solid OH COME ON, LADY, in there somewhere. Also, I think what freaked me out more was all the commenters who leaped to her defense on the mourning post with how deeply sorry they were for her loss and how losing a pet IS like losing a child, yes, yes, it is, and all I keep thinking is, SERIOUSLY, A GOLDFISH. I mean, for some people losing a pet is like losing a child, yes, and I can go with it to a point, but no, I’m sorry, you can’t compare your goldfish to my kid. It just won’t work.
No disrespect to goldfish everywhere.
In other news, and this is going to sound very spoiled, and believe me, I know, I KNOW! I was totally spoiled, I KNOW!, but we used to live two minutes away from Adam’s office — for Sam’s whole life — and then (THEN!) we had two glorious months while Adam was between jobs, and honestly, I got used to having him around. He was home for dinner every night, save for the days when he traveled, because even if he had to work late, he came home to eat before heading back in. And in those two months, he was home every day. Every day! And now he’s got a commute, and working late and missing Sam in the evenings and it’s … it’s very sad. We miss him, although I also know that he’s enjoying what he’s doing. (He likes to work. He always has.)
It is also turning me into a bit of a crazy housewife, and I’m not proud of it. The combination of moving, (my) work deadlines, instant houseguests and suddenly being home alone for 14 hours a day has left me feeling completely overwhelmed with the status of how MESSY everything is and how! much! there is to be done and some nights he gets home and I’m standing there with my hand on my hip all but SCREECHING about all the shit that has to be done! And it’s GARBAGE NIGHT and while yes, I realize you just walked in the door, WE HAVE A LOT OF GARBAGE. HOP TO IT. I HAVE TO GO GET SOME WORK DONE. DO YOU KNOW WHAT MY DAY IS LIKE AROUND HERE?
My face is all contorted and wrinkled in disgust just reading that, but there you have it. Last night I poured a rare glass of wine (booze used to be a lot more fun; now it just makes me want to go to sleep IMMEDIATELY after the first sip), plopped myself in front of Glee and told myself to get over it, because really, Jonna, REALLY. The next thing you know I’m going to be getting myself into a state over ring around the collar and dishpan hands! How WILL we ever go on?
Speaking of Glee, can I admit to you all what happens when Jesse St. James appears on the screen? My heart beats faster. No exaggeration. Gross, right? Gross. I’m THIRTY FOUR YEARS OLD. And also? Just now I found myself lost in a comment thread of teenagers who really believe Jesse is a real person, and they’re fighting about it. Like, seriously fighting about it. I witnessed apologies to the group and some kind of crazy statement about how they probably HURT JESSE’S FEELINGS and sorry, Jesse! I LUV U. And they were serious. Yes, very serious.
I don’t see me and my quickening heartbeat too much above that, to be honest. I mean, a) it’s a fictional character, eclipsed only by the crush I had on Fred from Scooby Doo. Yes, a CARTOON; b) the kid is like, 22 in real life, IF THAT; c) HE IS ALSO GAY, not that it matters, because let’s be honest, an unavailable cougar with a kid is hardly his ideal mate, even if he were straight as an arrow.
How many times am I going to talk about this? MANY, IT SEEMS. Well, I would, if the season wasn’t ending. Boy, you’re all glad about that. I’m one step away from talking about how a goldfish taught me love.
Speaking of seasons ending, I still haven’t seen the Lost finale. I KNOW.
Happy weekend! Ooh! Memorial Day!
*Madonna. And also, um, Jesse St. James in the Very Special Madonna Episode. What?
Well! That’s over. We had a family wedding this weekend, with houseguests, and have I ever mentioned that I love houseguests? I do. It’s a very strange thing, apparently, but a houseful of people always makes me feel warm and fuzzy and weirdly safe, like we can’t be broken into or murdered or anything strange, because there are so! many! people! Who could get away with such a thing? We have four-ish bedrooms and every last one of them was occupied by someone who would doubtless scream if intruded upon. Safety!
Plus, you know, I enjoy their company. That’s true, too. But once houseguests leave, there is the cleaning. Oh, the cleaning. Everything has three times as much dirt on it as before, because there were three more people involved and now there are toilets and laundry and maybe even bears, oh my!
