We gave up cell phone reception for the week, but got this instead

I'd say it's a pretty fair trade.

Nope, no news. No pregnancy news at all.

Christina has been looking at my funny for a while, since we arrived for our annual Fresh Air Fund visit to the Fairly Oddmother Massachusetts Compound, summer home for wayward, yard-deprived New York City families. I pour myself a beer at lunch and she is visibly relieved.

"Oh PHEW!" She laughs, "you're drinking!"

I guess now I know - if I go to sleep early, take a nap midday and then turn down a drink, I'm pregnant. Probably because at this very time, four years ago when we stayed here, all those things were true. 

Also maybe because I have Dunkin' Donuts gut this weekend. (A sure way to know you're in New England.)

Now we're off to Maine. I hear lobstahs are $4 a pound.

I can even eat them raw if I want. Because, you know - I'm not pregnant.

BlogHer NYC from a distance

Let's just say, a certain male adult member of my family, the one who sleeps with me at night separated by a flailing three year-old, has come a long way. He once referred to Blogher as Geekdom, sure that my attendance had me one step away from sporting plastic Vulcan ears and keynoting a Trekkie convention.

This year he referred to the conference as Spring Break.

There were aspects of the weekend that were of course, a social cut above your average lying on the couch at home watching reruns of The Soup. Indeed, there were taquitos consumed in Soho with friends; there was champagne raised in toasts; there was enviable celebrity contact;  there were parties attended and parties blown-off; there was a Cool Mom Picks v Mamapop Dance-off complete with gory video evidence.

 Christina, Julie, Betsy, and I walk like Egyptians, and the entire mid-18th Egyptian Dynasty turns over in their graves.

Does that look like Spring Break?

Probably.

I can see where anyone reading my tweets or stalking my facebook photos might think so too. It's easy to break off from a dance floor and tweet some bit of goofiness that you witness.

What's hard is trying to describe (in 140 characters or less) the liberating, essential, soul-restoring feeling of letting completely loose for the first time in ages to dance like no one is watching. Despite the fact that everyone is watching and most have cameras.

Thanks for the photo Miss Grace. Thanks for only laughing at me somewhat, Jessica. 

What's hard is describing the moments (in 140 characters or less) that have nothing to do with 80's hits  or lounges designed to look like Big Macs. Because when you're profoundly in those moments, you're not always stopping to write about them.

What's hard is describing just what the conference is. 

Because it's sort of like summer camp. And a sleepover party. And the mafia. And a writers workshop. And The Oscars. And a playdate. And a tech conference. And a soap opera. And an artist colony. And an OB/GYN waiting room. And one of those weird retreats where people camp out in the woods and hug every time someone blows a whistle, or something.

The thing is, as I write about it now and I look at my words, it's hard to prove to someone that it isn't Spring Break at all. It's not as if I walked away from the weekend with six signed contracts, a head full of statistics, or a worksheet on Search Engine Optimization.

Because see, that's not the stuff that brings 2400 people together for a weekend, forsaking their families and their jobs and the premiere of Real Housewives of DC. Well, it might be. But even the SEO geniuses who I know and the tech geniuses and the entrepreneurs and the published best-selling authors come for something else.

Swag.

(Just kidding.)

They come to Blogher for community.

And God, I know that sounds so touchy-feely. So horribly girlie and intangible and weird and not like a real professional goal at all.

Which is exactly the point.

Which is exactly why, I think, Lisa and Jory and Elisa made this thing. And why we come.

Women do things differently. And in our world, community is not less important than PowerPoint, and hugging a reader for the first time is not less important than exchanging business cards.

Which is why at Blogher, what I learned wasn't projected on a screen. The learning I got came from panelists who made me think about how and why and what I blog. It came from spontaneous hallway conversations of both the deep and shallow variety. Or a cocktail party conversation that makes me think over the direction of my life.

