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.

Peanuts.

I've opened our windows, sending Fee into paroxysms of kitty delight. Sprog is in his bouncy chair, and all is right with the world.

Well, maybe not. But we were able to go out earlier, in long sleeves and hoodies, instead of coats. Sprog came with me on my morning errands. Then I got coffee and a bite for lunch, and we headed to the park to enjoy them.

I had a thought, en route, feeling Sprog's weight in the carrier, resting on my hips. His legs brushing my sides as I strode along, shifting from left to right, made me think of elephants. I felt strong and steady, my feet meeting the earth with solid assurance.

I had a memory of riding an elephant, in a parking lot somewhere, or a zoo-- in one of those high-sided saddles that fit a small group. I remembered the crinkly feel of her skin.

I don't know if that memory is real. It could be.

There were daffodils, and crocus. We passed banks of purple heather on our way to the lower lawn. Not much grass yet. I spread a little blanket for Sprog-- one that used to be big enough to swaddle him. I sat on the carrier, to keep the wet dirt off my bum.

A little yogurt, a little ice coffee, a little bottle, a little rolly-polly in the sun. Then we headed home.

I got an email today, that warmed me from the toes up. (I'm looking at you, Ms. From Boston.)

I've had a disappointment. That's true. But I'm proud of the work I did. I finished something that started in a different life-- something left hanging, incomplete. I didn't win in the end, not because I can't do the work, but because I'm inexperienced.

I got to the final level of a fairly grueling process, competing against people that, so far as I can tell, all had years of experience working in the field I was just hoping to enter. That shows me that I must know how to paint. I have a lot to learn about professional practice, but I wouldn't have gotten that far if the talent wasn't there.

For the last few months, my tasks have been clear: take care of sprog, and work on my exam. Passed one stage? Time to prepare for the next.

It was comforting, having that script for my life-- knowing what I needed to do. Now I've finished that circle. I have to decide what's next.

What's my next dare-to-be-great situation?

J thinks that phrase sounds "a bit... grandiose, don't you think?"

Well, yes, a bit. I say it tongue-in-cheek. But not entirely.

I want my life to have a shape to it. I want to build something to be proud of.

I've got some ideas.

In the meantime, I have to say, I feel very lucky to have the Sprog, and sunshine, and readers like you.

It's about time I tried something new.

Those angel wings floated disembodied over my blog since its renamed resurrection, back in 2008.

My old workplace. My old work.

That image-- the headless, armless angel-- meant a lot to me. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings, and no eyes figure unheedy haste…

That's not me anymore. I've taken my arms back, to hold my little boy. I've taken my eyes back, to practice seeing clear.

I've taken my fingers back, to type overwrought prose! With a reckless disregard for adverbs!

Not so long ago, I was spending virtual time with someone who hated makeover shows. I don't understand that. I love the chance to re-imagine myself, to shed a old skin for a new one that might fit better. And I love watching the look of wonder on someone's face when they encounter a reflection of someone lovely, someone worthy of respect-- someone they didn't know they were, or had forgotten.

So my blog is trying on some new clothes. I'm not worrying too much this time about finding the perfect look. I'm playing around to see what fits for the moment.

That approach seems apt.

This weekend, I'm doing some family/life jujitzu and skipping out on a dreaded visit with my in-laws and going clothes shopping instead. Sprog will have fun with his grandparents, and I'll finally get a chance to spend some of my gift-card money from Christmas. Hopefully I'll find some good stuff. If not, I'll keep looking.

A work in process...

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.

So. That was awkward.

Am I right?

I'll take Potpourri for $500, Alex.

I've been sitting in front of my laptop, avoiding a post I'd theoretically like to write about comments policy and my thoughts about the policing of internet speech- influenced by this post at Anil Dash, as well as recent and long-past online socializing faux-pas (mine), and a surprising but pleasing request to become a moderator at an online forum I frequent.

Thoughts. I have them.

Unfortunately, I also have a head that is mostly filled with glue. Also, my right ear seems to be occupied by a tiny gnome, who allows sounds to squeal out the stretched opening of a pink balloon at a one-second delay from the left-side input. If I were Steve Reich, I might find this off-kilter stereo effect enchanting, rather than dizzying, mildly painful, and fucking annoying. Not to mention distracting, which is why I'm still sitting here, clicking from window to window, unable to assemble anything worthwhile.

