I dream of a finished office space, white furniture with wall-to-wall white shelving filled with my books and my magazines. I dream of pristine walls with a slight hint of turquoise. I dream of a wide open window with lightweight sheers and a white orchid sitting on the sill. I see myself sitting at a glass top desk, lightly tapping out my mediocrity for all of the Internet.
In my head, that space will make it all better. That space will bring me back to the spot where I want to write again. In that space I will work, providing others with their lovely writing spaces while I will begin to remember what it was like when I would write something I was proud of. Something. Anything.
But that space won’t relieve my mental block. That space won’t be a reality for a long, long while – if ever. That space, this space, seems to have met it’s end. Or at least it feels that way.
It’s been months since I’ve been able to write something that others can connect with. The more I read, the more I realize that the need to be really good at what you do is ever more prevalent. As parent blogging changes and morphs rapidly into blogging for marketing and sponsorship, those whom used to write personally are converting and only the strong remain unwavering.
I am wavering. I have no desire to chase sponsorships no matter how much I’d love to be at the next *it* conference. Yet like others, I want to be noticed, adored and READ. (If you’re a blogger and say you don’t care about those things, you’re lying to us and worst of all – yourself. No one puts themselves out on a public stage just because.) But I have long since passed the stage of promoting this site. There is no more clicking around traffic building sites or adding my site to all the “communities”. I don’t work on improving my SEO (search engine optimization), nor do I care how you found my blog.
This blog is now dying. Actually, I believe it’s been dead for a while.
I am no longer – what I believe to have been – a member of the blogging community. There is very little community. It’s a shark tank full of people looking to make a quick buck and get stuff and if you happen to step on some toes to do it? So be it. There are some great people whom I’ve kept in contact with, but for the most part, my blog reader and twitter feed has transcended into white noise. There are fewer voices with a message; there are even less with ones I want to hear. That’s not to say that your writing is falling on deaf ears, rather that it’s just getting hard to discern the heartfelt writing. With FTC regulations, disclosure statements and disclaimers on satirical writing, it just seems so contrived and fake, even though the intention is quite the opposite.
Transparency is a fickle bitch.
As much as we’re transparent about what we’re writing and saying online, it’s behind the scenes where we are the most clouded, contrary and unethical. Talking about people, their actions, their writing, their reviews, their “free gifts”, their sell-out attitudes. I see no disclaimers on the hateful statements spewed back and forth, no transparency in the relationships we are pretending to have.
I am no different.
I’ve sat back and watched for months as I fought my own internal battle of facing the truth. I’ve sat back and debated whether or not I owe you, readers and friends, a statement regarding things that have happened behind the scenes. You know, in the name of transparency. Am I being dishonest with you by not speaking out? Am I making myself appear guilty by allowing those who have spoken out – albeit inaccurately – on my behalf? Because every. single. fucking. time. I take to this keyboard, I stall. I am paralyzed by thoughts of people thinking that everything I write from here on out is a fucking lie because of something they’ve heard elsewhere. I think about the links and the emails flying back and forth saying, Did you see what she wrote now? I can’t believe she said that. What a fuckin’ liar. She is dead to me. After all this and she has the nerve.. Why does she even bother?
Dearest friends have said to let it go. My wonderful and loyal friends have said it nothing to worry about and that I acted out of good faith and love. My good friends, the people THAT KNOW ME are right.
But what about the others? The ones that I concern myself with when they really have shown they deserve little of my time. Why? Why do I give even an iota of shit for what they think?
Because I am human.
I am just like you: I want acceptance, I want love, I want people to care about me too. I want forgiveness, friendship and relationships. Because I am human.
Without transparency I feel I am stifling myself. I can write here over and over that I don’t care what you think and that it’s time to move on, but the truth is I do care, and I can’t move on – because EVERY. FUCKING. TIME. I open this computer I think about the people who have (may have) heard something and are taking it verbatim. I think about the fact that no one has even ASKED my side. People I thought were friends have taken what they’ve heard as gospel and haven’t even given me a chance. It angers me, it hurts me and it’s not fair.