It was a relatively uneventful family wedding–beautiful, loving and all that jazz. Two nights prior, however, my kid lost her shit at a family dinner in a janky-but-delicious Chinese restaurant (South Pacific in Newton, for those playing along at home–they have an original tiki room and serve scorpion bowls), and for the FRILLIONTH time, discovered that my kid bawls like a maniac whenever she’s confronted with an old(er) lady, this time being her great-aunt. There’s a juvenile prejudice that’s fun to explain! Hi! My kid hates old ladies! Yes, I’m sure YOU are lovely, but you are very clearly OLD and old ladies freak her out! So please, no no, don’t say hi to her, thanks. At all. It freaks her out. Yes, even you. YES, YOU, OLD LADY. YOU TOO.
Nice, right? Nice. My kid’s an ageist little pooper.
I am also really unclear why a restaurant, upon seeing a TABLEFUL of kids under the age of four, would refuse to deviate from their plan of offering their pu pu platters with towering flames in the center, but then again, some things defy logic, am I right? Here, kids! Let’s practice lighting our eyebrows on fire!
Anyway. Let us now discuss stink bugs. Do you guys KNOW what stink bugs are? HA HA. They look like this. (LINK TERRIFYING! WARNING!) And did you know those em effers can FLY? I did not know this. I had NO idea, in fact, until the other night when I thought I saw a fly and watched it land and NEARLY EFFING DIED. You can’t kill them, you see, because their stupid pheromones go shooting out and then you have a plague of stink bugs, not to mention they, um, STINK.
So there I am, trying to be calm and shit while I aim to trap it in two, um, cups (what?) and then … I LOST IT. AND FELT SOMETHING DOWN MY BACK. AND MADE A STRANGLED KIND OF NOISE. And God, look, there was wild running around and crazy tapdancing, and I wanted so bad to scream, but you know, MUST NOT WAKE BABY, so I just waved myself around wildly while frantically whispering, “HELP ME. HELP ME. HELP ME.”
HELP NEVER CAME. Or rather, it did, but HELP WAS LAUGHING TOO HARD TO ACTUALLY HELP. This went on for several minutes until I finally just locked myself on the sun porch and got buck naked, dislodging the stink bug from … oh God, from WHEREVER IT WAS, and Adam took it outside, thank you Jesus, and Amen.
GHWRLKHTHEWARTTICKETH.
I mean, RIGHT?
And now, let us cleanse ourselves with a delightful picture of my daughter, looking rather diabolical, yet adorable, in her wedding finery. Well, with strawberry stains, but whatever.
(Yes, that’s me in the background at an Unfortunate Angle, I hope, as I am looking rather PREGNANT, which is a state that I am not, I assure you.)
(Wait, are we all not on a team? Are you not on my moving team? Do you want to be on my moving team? Quick! Come wrap some glasses! GO TEAM!)
So, we’re moving. And I am MUCH happier about it, as I suspected I would be once I figured out where we’d be going, and I went back to the area and we figured out where we want to live, etc. etc. SO MUCH HAPPIER ABOUT IT. Thank you for talking me off of the ledge. We found a house! That we love! With a giant yard for pug and baby to roam freely! And it’s so PEACEFUL out there, which is nothing like where we used to live in Boston, and … what a grand idea this is suddenly seeming like. Now, if only I could bring my friends.
Can I please bring my friends? Friends who are reading this, would YOU like to move to Boston?
That remains the saddest part of it all, and REALLY, by me acting okay with the move, it does not mean I won’t miss you. I PROMISE. I AM BEREFT.
MetroWest Bostonians, holler at me! And further, if you see someone who looks like me in the Natick Mall, it could very well BE me! Look at that!
So, that’s the good news. Really! The good news! Other good news: We got some actual sleep in the hotel, as we got a suite, as per EVERYONE’S recommendations, and HOO BOY, it was a NEW WORLD up in this piece. Sam slept! We slept! We woke up in the morning without wanting to die! LOOK AT US GO, SMRT PEOPLE THAT WE ARE. WE GOT THE BABY HER OWN ROOM.
JEENYUS.
