Rooful.

Blogher 2006.

I've been reading references to this conference, here and there, for years now. It seems to have gone down in the annals of women bloggers of a certain stripe as "The Year that Was." Which is gratifying, since I was there.

I've written of this often enough that I'm consciously self-cannibalizing, but bear with me: I started blogging in July of 2005. After months of reading blogs, I wanted to be part of the community I could see through my computer screen. More than wanted-- I yearned. Eventually, I was. I had a small but expanding circle of blog friends. We all read each other's work regularly, let our own writing, our styles and subject matters, be shaped by each other.

Bit by bit my readership was growing-- and my confidence in myself as a writer with a unique voice, and thoughts that others might want to share. I was doing work I genuinely thought was worthwhile. I wanted to take a spin at putting myself out there. I wanted to be read more.

What better way to do that than by going to a blogging conference, where so many of the bloggers I admired would convene, along with many of my new internet friends, who knew me in some ways better than anyone in my Real Life?

There was a rub, of course. I wrote, then as now, anonymously. I don't know if I'd even posted pictures of my face at that point.

Writing anonymously... it's a sort of mental jujitzu I perform, to allow myself to write the things I care about without self-censoring.

Putting my face, and my real voice, up alongside my text, was a risk.

I went anyway, though one of the ways my fear of being revealed played itself out was that I made no business cards, or did any of the sort of work to really capitalize on the self-promotion that was arguably one of the main reasons I went.

Still, I met some wonderful women, and had those searching, connected, insightful, magical conversations that happen when you meet people who really get you, and you drink and smoke and stay up too late together. The sort of connections that become harder and harder to come by, the further you are from your early twenties.

I'm so glad I went.

Despite my subconscious attempts to sabotage my own self-promotion, I did make new connections at Blogher. I came back from the conference to a website that was getting hundreds of hits a day, and comments by the dozens-- a geometric increase in the traffic I'd had before the conference.

It was a little terrifying, actually. I found it really hard to write, knowing so many people were watching-- particularly since many of them knew who I really was.

I was trying to find a new balance. But I came back from Blogher just days before starting my big new job at the Opera. The job that consumed me. The job that left me, three years later, reeling from political intrigue and long hours and poor health, primed to dive off the deep end.

I had to take down my old blog. I felt like Abraham, minus the angel.

Well, that sounds melodramatic. I broke my own heart, taking down that blog. But I did it anyway.

I wandered blogless for a while. But I felt unmoored. Strange. This particular form of writing and socializing is part of me, part of my life. Even though it's so damn unfashionable these days.

Because that's the thing-- a personal blog... It's just not done, anymore. At least, not much, and not by many.

It's taken me a long time to get back into the swing of blogging on a semi-regular basis (and I do fear that typing that sort of thing will frighten the writing part of my brain into hiding-- but I'll risk it.) I don't think I write as well as I used to. I'm working on it-- and maybe I'm just experiencing some sort of shift in style-- but when I read through my archives, I'm forced to confront the fact that what I write now is simply... it's not crafted, the way my work used to be. I write, and I put it out there, because if I don't let myself just crank it out without too much judgement I'm afraid I won't write at all.

Which brings me to the other big shift since those halcyon days of Blogher '06-- so many of the bloggers I love, that I looked up to, simply aren't writing anymore. I've dropped some links from my blogroll, but others I've kept up, for reasons of stubbornness and denial and... wistfulness. Where did you go, Mama Tulip? And Nancy, the best commenter in the Blogosphere-- I miss you and your goofy humor and your girls. Meghan, at I'm A'Blogging-- I still remember the connection I felt with you, over Toklas cookies and shared childhood trauma. And some other ladies I met at the conference still have blogs, but lives that don't let them write much-- which I understand (boy, do I understand), but I still miss their virtual presence. (I hope you all know who you are!)

My circle of blog friends is small, and in some ways is getting smaller. I treasure the readers I have now (that sounds overstated, but I mean it sincerely.) But it's harder to branch out these days, to find new people to get to know. I suspect that people who keep personal blogs aren't as likely as they once were to venture beyond their established traffic patterns. And I think most people who might once have kept personal blogs now hang out on Facebook.