It came from hugs and handshakes that helped me understand people I'd never have met any other way in my life. It came from a room full of like-minded women, talking politics with Senator Gilibrand for a half hour just when I needed a strong reminder that there are still people out there fighting the good fight on our behalf and maybe I should be more too.

 Photo: Julie Pippert, fellow Momocrat

And it certainly came from the community keynote.

I was honored to have been selected to read in the very first one in 2008 (not the kind of essay you might expect, by the way) and maybe I'm biased in my blind support for anything Eden Kennedy does ever. But I feel the need to say that anyone who skipped it, as about half the conference attendees did, because you were at some brand-sponsored off-site party, or trying to spin a wheel on the conference floor to win a free coupon for diaper wipes, you missed something profoundly more valuable.

You missed supporting your community, as they reach into their souls and screwed up the courage to share some of the brightest, funniest, bravest, most thoughtful, most talented, most profoundly moving, most honest, and most awe-inspiring, life-changing essays.

They are the reminder why I love blogging. They are the reminder that for the most part, the community of women who blog is one that builds itself up, not  tears itself down. They are the reminder why I try to keep my Twitter stream full of inspiration and humor and insight, and relatively free of branded hashtags and infighting. They are the reminder that behind the words on the screen are people.

So thank you, to all of you Blogher Voices of the Year, for giving that to me. Thank you to everyone I met or re-met or connected with in any way at all (and forgive me for not linking you all) for giving that to me.

When it comes down to it, I think so much of what you learn at Blogher is about yourself. That is, if you want to.

Is there any greater gift to us as writers?

And yes, the dancing part is important too.

The way to a writer's head is through her face

Everyone at work makes fun of me for my "writing faces." (Oh, the joy of an office with a huge glass sliding door.)

I can't help it. When I write, I act out the words. I feel the dialogue. I internalize the stories and out it comes on my face. Whether I'm writing a blog post about my deepest darkest thoughts, dry legal disclaimers, or a headline that I've been told must somehow incorporate the words "absorbent," "happy" and "life-changing."

Here's what you would see should you pass my office at any given moment on the way to the coffee machine.

Warning: These are actual unretouched faces. Not necessarily safe for work, pregnant women or small children who frighten easily.

That copy sucks.

That copy is awesome.

I cannot possibly think of one more synonym for "fresh."

Wait! That could totally...nope. Nope, that's bad. That's not even English.

 What's funnier? Penguins or Guinea Pigs?

Oh shoot. I forgot about ferrets. Ferrets are always funny.

How much does blogging pay again?

Wait a minute...

Oh, hey. That works.

In defense of the Park Place Community Center for Performing Arts that people keep calling a Mosque

Rather unfortunately, I got sucked into a Mosque/Ground Zero debate on a friend's Facebook page last night. Even though it's not a mosque. Even though it's not at Ground Zero.

But then, the "Park Place Community Center for Performing Arts That's a Lot Like the 92 St Y" doesn't present the same political grandstanding opportunities now, does it.

The one comment in the thread that really sucked me in was something along the lines of If you were in New York on 9/11 you'd feel differently.

I was in New York on 9/11. We all know friends who were there or friends who lost family, or friends who nearly missed being there by some divine stroke of Not Your Time Yet. It's six degrees of Ground Zero around here, and everyone has a story.

I still live in New York, paying New York City taxes and taking a subway to work, making fun of the tourists in Times Square, wearing black in the summer, and staring from my building roof at the gaping hole that was the Twin Towers.

The way I see it, none of that gives me some sort of Get Out of the First Amendment Free card.

None of that gives any of us the right to create some sort of Intolerance Perimeter around downtown Manhattan.

(Besides, if we were to pick one state-sanctioned religion around here, you totally know it would be Judaism. Duh.)