At any rate, that’s kind of where the good news ends, and don’t get me wrong, it is all good news, and I will take it served hot, with a spoon and with a hearty helping of pleasure. What is not good news is that I lost my wallet somewhere in MetroWest — err, MetroNorth? What is Lexington, anyway? — and I had to go through EVERYTHANG and cancel all my credit cards and get new insurance cards and put an alert on my credit in case anyone tries to steal my identity and BAH BAH BAH. What perfect timing! Tomorrow we get to ride for an hour to visit the DMV so that I can get a new license and begin the process of reconstructing the flexibility I once had. You know, to leave the house by myself with access to money and the ability to drive.
And this was all happening RIGHT before an in-depth, up close and personal examination of my credit history! HUZZAH.
(All seems to be well. Identity secured, precautions taken, etc. Mess with me at your peril, malfeasance-doers!)
We COULD be moving in like, um, a week. Maybe. On the fast end. Which is insane, but it might happen if the movers can’t do anything later and hello, does anyone have a paper bag for me to breathe into? My whole body aches from bending over and packing and dragging boxes through our once-tidy house, and this afternoon, Sam came royally undone as we packed up a good portion of her room, because there we are, putting her precious possessions in boxes and it’s like, what the hell, Mom and Dad? Where my books at? You said that stuff was MINE and you LIED and … oh look! A toy hammer! All is forgiven.
Well. I also packed all the silverware and had no spoon for my coffee this morning and then later, oh HO HO LATER, Adam went on some kind of CLEANING FRENZY and decided, for reasons that still make no sense to me at all, to dump an entire FAMILY-SIZED JUMBO BOX of Hungry Jack instant mashed potatoes (HUNGRY JACK. Is that supposed to be appetizing? Like a hungry … lumberjack?) down the disposal and added water! HOT WATER. As in, he MADE AN ALARMING AMOUNT OF INSTANT MASHED POTATOES IN OUR GARBAGE DISPOSAL! And they expanded! And blocked the sink!
Which, you know, DUH. And for some reason, he insists that he asked me if this was okay and I guess I said yes, but I was distracted at the time, and you know, I didn’t think he’d put the WHOLE BOX DOWN THERE AT ONCE and I don’t even know why he didn’t just pack them or throw them away or … oh, what’s the use in dissecting it all, really. Just imagine, if you will, having this conversation with your husband:
Me: Is it clogged?
Him, exasperated beyond all belief: OF COURSE IT IS. I AM MAKING A BOX OF FUCKING HUNGRY JACK MASHED POTATOES IN OUR SINK.
Oh, hindsight, you are a cruel bitch. A cruel potatoey bitch.
This certainly puts the mild irritation of two-day old apple juice spilling in your diaper bag into perspective, doesn’t it? (Hint: it smells like a bar floor that’s been mopped with Woodchuck. DELISHUS.)
What’s saving me right now? I’m embarrassed to tell you. It’s … it’s the Glee “Power of Madonna” soundtrack, and y’all, I don’t even LIKE Madonna. It’s Jesse St. James, who I now have a futile crush on, and yes, of course I checked and yes, of course he’s gay and as it turns out it doesn’t matter! I crush anyway! And yet, I checked! EVEN THOUGH I AM HAPPILY MARRIED AND HE IS GAY. You see how these things work?
Me neither.
Hey, have a happy Monday!
*Um. I only have it from the Glee cast, so … Glee cast! Rachel Berry! Wait, you mean there’s someone else?
Thanks for all of your comments on my last post about letting friends go. I loved your stories, and I feel significantly less guilty, which is, I think, a good thing. Honestly, it wasn’t until I wrote out the situation to a local friend who doesn’t know the party in question that I saw it all in writing and realized, errrm, yes ma’am, all done!
Unfortunately, it bred a bit of paranoia among myself and a few friends when we started discussing what we found morally repugnant and there were a few e-mails exchanged and one friend, God bless her, submitted a LIST of what she found morally repugnant in the friendship-ending sense and PHEW, aren’t we glad we got that out of the way? Our friendship can resume! (I’m not really kidding about that, because ding dong, paranoia, HII-LLOO!)