But it’s not only about me and my perceived conflicts. There are people who I KNOW have been talking shit about some people I care deeply for and then they are playing nice to their faces and telling them they have their backs when they definitely do not. I know they say they are friends and “would do anything for them” and then have been calling them hurtful and hateful things behind their backs. You forget, my friends, the internet is very much like high school. Things are said and they DO get back to the people you’re talking about; even if you’re calling someone a “crazy bitch” in jest, it may not be perceived that way in some conversations.
I think we owe it to ourselves – as compassionate, responsible and caring adults to just cut the shit. If you don’t like someone or something they’ve said, so be it. Deal with it. Move on. But the name calling? The hurtful and evil comments about people you *think* you know are really getting us nowhere. Because at the end of the day, has it made your life *that* much better by saying such evil things about someone else? No. Does letting someone know “for their benefit” that a friend of theirs has wronged someone else? No. Because no matter what you say, they will continue to make their own decisions in life and your hurtful words of “concern” and “support” are only going to make you look like that fickle bitch, Transparency.
There aren’t a lot of people in this world who laugh at my crude sense of humour. Because, really? I am a twelve year old boy trapped in an aging saggy woman body.
When I first met her in person, Anissa was sitting in the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel in Chicago during this past BlogHer. As I walked past the lobby on the way to the elevators, I heard her cry out, “Hey! Bitches!” to which I, of course responded to, because honestly? HELLO!
As I turned towards the person calling out some derogatory reference my name I saw Anissa waving manically.
She was so pleased with my response that she began yelling to anyone who would listen, “Hey! She turned around! She’s turned around!”
For all I know, she could have meant it literally. I mean, it’s not like that would have been the first time. But I took it as endearing: that’s what us bitches do.
A huge grin crossed her face as she shoved her gigantic boobs in my face hugged me fiercely, and it was then I was completely sold on all that is Anissa.
photo taken by Shash and stolen borrowed from Anissa’s facebook.
Still, to this day, I love her like a sister. There aren’t many people that can make me laugh the way she does.
Why am I blowing smoke up Anissa’s ass telling you all about Anissa?
Because yesterday afternoon news traveled through twitter like a tsunami that Anissa was in the ICU after suffering a stroke. At the rip old age young vibrant age of 36, Anissa has suffered a second stroke (you can read about her first one here).
But not only has she been dealing with her own health issues, the Mayhew family just celebrated a huge milestone for the youngest in their clan. Peyton has been one year cancer-free! (Peyton’s story can be found at Anissa’s first blog Hope4Peyton.) For once in a long while everyone was healthy and doing well. Now this.
Right now, there is a P.O. box being set up for those of us far away to help out.
**UPDATE**
The P.O. box address is:
The Mayhew Family
860 Johnson Ferry Road 140-184
Atlanta, GA 30342
By sending gift cards for food, gas and other necessities we can try to help alleviate the burden on their family of five. By sending funds we can help diminish the financial burden, because at this point? There is little news about what the future holds for the Mayhews.
For more information, please visit Aiming Low where they are trying valiantly to provide up-to-date information on Anissa’s condition and what we can do to help.
If you write a post for Anissa, please take a moment to add it to the Mr. Linky provided at Heather’s site, Izzy’s site, as well as at Aiming Low.
If you have questions, please email
Please note: the family has asked for privacy at this time. Please respect the Mayhew family’s privacy by NOT calling the hospital. The outpouring of love is amazing, but we need to remember that there is a family who needs their space.
Most of all: Please pray that our friend pulls through this.
A day of remembrance. A day to thank our soldiers, and those fallen, whom have served our country proud. Those whom have protected our freedom and our way of life.
Remembrance Day.
As much as I wanted to write a dedication to those who have served, there is someone else who is weighing heavier on my mind and my heart.
A special someone who also endured a brave fight for life. For her life. A little girl who beat the odds, if only for a short time. Her impact has been so tremendous. Her glowing, vibrant smile, forever imprinted.
Happy Birthday, Sweet Angel.
Please take a moment to pop by Heather and Mike’s sites to send some love on what would have been Maddie’s second birthday.
And, if you’re so inclined. Please take a moment to sponsor a support pack at Friends of Maddie, a foundation created by Maddie’s parents in their daughter’s name.