I don't have a Facebook page. Maybe I'll eat these words one day, but at the moment I feel active contempt for Facebook. I think it's creepy and totalitarian. And the Facebook policy on posting images of breastfeeding women enrages me-- particularly when, from what I hear, pornographic images, though also against the rules, frequently get a pass.

Didn't the site start as a way for entitled college douches to rate the looks of coeds?

Maybe not. I've decided that that's true, and added it to the hopper-full of reasons to hate Facebook.

Another is that I value longform writing (some might say that's just a cover for rambling, but... there you go.) Blogs allow for the whole panoply of writing formats-- from tweet-like updates to chapter books-- and graphics and video, to boot. They're flexible. They're not prescriptive. They can accommodate whatever level or breadth of thought you want to commit to them.

This last bit reads like the sort of inspirational encomium to blogging I might have heard at that conference six years ago. I feel like there's a little version of me in the back of my mind, with her hair down to her waist, wide-eyed and eager, secure in her sanity, holding up a cigarette lighter and swaying in the dark by the pool.

Well, hey. I've quit smoking since then. That's something.

Only 27.

I spent a few hours today rubbernecking the choice bit of internet drama described here. The main issue was plagiarism, which caught my interest, since that subject has been on my mind of late.

I also happen to be a long-time fan of the plagiarist's victim-- though she's certainly not acting very victimish. Her rebuttal of the plagiarist's half-hearted, back-handed apology was written with gentle humor and class. Read it here if you haven't already.

I shared it with J a few minutes ago. This line from the "apology" caught his attention: " I am now just 27 and learning everyday as I grow how to avoid these mistakes in the future."

He said, "Does this woman have no concept of the vast number of luminaries that completed their entire body of work by the time they were 27? Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Robert Johnson (the best blues guitarist of all time)..."

Yes, 27 is kind of famous for being the pinnacle year of adulthood-- at least in terms of creative endeavor.

I guess the plagiarist never heard of the 27 Club. Which is only slightly more surprising than the notion that a professional mommyblogger would not only plagiarize but would have the unmitigated gall/stupidity to rip off one of the most widely loved and widely read bloggers in the mommyblogosphere-- and what's more, to do it on a website where they were both on staff.

I'd like to write something witty about the plagiarist's chances of joining the ranks of Forever 27 were misfortune to come her way-- but I can't find a phrasing that doesn't sound malicious. I don't wish her harm.

And I don't agree with Billy Joel re-- the good, and dying young.

I do think there would be pleasing poetic resonance if her writing career were dead at 27-- and she had to confront the fact that the best words she ever wrote were written by someone else.

In case you were wondering...

I didn't pass.

Time to figure out what's next.

But why Charles?

Were any of you wondering?

I need to frame this discussion. Where I grew up, a little less than an hour outside Boston, there was a local television station that filled up its hours primarily with rebroadcasts of Taxi, Cheers, and M*A*S*H. Every day, after my paper route and before dinner (and Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune-- which we watched while we ate) I took in a couple episodes of the life and times of the 4077.

Even before that, I used to listen to the strains of the theme song, "Suicide is Painless," drifting up (well, blasting) through the floorboards to my sister's and my room, back when it was still an original series that aired after my bedtime. (There are a couple themes I feel close to for that reason-- the one from "Hill Street Blues" is another. I used to play them both on the piano. Badly.)

J's experiences with the show were similar. It's rare that we see an episode we don't remember. And considering the series ran longer than we've been married, that's saying something.

I don't know what it says about us, or the current state of basic cable, that a show that's been in syndication since we were in elementary school is still frequently the most appealing thing on.

So, I thought I'd explain why, when I said J would be Charles Emerson Winchester were he a character on the show, he accepted it with little demur. Not to mention why I saw that connection in the first place.

Because it doesn't seem like a flattering comparison, does it? After all, Charles came on to the show to replace Frank Burns as the annoying roommate in the Swamp. But Charles is no officious buffoon or sycophantic climber. He's a Boston Brahmin, of the first order. He doesn't care about military rank-- he's a legacy from Harvard Medical School.

He's a snob. You can tell, because he sways a finger in the air while he listens to concert music on his portable turntable. You can tell, because he will tell you himself. He's an elitist and he feels no shame for it.