So. I've decided to tell you about the balloon-wielding gnome who lives in my right ear, instead. Crazy, right?

Speaking of, my FIL left a message on J's phone, telling him I'd sent FIL a letter, and he'd like to talk to him about it.

Not me. J. That's strange, don't you think?

Honestly, I didn't expect him to contact me. I'd put 90% odds on my MIL calling J about it. But while I can predict J's family's WASPish lateral moves when it comes to addressing internal conflict, that's different from understanding them.

So far, J's response can best be summed up by this remark: "I don't know why he's calling me-- I didn't send him a letter." And leaving it at that.

Which seems sensible. Such sensibility surely will not stand, however. Sigh.

Well. At least he's read it.

The last few days I've been cleaning and preparing a workspace-- doing what I could in the moments between taking care of my head-cold and taking care of the Sprog. I'll be doing some painting in the next few weeks-- part of a campaign to shift into a new type of work that might suit my new vision of my life a bit better. I'm a bit nervous about it, but I'm not sure how much I can discuss it while the exam's still in process-- though I imagine general discussion is fine (i.e.- I'm taking an exam with several parts, with the hope of joining a professional organization. The current part involves making some large paintings.)

Today I analyzed the sample illustrations, did niggly sort of math to figure out scale, how best to approach blowing the images up to full size. I've done this before, but it's been a while. This analytical, preparation stage-- there's an analogy for this in other creative endeavors: blocking fabric, scaling a pattern, truing up... A still point between the sometimes pleasant drudgery of cleaning and preparation and the full-on creative endeavor, a moment to approach a task on the less-intimidating left-hand-side before taking a trust fall into your right mind. Ehhh, something like that-- this sort of work that has to be done and is important to the project but that doesn't even hint at requiring virtuosity, helps me to sneak up on work I want to do that my brain might try to frighten me away from doing.

In the spirit of not requiring virtuosity, I think I'll leave it at that.

The 30/60 rule.

I've been mulling over my propensity to be an insensitive jerk. An unwitting one, but still-- one might argue that the unwittingness is simply symptomatic of the general insensitivity.

I used to work in costume shops, which are largely peopled by women and gay men, who like to talk and/or snark while they work (I'm not saying all women and all gay men like this-- just the ones that are drawn to costuming.) And I can remember many a time, listening to the stitch and bitch sessions, where some tiny thing was complaining that she couldn't fit into her size six jeans anymore, or someone else was asking the room for sympathy because she'd broken into double-digit sizes, and thinking to myself: Do they not realize I am right here? And that I am obviously larger than the sizes they find so damn horrifying?

I think I might have been doing that very thing to other people, with some of my recent body image posts. And I'm ashamed.

Now, to put this in context, I've been doing some online socializing in new places, which is the sort of thing that brings out my big bag of neuroses (Santa's present this year is mild paranoia!) So let me put this out there somewhere near the top of this post-- it's entirely possible, maybe even likely, that comments I'm reading as describing my behavior aren't in fact about me at all.

But I think it might be better to just unwrap this package now and get it over with.

I'm having body issues. Really? I know!

I don't think there's anything wrong with my body, given my circumstances. Find out you're pregnant, quit smoking, get laid off from work, have your therapist dump you, and have to go off your mood stabilizing meds (for the pregnancy) all in the same week (almost exactly a year ago today, in fact!) and it's reasonable to think you might gain some weight. In fact, it would be somewhat freakish and arguably less healthy not to gain weight in that situation.

I believe this, I accept this. But it's still hard to work through feeling so different, looking so different, so suddenly, and to know from regular comments and the behavior of people I meet that those changes I'd like to think are just my judgmental eye regarding my reflection are in fact apparent to all.

And I need to work through that.

But all things considered, it's not a big problem. And there may be a lot of people who'd like to look like I do, right at this very moment.

So should I just shut up about it?

I keep thinking of Jack's line from 30Rock:
She needs to lose thirty pounds or gain sixty. Anything in between has no place on television.
This is me. I don't just mean weight-wise, though it's apt. It's a metaphor for my life problems. They're big. Weightier than most, maybe. Just not big enough to be watchable.