I have a friend at work who lives right next door to the proposed community center. She's informs me there's already an underground Islamic center there, and that it's been there for ages. No one cares, no one complains. What they don't like however, are the FOX News trucks now camped outside their building which invite the wackos and the bible-wavers and the bizarre protesters shaking their fists at that stupid freedom of religion thing in the name of democracy! Now let's go get a lap dance at the Hallowed Ground of 9/11 Strip Club next door.

Something tells me our country would be a more peaceful place with more Muslim Community Centers and less FOX News.

----

Edited to add: Want to read a perspective from my friend above? Here's her husband's blog. The photo will flip you out.

Men are from Wars...

Last night I dragged myself through the front door, exhausted after an 11-hour day the office. (One of course filled with nothing but happiness and magic kittens and singing cartoon bluebirds tweeting sweet sounds of encouragement and praise into my ears all day.) I was too late for the kids.

I kissed the sleeping Sage on the forehead, and Thalia and I squeezed in one tight, heartfelt hug in the dark before she flopped down and went back to bed.

I slumped onto the living room couch and threw my feet up onto the coffee table, breaking out the laptop and enjoying a glass of cool Albarino and the silence but for the tapping of my keys.

At which point Nate thought it was a fine time to hook up the Wii and turn on MODERN WARFARE II, filling the house with sounds of MACHINE GUNS and PEOPLE SCREAMING and GRENADE FIRE and DEATH AND CARNAGE ARGGHHHHHHH.

"You know," I said. "Those aren't exactly the most relaxing sounds to come home to. They're not quite filling me with the serenity and and peace I would hope for right now."

He didn't hear me. He was too busy yapping into his bluetooth headset to long-distance teammates, and wondering whether the player named BrooklynDaddy was someone he already knows or should be BFF with. So they could bond. Over Brooklyn and daddying and DEATH AND CARNAGE ARGGHHHHHHH.

So I grabbed my wine and went into the bedroom. And turned on the small TV.

Because the sound of nasal-y New Jersey housewives fighting in high-pitched voices over who pulled whose hay-uh? Now that is the civilized way to unwind.

Outgrowing Elmo

I visited a dear friend when Thalia was about two. The friend also had a daughter the same age, and a five year-old too. I made some sort of pandering Elmo reference to the little girl as we tried to get her to eat her apple sauce.

"Oh, she's over Sesame Street," my friend said. "That won't work."

"How can a two year-old be over anything?" I asked, more shocked than judgy. Or maybe a little more judgy than shocked. It's hard to say. I was shocked. (And judgy.)

"Because her sister is onto Dora. So that's that."

That exchange stuck with me all these years. And I remember thinking (judgily) how sad--that little two year-old, robbed of her furry monster-loving, innocent toddler years in exchange for a slicker, flashier, animated romp with a fat-headed girl with no sense of color coordination, whose absentee parents allow her to traipse across the Mexican countryside by herself.

No Sesame Street by preschool? Outgrowing Ernie and Bert in your first 24 months on this planet? Sounds like communist business to me.

Enter: 2010.

Oh, hello irony. Nice to meet you. Thanks for punching me in the face.

The guy in the giant Elmo suit outside the Central Park zoo on Saturday scared the crap out of Sage, and she hardly knows the difference between Abby Cadabby and Zoe. Poor guys never stood a chance, what with Dora ruling the TV by declaration of Queen Thalia. Who herself is already close to outgrowing the Noggin crew, as she's now flirting with the world of Discovery Kids and Cake Boss.

(And yes, I see my girls' growth in terms of TV watching and pop culture references. Got a problem with that?)

Other five year-olds are starting to say things like "Dora is for babies," and no doubt, in time one will say it to Thalia and that will be the end of that.

I have to admit, it all makes me a little wistful.