Blogging always ends up feeling like a job, because no matter how much you may enjoy it, the feeling of obligation seems to be inevitable. Over the past three years I’ve witnessed too many people feeling obligated to the point it’s crippled them and they’ve left for days, weeks, months at a time. I was naive to believe that wouldn’t happen to me. I! Love! Blogging! I! Can’t! Imagine! Not! Blogging! I’m! Going! To! Blog! FOREVER!!!!1!!!!!
So not true.
This past summer, when things went to shit for me – both mentally and personally – I found myself turning to my blog less and less. I felt discontented with the idea of sharing my low points with anyone who happens upon this space. I was concerned that people I thought loved me would be using my words against me behind my back. I thought that there would be emails and chat sessions going on hedging bets on when I would completely lose my shit.
Narcissistic? Yes.
Self absorbed? Yes.
Paranoid? Yes.
Right? God, I hope not.
That’s the joys of putting oneself out there in The Google Cache. It’s a fact of life for a blogger that someone will not like what you said. It’s inevitable, there will be emails, links, chat sessions and DMs about you at some point or another. But, when I was tumbling into that vortex of darkness, I wasn’t okay with that. I contemplated many times pulling this site down and not looking back. Even though there is support in this community (and I am eternally grateful to those whom have been here, willing me on) there is a very dark side to blogging. A dark side which can stifle and rob a person of their will to write. I’ve bared witness to many people share their darkest moments online and seen how the mob mentality can alter the winds of support gravely. Suddenly people are quick to change their minds and begin speculating that it’s all a “show”; for traffic.
We’re a narcissistic bunch, us bloggers. Most of the time, we’re writing with the intent of entertaining a group of people, but some fail to realize that not everything is shared for the sole purpose of an extra couple hits. Not everyone is thinking about how sharing through their difficult times will garner them a new follower or how it will affect an Alexa rating.
For me, the thought of it being assumed I was blogging my difficult times for some traffic seized my ability to put my feelings into words. I didn’t want to be the site where the drama seekers came to find their next train wreck. So I decided I wouldn’t write it out any further; I wouldn’t continue to offer tickets to the show. People would just have to speculate whether I made it through this.
I didn’t write, and you know what? It’s made it worse.
I may not be a fantastic writer, but for as long as I can remember I have written out my feelings, my stories and kept a journal. I’ve forgone the journal for an online version and still, I wrote nothing. Hell, nevermind that, I couldn’t even complete a paragraph and save it as a draft or private post.
I froze.
Not only did I stop writing, I stopped reading. I lost touch with a lot that’s been going on and I felt feel guilty. The Dreaded Blogger Guilt.
The Dreaded Blogger’s Guilt includes side effects of: regret for having 5000+ unread feeds and hitting “Mark All Read”; obsession that every post written on the whole interwebs is about YOU! (see Blogger Narcissism); irrational fears that you’ll never ever write another single entry ever again!
See, NUTSO.
It got to the point I was in tears Monday night (while watching Dog the Bounty Hunter) after I’d obsessed for so long about the fact that I haven’t written anything; and not that I hadn’t written anything for you (I love you, you know that, but this is about me right now m’kay?) but that I couldn’t even squeak out a measly paragraph of anything remotely discernible. (Seriously, ask Karen. I sent her about 1000 words of gibberish talking about puzzles and bitches. It was NOT pretty, and she totally called me on it too. LOL)
But now I’m hopefully back. That shit that’s been eating at me is no longer relevant because I have no control over it and therefore I will not let it get to me one second longer. I am moving forward. I will continue writing and dammit, I WILL be able to poop again.
Side note: Is it just me, or do you find that mental constipation coincides with physical constipation? No, just me? Alright then, moving on.
When I received Kevin’s request for support, I knew immediately this was something I would do. Not only because he’s a friend but because I believe that no matter what, no child should ever suffer. Ever. The least I could do was offer up this space.
Kevin blogs at Always Home and Uncool. He has asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife’s birthday.
:::
Our pediatrician admitted it early on.
The rash on our 2-year-old daughter’s cheeks, joints and legs was something he’d never seen before.
The next doctor wouldn’t admit to not knowing.
He rattled off the names of several skins conditions — none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner — then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.