I’m so grateful the Olympics are over — not because I didn’t enjoy them, because really, I did — but I have only so much tolerance for watching people hurtle down things at a dangerous speed. I spent the majority of the games feeling vaguely nauseated, with a blanket over my head — particularly the bobsledding, because when that shit flips, those dudes go hurtling down on their effing HEADS. Over! OVER!
While I’m at it, let me also add that I am irrationally irritated by Lindsey Vonn — or rather, the media’s obsession with her. It REALLY bugs me that even in something as seemingly egalitarian as skiing, the pretty one always gets the attention. Frankly, I don’t blame Julia Mancuso if she did snark about Lindsey, because as unfair as that is (it’s not Vonn’s fault), I’ll bet that’s annoying and distracting as hell. It happens everywhere. Looks matter. Everywhere, particularly with women. Hell, even in the blogosphere, where writing is supposed to reign supreme, pretty, photogenic bloggers generally perform better than their ordinary counterparts. Heather Armstrong is an extraordinarily talented writer and blogger, but it’s impossible to pretend that her success is not assisted, at least in part, by her model looks — and I do not mean that to denigrate her talent, for it is very real, just as mere fact.
Bah.
And now! Bullets:
– Book Lushes! Look under the PollDaddy tab on the site, for we’re starting something new: Genres! Themes! THEN picking books! It’s an effort to branch out and keep the selection fresh, as well as pick books with plenty of notice for library-going folks. As soon as I’ve finished the poll, that is. Give me five, yo.
– Sam is saying “HIIIII!” all the time, to everything. To Daddy, the dog, me, the couch, her books, the babies on television. Everything must be greeted with wild enthusiasm, and man, is it ever awesome. She’s also learned how to open her OWN flaps in her peekaboo books, thankyouverymuchMama, and she blows on her food before she eats it, just like I do before I give it to her. The other day, she ate an entire zucchini, sliced up and sauteed with garlic and parmesan and I swear, she would have eaten more of it if she hadn’t already sucked down the whole thing.
While these are simple, mundane details, this is the kind of shit that BLOWS YOUR MIND as a parent. How a small person goes from a little farting blob to a prescient being with food preferences and the ability to verbalize things, however rudimentary, is effing NUTSO. Like an ACID TRIP, I swear to GOD. Not that I would, um, know!
– So the other day, I was watching Regis & Kelly (don’t judge!) (Also, someone please give Kelly Ripa a goddamn CHEESEBURGER already) and Kelly, who annoys the piss out of me, was talking about sheet hygiene, and by that I mean, how often you change your bedsheets. I’m … well, I’m not sure I’m willing to make any admissions just yet, but I WILL say I was comPAHletely aghast when she shared that she (or, you know, her maid, Esmeralda), changes the sheets EVERY OTHER DAY. Am I … is this not excessive? Like, EXTREMELY excessive? Like, EXTREEEEEEMMMMELY excessive? I mean, if you think that’s normal, then, hey! I do, too! I was just kidding!
(OMFG.)
So, erm, how often do you change your sheets, if you don’t mind me asking? And worse, if you have them, your KIDS’ sheets? (OMFG)
I’m alive! I’m ALIVE! Look at me, all TYPING SOMETHING I’M NOT CONTRACTUALLY OBLIGATED TO DO! Or, you know, something that’s not making me miserable. Not that work makes me miserable! Au contraire! I love what I do, really, I do, but there was a bit too many things going on there at once, all DUE at once, and … well, no one needs to hear about any of this, really, except that I have three obvious pro tips for you:
1) There is such a thing as seeing too much True Blood. I had to re-watch the whole show from start to finish. Many times. You want to know what happened in any episode? What Bill was wearing? What Eric was wearing? Oh, just ask me! I’ll tell you in excessive detail! My favorite Eric outfit, if you were wondering, was the zip-up track suit he wore in the department store with some kind of, um, horn around his neck. Oh, it was the first episode where he debuted his new haircut and, wait, where are you going?
2) No matter how much work you have to do, writing in a moving vehicle is ill advised. As is taking no breaks whatsoever (except to Shred) and not leaving the house or seeing your friends or getting your BABY out of the house. If you do what I did, which was to NEVER LEAVE OR STOP WORKING, you find yourself coming completely undone, your baby coming undone and having your husband gently take you aside and suggest that you walk the dog to “see the trees” and get perspective. SEE THE TREES.