So in a way, as much as that high-pitched, too-loud cartoon voice makes me a little twitchy, I'm okay that my daughters continue to be in love with the over-excited explorer girl. I sort of liked that Thalia was so excited for Dora's Big Birthday Somehing-or-other Super Special One Hour Show That's Probably Not that Special on Sunday, that she drew a picture of Dora with the number 8 as a "memo" to herself to remind herself to tune in. I like that she's proud that she knows how to say estrella and vamanos, and I think it's sweet hearing Dora implore, Say map! and knowing my girls still answer back without hesitation.

I also kind of liked that the biggest debate in our home last night was an knock-down, drag-out fight (between Thalia and Sage, not me and the girls) about whether Boots is a boy.

Sage said no.

Let me tell you, some of you people on Twitter must have some very interesting gender discussions in your home.

 

Thanks Michelle, Laura, Julie, Magda, Catherine, Danielle, and Abby for reminding me that kids are cute and awesome and perfect just the age they are.

And that we're not the only family that spends far too much time watching Noggin.

The last deposit

Yesterday morning I deposited a check. Not a big check, but enough that you wouldn't want to lose it. Enough to do some good in the girls' college fund some day.

Enough to make me cry.

Every year around this time, I deposited a check that looked a whole lot like this one; a  check for $25 that warranted a long distance thank you call to Florida, along with some explanation of what wonderful things I would do with it.

"I'm going shoe shopping!" I'd tell my grandmother, never elaborating that I'd need a full $200 more for the heels I had my eye on. "I'm taking myself out for a nice lunch!" I'd say. "I've been craving a great bowl of pasta and I know just the place." I could always her her lips crinkle up in a big smile from the other end of the phone. I could hear her eyes sparkle. I could hear the joy that came from setting aside some of her limited fixed income to send her grandchildren a birthday check, enveloped in a card purchased 10 for $6 at Publix.

There were the years that I desperately needed the $25 to pay my rent, but I never told her that. There were the years I didn't need the $25 at all, but I never told her that.

I considered it once, but I remember my mother's wise words: You don't need the money, but she needs to give it to you.

Momsie has been gone 7 months now, but the hurt and longing still spring up at certain moments--a bit of good news I wish I could share, a TV appearance that would make her so proud, a new job, a new milestone for the girls. They mention her too from time to time.

"Who are members of our family? Mommy. Daddy. Grandpa. Grammye. Grandma. Papa."

"And Momsie!" Sage adds, brightly.

Yes. And Momsie.

Funny how sometimes you feel the absence of a person more than you can feel a presence. It's like physics f*cking with you. A universal practical joke.

Next month there will be no birthday check, of course. It's all gone now, her tiny estate (such a funny term) divided up among the grandchildren. The stash of cheesy, sentimental birthday cards are gone too, and with them, the blue ballpoint xoxo love you, Momsie. With them, the phone calls to Florida, the crinkly smiles and sparkly eyes.

There was only this, the very last check.

I signed the back and fed it into the ATM slot, feeling my hands shake and hot, wet tears starting to form behind my eyes. Her name was on the check, but not in the signature. Only in the memo.

My totally surreal Blogher weekend, complete with blurry iPhone photos! Part I

This was one of those weekends after which I stepped out of my body, looked at myself and thought, how did I get here? Then I put on a giant white suit and smacked myself in the forehead a few times.

(Sorry, 80's humor.)

I don't think I can get through it all in one post, what with me actually having work to do, children to see, and the undue influence of Metro Dad, Bossy, Miss Grace, Laid Off Dad, and their good friend Vodka with a Splash of Cranberry But Not Really to sleep off.

So let's just start with Thursday. And just the surreal moments. Or you'll be here all day.

Thursday 6:45 AM
Town car shows up to whisk me to my Today Show appearance. My as in me. On the Today Show. Talking to the gorgeous, gracious Meredith Viera about cool back to school picks from the Cool Mom Picks Back to School Shopping Guide. The professional hair and makeup was so fabulous, I didn't wash my hair for the rest of the weekend, as 2400 Blogher conference attendees can attest. Watch the clip here.