Americans generally don't cotton to someone like that. But there's something brave about a person who's willing to assert that what he likes is better than what other people like-- and here's why. There's something attractive about someone who fully owns his sense of taste.

I'm not saying Charles and J like the same things-- just that they share a sense that there are finer things, better things, that are worth valuing, and worth holding out for. And they can be equally sharp in their dismissal of things that don't hit the mark.

These are things I'm talking about here-- I'm not talking about a dismissal of people. Because neither of them do. Charles... I think Charles gets lonely at camp, because there are so few people to talk to that take an interest in things he cares about. Every now and then he'd encounter someone who really excited him-- a woman who surprised him by playing Rachmaninoff, when he'd thought she only did the boogie woogie. Someone who knew how to appreciate an exceptional meal...

And Charles cares very deeply about his patients. In marked contrast to Frank Burns, Charles is an exceptional surgeon. In his very first episode, though, we see how that excellence is Charles' particular cross to bear.

He's scrubbing his hands. People tell him to get a move on. He informs them, "I do one thing. I do it very well. And then I move on."

But this isn't Massachusetts General. This is Korea. This is meatball surgery.

Charles gets knocked down to size. And that costs him, in that particular respect, much more than any of the other surgeons. Consider Hawkeye, writing letters to his doctor father back in Crabapple Cove, Maine. Hawkeye is a good doctor, a very compassionate one. But don't you think he was cut out to be the local doc? The county GP who delivers babies and sets broken bones and occasionally gets paid in bushels of corn?

Not Charles. Charles became a surgeon, because that was his way to be an artist.

He's very frank about it, in an episode that is my favorite Charles episode by far. A young man in his care had suffered a blast, and Charles tells him with pride how he was able to save the man's leg (I get the sense, watching this, that few of the other doctors would have had the skill, or would have taken the time in the rush of casualties, to do so.)

The man doesn't care about his leg, though. He can't move his fingers.

Three fingers on the right hand were paralysed. Charles assures him, "It will look perfectly normal."

But the young man doesn't care. He was a concert pianist. His life is ruined.

Charles tries to bring the man out of his despair. He orders some sheet music of Ravel's compositions for the left hand. But that's just a token, to open up a discussion about art and music and identity.

Charles tells him how long he tried to learn to play well. "I could play the notes, but there was no music. I didn't have that gift. I have hands that can make a scalpel sing. But music... isn't in the hands. It's in the brain. It's in the heart."

Ah, I'm paraphrasing here. But this scene makes my heart break for both of them.

Charles enjoins him to remember he can compose. He can conduct. He can teach. He can write.

Slowly, the man begins to play. Then he starts to play with more confidence.

Charles watches him, with wistfulness. Then the music leads him to something that looks like transcendence.

Charles Emerson Winchester is a beautiful man.

That's why I could see my husband in him.

Ba-leeted!

Or-- The End of the 30/60 Rule.

There's this advice column/blog that I discovered shortly before X-mas, tailored towards wordy nerds with poor social skills. And I really liked it. I thought the author was smart and witty, and gave cogent, sensible advice that I frequently found useful.

(I should note: I still do think those things.)

It was a blog crush, I guess. Any of you ever have one of those?

At any rate, I decided to email her a quick "I'm really enjoying your blog" love-note-- which isn't really in character for me, but seemed to go with the culture of her site, which has a nicely-integrated social group of commenters/fans.

At the time, I was really feeling lousy about my body ( I posted here about it.) I'd gotten all kinds of snarky comments, from strangers, and even from a guest in my home. So when she had a post about dieting, and how sick everyone there was of listening to people talk about their diets, and fat acceptance and such, I decided to share some of what I was thinking. Well, it ended up being kind of a brain-dump about what I was thinking-- wanting to accept my body the way it was, wanting other people to treat me well no matter my size, but still wanting to stay healthy and fit and so forth.

I'd have just deleted it elsewhere, but here comments regularly were five or six paragraphs long-- and it was late in the thread, so I wasn't worried about derailing the main discussion. Plus readers frequently posted personal anecdotes, and if mine was a little anxious and weird, well-- it was on a site that was for anxious and weird people.

Plus, I really needed to talk about it.