3) Again, folks, LEAVE THE HOUSE. TAKE A BREAK. DO NOT BE ME. LEEEEAAAAVVEEE THE HOOUUUUSSSEEE. Twitter is great, but it is NOT meant to be your only form of social interaction. Repeat, Twitter does not substitute for actual human friends and conversation. Like, AT ALL.
So that’s what you missed. My slow descent into madness. I’m slowly clawing my way back to normalcy. I’ll write more normal stuff when I start acting … normal again.
But! I have Book Lushes news! Voting is now open on the next book! Here’s the poll!
When it comes to motherhood/kids, I think I’m pretty reasonable. I get why people don’t have them — really, I do — and it’s a choice I almost made and would have been quite happy with. It’s not for everyone, and there are plenty of people who have children who shouldn’t have, and plenty who want to, but can’t, and that’s impossibly hard. And there are plenty more who just don’t want to, because their life is full with something else, or frankly, they just don’t like kids. Which is totally fine! FINE! I mean it.
And I KNOW that my kid isn’t the center of the universe, and that while *I* think she’s beautiful and smart and interesting and funny, YOU don’t share those sentiments, and with perfectly good reason! She’s NOT YOUR KID! She’s just a kid like every other kid and no single kid is special, or at least, I like to think they ALL are, but not to people who don’t know them. If that makes sense.
HOWEVAH. My kid is a person, you know. So if she’s waving at you and smiling and clearly trying to say “HIII!” to you while you’re standing next to me, acknowledging ME, would it kill you to extend the same courtesy to her? And if she’s in a room with a bunch of adults, just do me a favor and SAY HELLO to her, and acknowledge that she’s IN THE ROOM. I mean, you wouldn’t do that to another grown-up, would you? No one’s asking you to sit on the floor and play with her, but if she’s grinning at you and waving, just SAY FUCKING HI. Yes, yes, I KNOW she’s only a baby, but see also: human being. Plus, this is how she learns how social interactions work. After you say hello, you can go back to your business. You don’t have to make goo-goo eyes at her, you don’t have to wave a toy in front of her, just acknowledge her existence with a simple hello.
I know that sounds like a crazy rant, but it happens all the time! Her little waving arms and a big old “HIIII!” in a tiny, baby-speak voice as she waits for the other person to acknowledge her, and then they just GLARE at her, like she pooped on their shoe, and it’s … it’s rude. Kids aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but they’re still people.
I can’t believe I just wrote that, but it happened yet again in the grocery store today, when Sam waved at the lady in front of us and said “Hi!” (it’s rudimentary, but she’s learning!) and the woman shot her a look that could wilt America’s gardens while saying HELLO TO ME. And it happens like, ONCE A WEEK.
Speaking of Sam, one of her little friends likes her a, um, whole lot, and is always trying to hug her — he’s two and a half to Sam’s 11 months, for reference. While at my girlfriend’s house the other day, he kept lying on top of her, hugging her and kissing her, and once — no, TWICE — he (literally) lured her into his bedroom to lay on top of her some more, and SHUT THE DOOR. Worse, he became angry and agitated when I wanted him to leave it open. And EVERY TIME I OPENED IT, he was on top of her. I know, I know, he’s TWO AND A HALF, but how lame am I that I was all, hey, kid? Stop rubbing yourself all over my daughter and LEAVE THE DOOR OPEN.
Am proving to be not as reasonable a parent as I proclaimed to be at the outset, right? Or is that creepy and I’m being TOTALLY REASONABLE?
And finally, Real Housewives of Orange County. What the everloving FUCK, Lynne? Oh, these women! They’re so awful, every last one of them. Zero redeeming qualities whatsoever. And their KIDS. OH MY STARS. Lynne’s daughters are DISASTERS and she has no idea how to parent whatsoever, my God. It’s just an effing TRAINWRECK all around. A RIVETING TRAINWRECK. And yet? I love them. I love Gretchen so very much, I don’t care if she takes pictures of herself with vibrators up her ass and puts them on the Internet. I LOVE HER. I CANNOT BE CONVINCED THAT SHE IS EVIL.