Photo: Alicia Ybarbo. Hair: Definitely not me.

Oh my God, my head is big.
Photo: Emily McKhann

Friends in the control room being supportive. That I know of.

Isabel, Emily, Kristen, Catherine

I'm not sure exactly what part was more surreal - getting my hair done next to Jean Chatsky (who I have a huge girl crush on); smelling Ree Drummond's yummy beef live and in person (that's not a euphemism); knowing some of my best friends in the world were sending me "don't throw up on live TV" vibes from the control room; or spending time in the green room with The Real Housewife of I Crashed the White House.

Hi. I'm the stumpy one on the right.

2:30 PM
I start checking into the Hilton with my roommate Christina (who has a fancy new .com domain!) and realize I pretty recognize no one on line besides Amalah. Considering this is my fifth Blogher conference, that means whoa, there are a hellalot of people here.

And come to think of it, I didn't recognize Amy at first either, what with the pretty new red hair.

5:04 PM
I have been at the hotel for 2.5 hours now and there is no drama. Where is the drama, people? Everyone is being nice to each other and hugging and generally having fun. The only drama took place on an Air Canada flight the night before and had nothing to do with swag or Crocs or fist fights in a bowling alley.


I think to myself, the hatahs will be distraught.

5:05 PM
Hijacked an illegal Town Car with Kristen, Asha, Tina. Hey, it was rush hour. And we were in heels.

Blurry iPhone photo as promised. I'm a woman of my word.

5:40 PM
A champagne toast with some of my favorite peoples.

Laura and Maggie, whose nice camera takes non-blurry photos.

Jenny Lawson reinterprets the champagne toast in her own inimitable Bloggess kind of way.

No idea at all what's happening here, but I saw it in Maggie's set and it is definitely surreal, so I grabbed it.

7:31PM
Dinner with some of the coolest people on the planet; too many to link here. Photos too blurry even for this post. And some really spicy crab taquitos.


11:31PM
Prostitute in the Hilton lobby bar. Or wait - maybe a sophmore from college with her great-uncle and his best friend heading out to uh...something. I'm thinking a late night backstage meet and greet with the cast of Wicked? And she just so happens to be wearing drag queen boots? Maybe that's how the kids are dressing at the U of Ohio these days.

---

Next post: Two wardrobe malfunctions, the dance-off of the century (complete with scary video), misinterpreted tweets, celebrity contact, and a United States Senator. Not all together.

So, how was your weekend?

Best Blogher Swag Idea Ever

I would imagine that this weekend at the Blogher conference, we will be showered with our share of laundry detergent samples, notepads, pens with corporate logos, makeup in unflattering shades, and if we're lucky, a flash drive or twenty.

Forget that. Last week in Aruba, my co-worker emerged from a pharmacy with the single most awesometastic item ever.
 

Formula Arabe PLUS 

(Not to be confused with the regular Formula Arabe)

I haven't the slightest idea which corporate sponsor might be willing to distribute such fabulousness, or why 2400 women might be interested in owning a bottle (ahem) but I'm dying to see it in a goodie bag for the package copy alone.

YOU CAN BE A SURPRISE IN THE BED
FOLLOW THESE ADVISE:


1. Do not use alcohol in excess or any other drugs before a sexual act.
2. Never iniciate a sexual encounter, after a strong meal. You'll end up tired and in bad humor, you may have the risk of death.. 
3. After a satisfing sexual encounter, relax, keep silent for a few minutes, keeping this way you'll recover quicky for another sexual encouter. If you take a few deep breaths the act you'll recuperate quickly.
4. If you have a fight with your sexual partner, or you are not in the move, then you must wait until you problems resolved before you have another sexual encounter so that it can be satisfing.
5. Remember the golden rule : Be gentle whilemaking love, being gentle doesn't mean you are gay.

Words to live by.

So what do you think, sponsors? P&G? Nikon? Liberty Mutual? Anyone?