And she deleted it, along with another person's post, because the letter-writer in the OP didn't need to hear about my body issues. Fair enough, though many, many people in the thread, including the blog author, already had discussed their body issues. The difference was that I talked about wanting to lose weight, because I'd seen how obesity created huge health problems for my parents.

Later, the blogger emailed me back to thank me for my little note, and when I apologized for making an awkward comment right out of the gate, reminded me again that American culture and the diet industry were working to control my thoughts about size.

Well. Yes. I guess they are, to a point. Doesn't change that being fat has health repercussions. But I agree, there are many things people do that are unhealthy that don't earn someone the kind of disdain being fat does. And that's not fair or right.

But. Can I tell you how mortified I was to have made that comment that got deleted? And THEN, I felt worse, because not only did I feel bad for being fat, I felt bad for feeling bad about being fat, because now I was just participating in this culture of oppression.

I ended up writing several blog entries of my own, trying to work out those feelings-- and sort of hoping she would see I'd taken her words to heart (I knew she read my blog from time to time).

Ugh.

I still enjoyed her site, but I found myself getting nervous every time I posted, because I didn't want to be found unacceptable again. I'd keep checking back, to make sure no one had taken offense.

The fuck? Why was I acting like this? I know, I had a crush on her whole little blog community, and I wanted to be a part of it.

Anyway, the other day there was a letter from a writer who wanted to be sensitive towards a co-worker who has bipolar-- a co-worker who is very difficult to work with.

One commenter griped about a former co-worker of her own who'd had BP. Then, in a second-comment afterthought (or at least that's how it read to me) said something to the effect of: " Don't worry, not all people with bipolar are terrible in the workplace."

I admit, I'm sensitive on this point. I wrote, "Well, that's generous. Just most of them?"

Later on in the thread, I commented on the letter-writer's description of her own behavior-- mentioned my own diagnosis, gave her big props for sensitivity, reinforced that she'd been right to enforce boundaries regardless of the co-worker's illness, and so forth. So, I didn't just drop into the thread to snark and then disappear.

Anyway, I finally braced myself to check back today, and that first comment had been deleted.

Fine. It's her blog-- she can delete whatever she wants. But man, did I just hit my limit in terms of my willingness to put myself out there to be judged.

Actually, I would have been okay with being judged. I could have dealt with an angry response, or an email asking me to explain myself.

But this-- Nope. Not acceptable. You're disappeared.

In retrospect it shouldn't surprise me that a woman who gives advice as a hobby might be pushy and opinionated, and in this case her opinion is that deleting comments is the way to keep things civil.

Fine.

In fact, I just followed her advice, and deleted her column from my blogroll.

And I feel great.

The plan.

I've been selling off stuff I don't need, to try to rid my house and my brain of extra clutter, and maybe make a little dough while I'm at it. It's fun. I used to work at a flea market when I was in high school, and I'm enjoying polishing up my bartering skills.

Some of the stuff is clothes. I'm thinking particularly of some of my cocktail and evening-type dresses. I really felt beautiful wearing them. But my life doesn't include holiday galas anymore, and even if it did, they don't fit. Really don't fit. I'm probably 30 or more pounds away from them fitting.

I've been at this weight before. It's been a long time, though. And the first time through, the pounds were distributed more generously through bust and booty. Now it sits in my lap. Literally. I rest the Sprog on my tummy, not my legs.

My relationship with my body is a little strange these days. Six or seven years ago (maybe longer) I started losing weight. Then there was a while I was running pretty much every day, and I lost even more weight, and felt trim and capable.

Then I started to get sick, and I really lost weight. Too much weight, I think, though I was still brushing the bottom end of healthy BMI for my height.

Then I went to the hospital, and put on some weight-- forced sedentary lifestyle, cafeteria eating. And then I was put on some medicines, and started gaining weight like... I don't know. Like a person on that medication, I guess. Forty pounds in three months.

Then I got pregnant, which was fabulous! And everyone told me that I didn't really need to eat for two, since one of us was so tiny, but I did it anyway, because I loved my big round belly, and I felt beautiful and I was hungry ALL THE TIME.

Well, the Sprog is three months old today. He's doubled in size since birth, while I've lost, oh...about twenty-five pounds since then. But that still puts me a fair amount above where I was when I found out I was expecting.