Happy week! Not sure when I’ll see you again, but I’m sure I will.
I went to Costco today with Julie, and frankly, either one of those things on their own (a visit to Costco OR a visit with Julie) is swoon-worthy and enough entertainment for an entire week, but in combination, hoo boy, it was practically the perfect storm of wonder and delight. Witty banter! Towering 80-packs of K-cups! Giant packages of pregnancy tests placed strategically next to the condoms! A remarkably funny woman to give me a tour! A four-pound container of brownies that my husband has been complaining about all night! (“I wanted ONE brownie, Jonna, not NINETY.”)
See? Perfection. Delight! A BLT for lunch marred only by a briefly choking infant! And then I got in the car, where all hell proceeded to break loose, for it started snowing rather, uh, heavily, shall we say, and just as suddenly, to the point where I couldn’t see the road and my eyes were going all buggy from trying to focus on anything but the snowflakes hurtling toward the windshield. In fact, my eyes are quite literally crossing at the memory, and my heart rate has now elevated to 30-Day Shred levels (speaking of, my right knee is about to stage a coup). I pulled my trembling self to a gas station, where I had a serious conversation with Adam about whether I should stay in the Ho-Hum Motel (note: actual name) until the following day, because I was certain that death! destruction! torment! were all that lay ahead, and we’d NEVER MAKE IT HOME.
And apparently I was RIGHT, for before I knew what was happening, traffic (three cars, whatever) came to a total standstill amid the terrifying whiteout (the LAST THING YOU WANT, as no one can see your stopped car), because there were at LEAST seven cars all skidding off the road, and the next thing I knew there were sirens! stretchers! People ON the stretchers! Crunched cars! Three ambulances! Two fire trucks! POLICE.
(None of the cars were ours. Beebs and I were fine, although one of us was more fine than the other, perhaps because she slept through it.)
And then: sunshine. No snow. Smooth sailing. Whatthefuck. I mean, thank GAWD I didn’t stay in the Ho-Hum, because … HO HUM, you know what I’m saying?
(That line was genius, that. It’s a real shocker that I didn’t make it on Jeopardy, isn’t it?)
Occasionally, like, say, driving in a blinding snow squall, I look back on our years in Florida with a warm, golden affection, and imagine raising Sam near the Gulf of Mexico in a land where it never snows and sixty degrees is considered “cold.” The fantasy is fun for a few minutes, until I am slapped back to the reality that while yes, there is warm sunshine, there are also torrential downpours and lightning close enough to singe your face off. And the grass! Sam would never be able to sit in the grass, because it’s hard as a pile of razor-laden straw AND it is fraught with fire ants that would gladly eat your face off faster than a Fatburger.
And the ocean is great, right? Great, yes, great. It is also teeming with sharks — real ones — and wearing silver is inadvisable during the warmer months, lest you be mistaken for a mackerel. It is also true that shuffling your feet is a necessity from May through October because, oh ho ho HO! it’s stingray season, oh happy day! And what Floridian fantasy is complete without elderly drivers being wheeled away on gurneys as they got in yet another traffic accident at a six-way stop as you sit in traffic, your face melting directly into the pavement? And GAWD, we haven’t even talked about the threat of hurricanes, which is a constant source of anxiety throughout the season, because even if you aren’t hit with one, the weathermen are perpetually full of doomsday predictions about whatever clouds are swirling in the Caribbean on any given day.
Yes, I will take snow squalls and warm fireplaces, thank you very much. Frankly, if not for the driving, I am a winter person. I love winter, so long as I’m properly dressed for it, and have no problem throwing Sam in her snowsuit, packing her into the Ergo, and heading out for a tour of downtown and some errands, no matter how cold it is. Mmmm, cold weather. Snuggly!
To close the loop on the Costco excitement, I walked out with 168 Kirkland diapers, and have high hopes, despite their lack of whatever that little comfort flex thing was on the side of the Pampers that made them seem … comfortable and flexible. (See? Am marketer’s wet dream!)
