Whoohoo! I’m going to Blogher 2006! I’m all up and registered…

Hello 1989. I feel like its the last week of August. School’s about to start! What’s my class going to be like? Who will I sit next to at lunch? Will they like me? What should I wear? What should I pack? I wonder if clickmom will be there? I hope Collie will be there, so I’ll have someone I know, and maybe she’ll sit next to me at recess so I don’t feel so alone in the crowd! Would one of the cardcarrying mommybloggers snub me if I tried to sit at the cool table? omigawsh! whoamigonnaroomwith?

Except that its not the last week in August… school isn’t gonna start next week. Blogher is still 173 days away… and I am already totally consumed, panicked, worried, obsessing, completely friggin freaked out, nervous. I’m paying careful attention to how many days until blogher for, for crying out loud!

This kind of post belongs in the middle of July, a week or two before the conference. Why do I do this to myself? Why does my mind work like this? Why can’t I get off this train of thought? Everyone else posts witty, funny, “Hey, I’m going to Blogher posts” and then they get on with their merry lives. I’m the one who is sitting here with Flubber in my head.

Its not just Blogher, its anything. Horseshows were the worst. Everyone else just showed up and rode their horses. I was the one up at dawn repacking my showbag, cleaning my saddle, reorganizing my locker, and falling all over myself trying to keep up! Whatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatifwhatif?

Ok, good!

Now that I know you’ve googled “roommate for Blogher 2006,” and I’ve got your attention: I’m looking for a roommate (or two or three) for Blogher 2006 in San Jose!

Come on, you know you want to go!!

Yes, I know, the conference isn’t for another 6 months… did I mention I’m a little bit Type A? Planning and looking forward to stuff is half the fun! Hotel rooms are filling up, and I aint paying $75+ per night! I’m registered to attend both days.

Drop me a line!

I had a friend from out of town come to visit me this weekend. While I was waiting for “her,” I wondered: at what point does a blog become a mommyblog? Is it when you start blogging about peeing on little plastic sticks? Is it when you start asking the Internet to refer a good OBGYN? Is it when you slap your official “It’s a…” jpeg on your homepage?

No. Chill out already! This hasn’t become a mommyblog, yet.

When do I get to join the club and start soliciting mommyblogger advice? Is there a junior membership? A mommyblogger equivalent to a Brownie GirlScout?

Today I had to make a decision. Lord help me, I have no idea if it was the right one.

I was surfing “the latest reconnect with friends website,” clicking on links, and flipping through pictures. Each thousand-word-tale was some adventure or party, some perfect day or goofy pose. Its neat to see what each person picks as their shining moment to show the world, the things they are most proud of.

I wandered to the site of a woman who I went to school with but knew only by name. Cute pictures. Cute kid. Each picture accompanied by a comment filled with pride.

They’re the same pictures our parents took of us, and we (will) take of our kids. First missing tooth, first day at school, first yearbook picture. It doesn’t matter who’s kid is in the picture, who took the picture, where it was taken.

When you look at that picture you don’t see someone else’s kid, someone else’s memory. Your mind doesn’t absorb the details of the picture so much as your mind’s eye reaches back through your own memory. The feeling of running your tongue over that first bloody hole in your gum. The day that someone bent down and gave you the gift of your written name on a piece of construction paper cut out in the shape of a pencil. “This is yours. Let me show you, this is the letter…”

I can still feel the paper, wrinkled slightly, and pinned to my shirt.

That’s why we take pictures; to catch that moment. That’s why we share them with others; to help hang on to that emotion which is specific to that time and place. That’s why we stop to look at a picture we don’t belong to; to remember the moments that we do belong to.

I didn’t even see it until after I had gone on to read another website.

I missed the details of the picture I was looking at, because I was lost in the details of my own memory. Big black Sharpie-marker-letters, first name, last name, construction paper, safety pin, big smile, photograph, uploaded on the internet. Mom’s pride and joy.

I had to flip back at the site and stare. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing: First Name, Last Name, Big Smile, posted within one click of the page that listed the city and state that mom (and kid) live in.

The Internet makes the world smaller. Talk to your friend who is serving in the army in Kosovo. Make friends with a penpal in China. Send pictures of your pride and joy to Grandma on the east coast. The Internet brings everyone within your reach, but it makes it difficult to figuratively lock your doors at night.

I was so shocked. I paniced for her! I had to stop myself from yelling out loud at my keyboard to tell her “Look out! You forgot to crop your kid’s name out of this picture before you posted it!” As if I were literally warning her that someone left the swimmingpool gate open.

This is the part where I had to back up and say “Not the Mama!” I don’t know her. Can I email her and scream that the sky is falling? Will she think I’m a stalker? Will I terrify her into changing her phone number, and getting a PO box? Will she think I’m trying to tell her how to raise her kid? Am I being paranoid, assuming something horrible will happen to her kid? Is it really a big deal to post your kid’s picture on a website? Did she intend to crop the name out of this picture, but simply forget? Would she appreciate the reminder? What do I say to her?

Do I really even have the right to say anything?

I sent the email. I guess I’d rather be a stalker than an enabler.

Where are the lines drawn?

UPDATE:
A couple of days later she emailed back and said thanks, then she took the picture down.

Not only does he accuse me of being a blanket-hog, he accuses me of hogging up the middle of the bed!

I woke up this morning with the edge of the bed jabbing me in the side. The only way to roll was off the bed, so I went and got the camera.

Now we all know who the bed-hog really is!

Thanks to the moron, my car has been in the shop since just after Christmas.