And I'm unhappy about that. Maybe I shouldn't be. I know I wouldn't pass judgment on someone else for looking like me. It's hard to extend that same generosity to myself.

And then there's the fact that I'm overweight. Medically speaking, I mean. Which is something I take seriously, since I've seen the people I love plagued by too many of the health problems that come from being heavy-- hypertension, high cholesterol, plantar fascitis, edema, sleep apnea, adult-onset diabetes, failing joints...

Blech. Anyway, I've decided to take some steps. I'm not going crazy with some intense regimen. I just decided to use the same community network through which I'm selling old cocktail dresses and such to find some running partners.

I've found one woman who's willing to meet up three times a week. We've already gone out for a few jogs in the park. And there's another woman who might want to meet up once a week. And I got some leads for cheap indoor running options for when the weather turns to crap.

I figure that running boosts my mood, and lets me know I'm doing something pro-active for my health whenever I'm tempted to get down on myself.

And I've got Xmas money and some apartment-sale funds I can use to buy some cute clothes that fit, since I've been wearing the same damn pair of maternity jeans practically every day since the Sprog was born.

It's tricky, when money's tight and you've got a kidlet, feeling like clothes are what you should be buying. But if I choose wisely, I can make a little wardrobe work, and I won't have to feel like such a sad schlub whenever I leave the house.

Because surprisingly, feeling like you shouldn't be seen outside isn't the best thing for preserving a healthy mindset.

What?!

I know!

Anyway, I was sort of loath to buy anything in my current size, because I thought it might encourage me to stay here. Which is bullshit-- just a sneaky way for me to punish me for being myself. And I might not actually lose any weight. I might just be a fit person who's a little bigger. And that person should get to look cute.

Again, I'm not embarking on any sort of health death march, just taking some small steps. And I'm not going on a manic shopping spree-- just choosing some smart pieces (I was about to write "investing"-- but TJ Maxx and Old Navy aren't really the sort of places one buys an "investment item.")

And it's all going to happen gradually.

In the meantime, I'm going to try to develop a friendlier internal monologue.

Which brings me to the final piece of this little plan--
In the interest of clearing out my mind as though it were an apartment, I think I might write some more letters I don't plan to send. Unsent letters seem to work for me. They give me a focus, a known audience. And I'm hoping that the act of expressing some of these feelings will free me from the same tired imaginary conversations, bring me some closure.

Here is the rub: These letters might be uneven. They might be dark. They might be hard to read.

But I want to assure those that might be concerned that I'm actually feeling... ich. You'd think lover of reason wouldn't have such a hang-up about jinxing things. I feel good. I finally feel like I might be strong enough to put some of this into words.

So, if you read something that worries you, consider that you're witnessing an exorcism of bad feelings-- or that you're reading snippets of smoldering paper as they get sucked up the chimney, while I sit in the living room, cozy and warm.

And the letters, if they come, will come when I'm ready.

Baby steps. Almost literally.

On unsolicited advice: [updated]

Oh, I see-- you say you're PT, and your friend's an OT. Based on this, I shouldn't be bothered by the fact that you stop me outside my door to castigate me for the position of my sleeping son's head.

Yes, in fact I realize that generally it's not a good idea to let a baby's head tip back. However, my son, who has pretty full neck control and has for weeks, adores sleeping like this. To the point that he will wake up shrieking if I try to move his head into a more ergonomically-correct position.

And he's been shrieking for most of the afternoon, which is why I decided to take him with me in the carrier, instead of leaving him at home with my husband, when I went to the park to pick up my friend's CSA share-- the carrier puts him to sleep like nothing else.

And I had straightened his head in the park, when he first fell asleep-- which woke him up, which prompted another tour of the park, even though my hands were full of groceries.

So when his head tipped back again, and I was a half-block from my apartment door, I decided not to worry about it, since I would be home soon and could set him down there.

But then you and your friend come along, determined to share with me how I'm being a bad mother.

What reaction were you expecting, really? Tearful gratitude? A request for a business card so I could make an appointment?

You told me to talk to my doctor. Ah! So you realize I have a pediatrician whom I consult for questions regarding my son's health and well-being. And you realize you are not that person. Plus, your comment implies that this head-tipped issue, while not the best practice, is not something that is putting my child at immediate risk for grievous bodily harm.