And in housekeeping news, I will likely be a little on the sparse side next week and the week after, as I finish several LOOOOOOMING deadlines on projects that are due at or near the middle of February. Most of them are not thrilling at all, but one is VERY THRILLING, at least to me, and involves something that people! like you! and my parents! can buy! in a place called a BOOKSTORE! And you can read all about it HERE.
So there was a time, once, when I considered myself to be a smart person. Then, sadly, I took the Jeopardy online test and was rendered a drooling cro magnon, because GEEZUZ, you guys, that shit is HARD. How is it possible that a show — a show I consistently ROCK, I hasten to add — can be so DISCERNING in its search for contestants?
The format is this: they just start THROWING questions at you — oh, excuse me, ANSWERS, which is such Jeopardy bullshit — and you have fifteen seconds to answer them, and oh. Oh dear. I couldn’t even figure out that there were categories until it was too late, and look, I’m just going to say that during one particularly horrific, panic-stricken moment there was a clue about some desert that Chile and Peru are (were?) fighting over, and I misread it as dessert, as in who was claiming … origin, maybe? And I just typed, “CREME BRULEE” because THAT sure sounds Chilean, don’t you think?
What I’m telling you is that you should not expect to look for me on Jeopardy anytime soon, and that if you DO know someone who is on Jeopardy who does not wear a pocket protector and/or spend their entire days studying obscure facts about Russian politicians of the 18th century, you should be in fucking AWE.
CREME BRULEE.
Bullets! Because I am tired:
– LOST is back on next Tuesday for the final season. Lost! LOST LOST LOST LOST. And I am hopeful that it will be fraught with lots of JACOB, because I find Jacob weirdly attractive, even though the first time we were introduced to Jacob — or rather, the actor who PLAYS Jacob — was when he was Rita’s abusive husband in the first (second?) season of Dexter. And it will be, sadly, the last time we see Sayid in character. So much hotness. So little time left.
– Few things seem less pointless to me than giving up caffeine or salt. I realize that for some people, they are unhealthy habits, but you will pry the salt shaker from my cold, dead hands (or when high blood pressure kicks in, whichever comes first) and dude, coffee has ANTIOXIDANTS, no kidding, and the health benefits far outweigh the risks, in my opinion. (And several medical professionals as well.) Further, when I recently saw green tea recommended as a substitute for caffeinated beverages and coffee, it was all I could do not to laugh, because yes, green tea is good for you, but, um, it is caffeinated. Highly so. So while yes, green tea is awesome, I must heartily and happily say that, hey, coffee is, too.
This bullet point sponsored by Keurig. (NOT REALLY.) (I ONLY WISH.) (KEURIG, CALL ME. WILL SHILL FOR K-CUPS.)
– I’ve been holding out on you with my most inappropriate, odd crush, and I can’t keep it in any more. You know those Free Credit Report commercials? With the jingle? And the guy in the, um, mullet? Him. Yes, him. I find him strangely attractive, particularly in the most recent ANNIVERSARY ad, if you will, and … oh forget it, it’s too awful to elaborate on, but yes, Free Credit Guy, this one’s for you.
– An update on the Pampers situation: They gave me my money back. And, uh, frankly, it was a little too easy, which means THEY KNOW. They know the new Cruisers suck and they’re BUYING US OFF. I’m onto you Pampers! I should start a crazy-ass campaign/crusade and act like a total lunatic on Twitter and start a Facebook group and comment in baby forums about how PAMPERS CONSIDERS ME THE ENEMY and … oh, wait.
(Sadly, it’s true. They’re totally buying people off so we don’t flip out on them. Dude, I didn’t even have to give them a RECEIPT to prove what I paid for them. They just fired me off a check, and I didn’t even have to ASK. They were, within five seconds of the call, “Well, let us reimburse you for those diapers!” ORILLY PAMPERS?)
(I’m done with Pampers. Forever. Up yours, PG&E I mean, P&G (wow, someone watched Erin Brockovich one too many times). But you are also totally right that if you DIDN’T reimburse me, things would be even more hideous. Am sheep!)
– Still shredding. Can now move quadriceps, but my calves are still screaming in agony after cardio circuit one and it’s the ONLY THING that will force me to stay at level 1 for the entire month. THE ONLY THING. Well, that, and I’d like to live. That, too.