The third doctor admitted she didn’t know much.
The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter’s knee showed signs of an “allergic reaction” even though we had ruled out every allergy source — obvious and otherwise — that we could.
The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.
She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:
The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.
The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.
The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.
The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.
She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.
This was her gift — a diagnosis for her little girl.
That was seven years ago — Oct. 2, 2002 — the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.
Our daughter’s first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn’t tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.
Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.
What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don’t know.
I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter’s condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.
That, too, is my purpose today.
It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.
To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.
Hairdresser? 20 per cent. Nail salon? 25 per cent. Dinner? Usually between 20 – 35 per cent.
Mike’s big thing? Remember to keep his drink full and you’ll receive a big tip. If he could get away with it, Mike is the type of person who would leave a wad of dollar bills on the table, adding to it and taking away depending on the service he was receiving.
I, on the other hand, always feel guilty. I feel good about tipping and like to make people feel good about getting a good tip.
It’s so childish, but I giggle a little each time I write tip.
I really wasn’t going anywhere with this except I wanted to use that clip and had to make it fit somewhere.
Anyway, as I was saying – I like giving a god tip to someone who deserves it. It makes me feel good and I’m sure they don’t mind seeing a little bigger tip than was anticipated.
Doing something nice for someone gives me a little bit of a high. You know? That gushing, happy feeling you get when you give someone something they really like or didn’t expect?
I remember one night we went for dinner at a local diner. It was before Hudson born, Carter was particularly ornery; no one was in a good mood. Carter was crying while he picked everything off his tray and proceeded to litter the floor below his highchair with majority of his meal. I would have left had the restaurant been a little busier, but I was starving and very short on patience as they’d frayed to their very last thread. The waitress was no doubt a bit frazzled by the mess and the snot covered teary mug staring back at her – Carter’s not mine.
Before we left, I made a point of cleaning the food from the carpet below the highchair and leaving her a rather large tip. As we were leaving, she approached us with our change which we insisted she kept. Twenty dollars for a thirty dollar meal. She gushed about how thankful she was as I apologized for the mess my kid had created. Though I was frazzled and felt a little lot embarrassed for letting my child behave as he had rather than nipping it in the bud and leaving, I was happy that she was so thrilled with the that we left her.
Ever since then I have been a little more conscious of the amount of the tip I am leaving. Even though I think the server should be grateful for any amount they receive, I feel better thinking that it may make their day to see a somewhat larger tip then what they may have expected.
And what have I learned from this?
Clearly I put far too much thought into tipping.
:::
This post is brought to you by the Silicon Valley Moms Book Club. This month’s book: Do One Nice Thing by Debbie Tenzer. Check out her amazing book as well as her website dedicated to doing something nice for someone else.
Born and raised in Canada I’ve known nothing different than going to the doctor if you’re sick. Heading to the hospital for emergency care means having my health card with me. Nothing more.
For years, I knew nothing of the American health care system aside from what I had seen on TV: one image that resonates with me to this day is a man shot and left – dying – in an emergency room hallway on a gurney. No one had information about his insurance, or if he even had any and he was left there. Suffering. Overlooked because of a lack of paperwork.
That? That doesn’t happen in Canada.
Hearing that my American friends owe THOUSANDS in health care costs for sick children, surgeries, CHILD BIRTH scares the ever living crap out of me.
The idea of losing my home, having my wages garnished and collection agencies having my number on speed dial for my child’s birth makes me unconditionally happy to be a Canadian; to have this ‘nazi socialist*’ health care system available to me is a blessing.
This past weekend was my very first BlogHer and since I’ve been writing on this site for over three years now, I’ve come to *know* quite a few people. I’ve become very close with a gigantic mitt full of them making it even more surreal to have those people (and more) in the same room at the same time, talking face to face. There’s no other way to describe it other than completely surreal. I mean, you know all about them: their loves, their children, their hard times, their fears and to have never laid eyes on them until that meeting and know exactly who they are is pretty fuckin’ cool.
I can’t remember which night was which nor where I’ve ever had so much fun before.
Krystle (@snarkykisses), Moi and Miss Karen (@karensugarpants) at The Sparklecorn Extravaganza hosted by MamaPop.