So why don't you just have some respect for the privacy and agency of others, and shut your yap?

That's my unsolicited advice.

Update, 10/27/11--
We had our two-month checkup yesterday, and I asked our pediatrician about the Sprog's head-tipping proclivities. He said, "Babies are generally very good at letting you know if they're uncomfortable. His position might make you uncomfortable, but if he's happy, it's fine."

So...
ha HA! you person I probably will never see again... ha... hm.

And in other news...

I tried to re-watch Steel Magnolias. But then I realized just how much I dislike Sally Field.

I don't like her. I really, really don't like her.

A thought for baby-wear designers--

I had a visit with my OBGYN yesterday.
Apparently, my cervix is short and soft-- unmistakable evidence that I'm in the final stretch of bun-in-the-ovening.

Just what you wanted to hear, right?

Anyway. I'm excited, though I have to admit I was relieved to hear that the door to my womb is still closed, though less firmly than of yore-- I still have stuff I want to get done before the boy-o arrives.

Like finding good storage places for all his stuff.

Yesterday, I started the process of sorting through the baby shower loot, determining what should get washed up and what I might want to keep packaged, in case I decide to exchange stuff for items that might prove more useful as I get to know my little fella.

He has a lot of clothes. I got some sweet hand-me-downs from my cousin, and my MIL just visited with sweaters and booties that J's grandmother made for him, three and a half decades ago. He has a lot of new stuff, too-- particularly for the first three months. Which makes sense-- everyone like buying the teeny-tiny squee-worthy stuff. But I'm a little worried about our supplies for after that point-- which is another reason I'm holding some stuff back.

Of course, a lot of these items are from Target, which has this bizarre policy that you can only return or exchange $70 of stuff for every government-issued ID you have, per year. Which makes me wonder what the hell you do if you buy something that costs more than $70, and you need to return it. But it also means there's a lot of stuff I can't return until January, so, might as well open it up.

I see what you did there, Target. Nefarious, you are.

Speaking of nefarious, have any of you tried to open up baby clothes from their packaging? A teeny set of baby hats apparently requires five plastic tags and half a roll of double stick tape. Never mind trying to wrest open a five-pack of onesies...

And this stuff is going on a baby-- so I particularly dread missing some tag-end of plastic. I keep picturing that old SNL sketch about "Spot Bleeding!"-- an epidemic suffered by men who wear dress shirts straight from the packaging.

But to address the title of this post-- finally--
why is it so hard to find baby clothes that don't have dumb little pronouncements written across them? Babies are really cute, even without textual assistance. So why do they need a shirt that says "Hug me! I'm cute!"

Whatever, baby. I was going to hug you, 'cuz you are cute-- but then you got all pushy about it...

And knowing J the way I do, I can just see how he'd feel if I sent him out in the world with his son wearing a onesie that says he's "Handsome like Daddy."

Daddy is pretty handsome. But Daddy got all the action with the ladies because he isn't the sort of conceited jerk who goes around announcing to everyone how handsome he is.

I can't tell you how often my desire to spend money I don't really have on cute baby clothes has been thwarted because that sweet little crab on those PJ's can't just keep his mouth shut-- "I'm CRABBY!" DURRRRP! or that T-shirt with the nifty guitar-theme print has "Mommy's little Rock Star!" emblazoned across the front.

Though I confess my dark side is looking forward to a photo-op of the baby, red-faced and shrieking at the top of his lungs, wearing a onesie that proclaims he's "Happy to be Me!"

Ever noticed how ideas can follow you around for days?

Sort of like how sometimes you might remember a song you haven't thought of in years, and suddenly you hear it, on the radio, on the TV, at the supermarket-- everywhere you go.

I came across this video of a talk with Barbara Ehrenreich, in which she discusses her thoughts about happiness, positive thinking, and current popular notions about cancer survival.

I always find Ehrenreich interesting-- Fear of Falling and Nickle and Dimed were both influential reads for me, back in the day. But I was particularly intrigued by what she has to say in this video, since, even though the talk was recorded a few years ago, I came upon it just as I was thinking about happiness and the power of positive thought.

She's a smart, down-to-earth lady. So give her a listen. I'd love to know what you think.