Gllgh. That's not quite what I mean. But I'll let it stand for now.

About a month ago, I met a woman on my forum, who made a passing reference to being hospitalized for mental health issues. I thought to myself, Oh! It's nice to see someone else here who understands what that's like.Later, this woman posted about how she tried to kill herself when she was delusional and depressed-- took a bottle of sleeping pills and went to bed in a snowdrift. She was rescued, but lost her fingers to frostbite. And I realized I was pretty presumptuous to think we had this shared experience after all. What I've been through just wasn't that bad.

I have the same feelings when people talk about abuse in their childhoods. Yes, that was part of my history too. But how bad could it have been, if I'm looking forward to visiting my parents at the end of the week? Sometimes I feel stupid even mentioning it-- even though I know that background still shapes the woman I am now.

[insert segue here]

Are you familiar with Elevatorgate? There are far too many links I could post to get you up to speed if you're not, but here's the gist: an atheist named Rebecca Watson, who hosts a video blog about skepticism and related issues, went to a conference and discussed sexism within the atheist community. After her talk, she hung out at the hotel bar with a group of conventioneers until the wee hours, before announcing that she was exhausted and was going up to bed. Some guy from the convention slipped into the elevator with her. They were alone together. He made a pass. She felt really uncomfortable, being alone with a strange man coming on to her in an elevator in a hotel in a foreign country in the wee hours of the morning.

She mentioned the incident on her vlog, and asked guys not to do that sort of thing. A shitstorm erupted. And Richard Dawkins, who'd been a fellow speaker at the conference, posted a snarky comment here, essentially saying that Watson has some nerve complaining about sexist atheists and seemingly creepy guys in elevators when there are women in Arab countries who face clitoridectomies and aren't allowed to drive.

I can't sum it up any more concisely than that. And as you might imagine, an even bigger shitstorm erupted.

But the upshot (at least amongst many thinkers/writers/bloggers I respect) was that while the problems Rebecca Watson and similar educated, Western, white women face are not generally as grave as those confronting women in different circumstances, they are still real, still valid, still worthy of discussion, still problems that need to be solved. There's always someone who has it worse, but that's no reason for silence.

So. Getting back to my gut...
Should I just shut up about it?

I'm thinking no. At least, not here. For one, it's on my mind enough that I'm brain-dumping essays about it all over the internet, and I've gotta cut that shit out. For two, my problems might be too big for smallness and too small for bigness, but they're mine to manage, all the same. And who knows? The right audience might find it helpful, or interesting, or might just be happy to find another who is dealing with something similar.

Still, reading about my body could be boring as fuck for some people-- people I'd love to have reading whatever I write that isn't about my soft underbelly (Which I do! I do write about other things! This has just been on my mind a lot lately.)

So I've come up with a solution: the 30/60 rule, which states that while I may be 30 pounds too heavy and 60 pounds too light for television, I'm just the right size for the Internet.

I'll mark pertinent posts with a 30/60, so if you see it, you can run screaming. Or come on in. Which is of course what I'd prefer.

The voices in my head.

I have no one else to blame for my sudden stiltedness, my awkward flamingo steps...

Awkwardness continues.

Can I tell you about this morning? I woke up to J and the Sprog, sidled into bed next to me. When I reached out to rub the side of my boy-o's tummy, he smacked my hand and turned away.

Now, I realize full well that my son only has a small range of motions in his arsenal, and the spasmodic arm-slap is one of the go-to gestures. And there are any number of reasons my baby might have turned away at that moment-- some sunlight on the wall, a sound, a simple desire to change position, a momentary feeling of overstimulation...

But this squishy little part of my mind decided My baby hates me.

Ugh! No. He doesn't. And what a nasty load of guilt to dump on my child some day if I keep thinking like that. Unfortunately, there's no such thing as mind control-- not even over my own. So that little spot of quicksand sucks down more ugly thoughts: I went through so much physically to have him. I'm the one with the stretch marks and the flop sweat. I'm the one whose shoes don't fit. I'm the one reading up on products and theories and pediatricians and practices and teaching J what I learned. My baby should like me the best! Even better than he likes my husband.