DH has been taking me to work. I’ve either bummed rides or taken the bus home for the last two weeks. Taking the bus isn’t for sissys! Apparantly, one needs to know NorthEast from NorthWest in order to find one’s bus stop. Who knew!? I have not completely mastered this skill, so I miss my transfers, have to make friends with strange people who seem to know where they’re going, bla bla bla…

I need to lose some weight. I’m tired, I’m stressed, a ton of stuff going on at work, so this morning was not the morning to start “dieting.” I made a deal with myself, as I was leaving the house at 6:30 a.m., that I would drink my water today. No dieting, no meal planning, no guilt… just drink my water. Baby steps, right?

6:30 a.m.: Chugged 16 ounces of chilled filtered tasty water, and ran out the door.
7:30 a.m.: Half a cup of Really Bad Coffee while waiting for my ride.
8:30 a.m.: Got set up for a conference at work and had another half cup of Really Bad Coffee.
9:00 a.m.: Last night we bought seventy 16 ounce bottles of clean tasty water for todays all-day conference. I can drink water when I’m bored, its just something to do… I’ll get my 6-8 glasses in with no problem.
2:30 p.m.: The conference was boring enough to require a total of 3 bottles of water.
3:30 p.m.: Got a ride with someone who insisted on buying me a soda, because he wanted to stop for one. Sugar and caffiene don’t really count toward “drink water” but: Smile, nod, accept the soda. I asked for an Anold Palmer.

He bought me a 44 oz Arnold Palmer.

I new better. I really did. I put off drinking it. I carried it back to my office, finished working, caught the bus. Had a sip. Changed busses, had a sip. Got bored, had a couple more sips.

Its an hour long bus ride. Half way into it, most of the Arnold Palmer was gone.

—-
30 minutes til my stop: Maybe there won’t be many people to pick up. I’ll make it home.

20 minutes til my stop: I’d get off and use the restroom in Starbucks, but then I’d have to wait an hour for the next bus to come by. I really wish this bus came more than every hour.

15 minutes til my stop: Ohh… that woman walks so slow! Hurry up and sit down so the bus can leave.

10 minutes til my stop: Hmm Hmm Hmm La La Laaaaa. Almost there, almost there, almost there.

5 minutes til my stop: Are we going by any markets where I could get off the bus and go? I could just walk the extra few blocks home! No, of course not! Cockamamie little town!
—-

By the time I got off the bus, I had a nice little plan to run home. Except that I was so full and so cramped, I could barely hobble. Suddenly, this was not a few blocks, but an endless marathon.

I considered backtracking and trying to find a business where I could use the restroom, but the crosswalk signal on this corner is soooooooooooooo slow!

Only one way to go: home.

Its amazing what options I considered while hobbling the last half-mile home.

I could knock on someone’s door: except its late, and I wouldn’t be able to keep the half-crazed look off my face when they answered. I’d probably freak them out.

I could sit down on the curb between two parked cars: except that I’d get arrested if I got caught.

Do I really care if I get arrested at this point? Well, maaaaybe.

I could find a bush, or a side yard, or even a trashcan… darn these endless manicured lawns!!

I wish I was a man; it’d be so much easier to be discrete about this!

Its dark, I’m wearing black pants, I could just pee and do laundry as soon as I get home. No one would know… but I just bought these shoes yesterday…

That house! There’s an ungardened spot in that yard!! I wouldn’t be wizzing on their lawn! But I’d get arrested…

Dark corner, side yard, Retaining wall to hide from one direction of traffic… There! I’ll make a run for it. Darn lights are on… Oh, wait! The lights are on in the BACK of that house! They’ll never see me in the front yard!

GOSH DARN YIPPING DOG!!!! SHUUUUSH! I’m gonna wring your… I’ll get caught.

An alley! PERFECT! It’s not too far!
UUUUUGH! Brake lights, someone’s backing their car out.

Shoot, wasted all those extra steps, now I gotta get back on the path toward home.
—-

At this point I had to pee so bad I grabbed my keys from my purse, just to have something to cling to. I was moving slower, my whole body was cramped, and …

Wouldn’t you like to know what happened? .

We chose this apartment by process of elimination. As in: we eliminated the possibility of living anywhere else located between his office and my office, because its all ghetto! Don’t get me wrong, I love this neighborhood. People cut and water their grass, sweep their porches, decorate for holidays, the whole nine yards.

The few blocks surrounding us are all very pleasant, you know: houses, trees, sidewalks, wherehouses, railroad cars, houses, trees, sidewalks… Oh, wait!

See, that’s the thing. Its an industrial town. Every few blocks there’s the remnants of what used to be a familiar chain super market, ice-cream shop, video rental store. There aren’t enough residents in this town to support the familiar favorites that you can find in a half-mile radius in other suburbs. This is the last Los Angeles suburb that only has ONE “Fourbucks” coffee joint within the city limits. Not that I’m a fan of “Fourbucks,” but come on! Fourbucks is everywhere, why not here?

Where does a 20-something newlywed meet her girlfriends for a chat in this town?

The local cocktail bar with the Grandpamobiles parked out front? I think the secret handshake involves a Pompadour comb-over!

There’s a high school down the street, we could smoke cigarettes and be melancholy behind the gym… except that I don’t smoke!

Like, we could like so totally go hang out at the mall in the next town, that would be like so totally righteous… but I like stopped saying “like” like six times in a sentence when I was like eleven years old. That’s like so like 1987.

Chinese food? Sure, we got that, its the restaurant with the big blue B on the front window! Not the kind of place you take a friend!

There is one thing that this town does right, and that is Mexican restaurants.

So: Who wants to meet me down the street for a hot cup of taquitos?
Nikki, Collie, Martha, Steph, anyone?

Our exotic vacation.