I stayed up all hours of the night living off basic necessities like coffee, pop and free swag food – and free alcohol (DUH!). I think I had one staple meal the entire weekend.
I felt like I was in college again.
Totally hugging on The Michelin Man in the Expo
Totally crushed on people I’ve been reading FOREVER like the GORGEOUS and very sizzle Sizzle.
Me and Sizzle
And her? OMG HER. I would move to Florida and live in a cardboard box just to be with her all the time.
Me and Miss Britt
My Americus twin. I don’t know what more I can say about her besides she’s funny, GORGEOUS and so generous.
Angie and Me. Us. Forever.
Oh, and she likes my bewbs.
My Ali (@alimartell), Me and my Angie, bewb lover (@alotofnothing)
Wednesday night, our BlogHer Carpoolers‘ vehicle arrived. Chevy dropped off a beautiful 2010 Equinox which I immediately fell head over heels for. It’s an amazing drive which I totally pimped out the whole time (because I wanted to, not because they plied me with alcohol and free food). I think I may have even sold it to the gas station attendant I caught drooling all over the hood.
I arrived at Miss Karen Sugarpants‘ house where she greeted me at the door with a beer in hand. Which totally makes up for her calling me a twat. Then I spooned her and snored sweet nothings in her ear for about two hours before we got up and headed out on our eight hour drive to Chicago. Giddy like little high school girls we crossed the border into Americus blaring Britney Spears while Karen earned her new moniker @karengrannypants.
And America? Can you please talk to Target about opening their doors at 7:00am. Kthxbai.
Arrived in Chicago short on hearing (I think @karengrannypants forgot her hearing aid back home because the stereo was louder than loud and my ears were ringing for DAYS) where we met up with my twin, my stalker (WUUUUT?) (P.S. Fuckin’ LOVE her), Miss Shash and my dearest Avitable (Yes, I said dear). A warm welcome indeed.
After finding our room and cracking open our WalMart beer (I never thought I could love WalMart or America more) we met up with Mrs. Flinger (but don’t click that link because Ree has beaten Leslie’s server to a pulp and there’s nothing there.) in the hall as they stuffed bags for the Room 704 Party. Skype doesn’t do that woman justice people. Mrs. Flinger is all kindsa awesomesauce!
Thursday night has become a blur of FINALLY meeting my imaginary friends, parties and swag.
Seriously? What is this swag y’all are talking about? I’ve never even heard of swag. Swag gives me hives.
(If you haven’t listened to Dane Cook’s ‘The Nothing Fight’ then that will mean absolutely nothing to you, just carry on.. we’re walking… we’re walking…)
I know Craftastrophe won a weapon, I drank some beer and walked about six city blocks at 3 o’clock in the morning only to turn around and go back to the hotel.
I paid for a conference pass yet didn’t attend one panel. I’m not sad about that in the least. Because you know what? That conference pass was worth just being a part of those Community Keynotes (Can’t find a link to video at the moment, sorry!) and the Room of Your Own sessions. I stressed a little that I was wasting my money not attending them until that Community Keynote. Then I KNEW why I was there.
Friday night’s Nikon Cocktail Party was totally fabulous. Met some goreouswomen, and hung out with some of myfavourite ladies while I contemplated approaching Carson Kressley but shied away from his lipscritisism fame and watched from a distance.
Can I just tell you that party? So well put together, so much fun pretty well the highlight of the trip.
I wanted to thank you all for your outpouring of support during our difficult time in The House of Me. I don’t think I’d be as sane right now if it weren’t for you. So thank you from the bottom of my cold, dark, shriveled heart.
I love you.
There are interviews being conducted with the children starting in two weeks. I haven’t decided if I should be there or just have Carter talked to someone without me there. I’m working through that at the moment.
We close on our new house TODAY. Our internet will be cut from this afternoon until the 11th of August so I have no idea when I’ll be checking in again. I’ll do my best to keep up with e-mails for The Business and I’ll be here and there when my addiction sees that it’s time to head to the nearest WiFi location.
<3
P.S. None of the photos are mine. I’ve stolen each and every one of them. There’s been NO time to download my camera. If you click the photo it will link you to its rightful owner.