You don't need to tell me how wrongheaded this is, on so many counts. That's my point-- I know. Being a mother is about loving your children and taking care of them. It is NOT about them doing that for you. My son is his own person, with his own emotions and opinions. He doesn't owe me pride of place in his psyche. And I hate, hate, hate the part of me that sometimes wants that anyway.

Keep it up, roo, and you'll get that place in his psyche-- just like a mother in an Alfred Hitchcock film.

This is not to say I feel this struggle all the time-- just now and then, when my guards are down.

But it ties into a similarly squishy problem I've been having writing here. Because I want everyone to like me. As if that were even possible. As if more than twelve people actually read this blog on a regular basis.

I'm having a hard time writing my mind. My self-censor is getting pushier and more comprehensive, because just about anything I might write about that's true is bound to be offensive to someone.

1. I'm an atheist. Being an atheist is an important part of my identity. I struggled thoughtfully for the first two-thirds of my life to figure out my relationship with God, and I've chosen to do without. I think I'm a better person for choosing to do without.

But I don't think that my journey towards this philosophy or lack thereof is so conclusive that I don't realize there are different, valid paths to better personhood-- to enlightenment, even. Still, while I have a lot to write on this subject, I hold back, for fear that readers who have a different relationship with religion might feel judged or excluded. And I don't want that.

2. We decided not to circumcise our son, and I'd like to write about that decision process. But it's difficult to find a more controversial subject in all of the Interwebs, and I think that many people, for and against, who write about it or comment about it are so totalitarian in their approach, so judgmental, so mean-spirited sometimes towards those who see things differently, that I'm hesitant to enter the fray.

3. In a similar vein, I've had some more thoughts about breastfeeding or the lack thereof, and... well, my emotions might be too close to the surface on that one even for me. But part of me thinks that's why my...testimony? something to that effect, could be a useful addition to the discussion. But then I worry that no one could hear civil and thoughtful discourse over all the shouting.

4. I'm crazy. Is it all right for me to call myself crazy? Wait, haven't I earned the right to call myself crazy if I want to? Well, do I want to? I sure don't like it when other people call me crazy-- even if they don't know I really am crazy. If I write about being crazy, people might know I'm crazy, and then they'll think I'm crazy instead of just crazy.

And... discuss.

5. I'm a feminist. But am I one of those feminists? What does that even mean? Can I call myself feminist if... (and so forth.)

6. I'm fat. No, I'm not really fat. Can I use that word? Is it a bad word? Is it a bad word if I'm only using it to talk about myself? What if it is? What should I do about it, if anything, and why?

7. I sometimes use stereotypes. And I sometimes use words that aren't acceptable in certain circles. Which ones, and why? Is this eeevil, like the fruuuits of the dayvil? Is it acceptable to quote Mike Myers in 2011?

So many questions.

8. I'm a new mother. If I write about parenting, will that turn off/bore/sadden those who are not parents? If I don't write about parenting, will I miss an important chance to connect with other readers who are parents? Will everything beyond cute pictures of my kid open me up for criticism and judgement?

Hey! Why are you posting cute pictures of your kid on the Internet? He didn't consent to that! And don't you know about evil Internet people who will want to make him into soup? Or... worse???

Okay, I'm going to stop now. You get the gist.

So these are all examples of the type of thing I'd like to be writing about, but can't, because my brain's full of quicksand and is also tied up with rope, and let's toss in some more metaphors, with horses and creeks that are pronounced like cricks.

I'd like to address this situation.

But then, finding time to write anything worthwhile is difficult with an infant (so let's hear it for Shirley Jackson, eh?) Particularly because even when I get the kidlet down for a nap, by the time my writing mind's really whirring again, he's woken back up.

In the meantime, I'm going to work on having courage in my convictions, and trust that the worthwhile folks will still be here when the dust settles.

Or I'll just post more cute photos of my kid. Because it's my job as his mother to provide his someday teenage self with plenty of sources of wholesome embarrassment. And it pleases me.

Oh, and it might not hurt to re-read this once in a while. Clearly, I need the reminder.

Getting sorted.

Those Thanksgiving pictures?
They're coming.

Here. Watch this.
 

Now I'm free to live my own life, my way.
With just a hint of lady moustache.