I crave to write. I think about it constantly.

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.

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.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

Mike and I are good tippers.

I mean, I think we’re good tippers.

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.

I started this blog back in 2006. July to be exact. (Totally missed my three year blogoversary blogiversary blogaversary day I started this trainwreck beloved blog.) At that time, I was moseying about the interwebs and finding new sites to read and began seeing this “BlogHer” thing showing up everywhere and people getting REALLY REALLY excited about it.

I had no idea what the hell it was.

I figured: Geez. And here I thought message board people got really obsessive and crazy addicted, who the hell would go to a conference about blogging?!

Ahem.

Ya.

So.

Um.

ZOMG!!!1! BLOG HER!!

I’M GOING!!

*squeeeeeeee!*

Now that that’s out of the way.

I’ve fretted about clothes, shopping and appearance more in the past month than I had throughout my entire high school life, and then? I was so totally, like The Queen of Vanity.

Then I decided if you’re not going to talk to me or like me because I chose to wear clothes I’ve had in my closet for the past two years then that’s your loss.

HEAR THAT TIM GUNN?

YOUR. LOSS.

Then I decided just too appease the masses, and my self-consciousness, I shall hit up a Target for a dress, a cover-up and a cute pair of heels when I cross the border.

*sigh*

THEN I began thinking, OMG, no one’s going to like me. They all have their friends that they’ve met before at previous BlogHer events and I’m so going to be sitting at a table all alone watching others have fun. I’ll feel like the new girl while I have no one to talk to so I’ll busy myself with my iTouch – because no one has offered to help a girl out with an iPhone which makes me even more of a loser because now I’m a poseur with my iTouch and not an iPhone. OMG, the A-listers are so going to point and laugh at me. Suddenly I feel like I’m going to prom with a date two years my senior.

See.

I am my worst critic. I KNOW.

So do me a favour, if you recognize me? Please say hi.

If you don’t recognize me, not to worry. Here’s a picture:

If you’re going to be there, you can find me:

• Attending conference events
• Driving a beautiful brand new 2010 Chevy Equinox as part of the BlogHer Carpoolers (follow @temptingmama and #BlogHerCarpoolers on twitter for our lastest updates while we’re traveling to Chicago!)
• Being a faithful ambassador for Yummie Tummie
• At the Nikon party with Carson Kressley thanks to Miss Britt for letting mebe her tag along.
• Wearing Sorrelli jewelry (thanks to Angie!)
• Attending the hottest parties of the weekend (hopefully not as a wallflower)

If you’re NOT going to be there?

Head on over to @BlogHerAtHome. It’s a fabulous site created by my buds Nic and Jenn for those of you who are partying along at home. There’s giveaways (including a masthead design from Yours Truly) and a butt load of other goodies.

So Karen and I are working on amalgamating our design businesses into one. We’ve thought long and hard about the process and what we want to come of it, but being that we’re so far apart (distance wise) and on different schedules – as well as completely distracted by SHINY! – we haven’t had a chance to nail things down.

With Craftastrophe ad revenue and design fees, items are starting to get lost in the PayPal shuffle, and while we try diligently to align our funds and create a stable business model, our work related chats turn into a mess of laughter and utterly and completely off topic. Probably why we’ve been sitting on this daunting task for the past six months, but hey: at least we’re enjoying it!

me: Do we want to make a rate that we chard each other for graphics / coding?

*Instead of ‘drop the Cosby’s at the pool‘ we changed it to ‘drop The Gosselin’s at the pool’ during our LONG drive to the Boston BlogHer Reach Out Tour last fall.

I couldn’t tell you how I found her, but Casey and I hit it off almost immediately. I can recall one of our first lengthy conversations being into the wee hours of the morning as I tried valiantly to save Teh Internets after Casey had been poking around in her design files. Her amazing wit and humour made me cry tears of laughter as we worked our way through. That lady, she’s quite funny under pressure, yanno?

Over time, we would talk here and there… but our relationship really never blossomed past she talks to me when she breaks her blog a few chats and email conversations until this past spring when she opened her home to me. Casey -  not really knowing me past a computer screen – offered a place for me to stay (which snowballed into half of Canada but whatever) so I we could be at her side to walk for our friends’ little girl. She let us into her home without batting an eye; she let us sleep in her daughter’s room without second thought.

She’s been my friend with no expectations except for saving her blog on a few occasions.

I don’t know her middle name (or if she even has one) or her favourite treat. I don’t know her worst fear or best memories; but I do know that she’s genuine, loving, compassionate and super friendly.

I know that Casey would do anything she possibly could to help a friend in need.

That’s more than enough for me.  I am proud and honoured to have her as my friend.

Casey and Moosh

She’s introduced me to Chick-Fil-A (LOVE!) and deep fried cornballs sweet corn fritters; she’s made me laugh until I cry. She’s been supportive, loving and a wonderful to so many people, including me.

I can truly say that she’s one of the most important people in my life.

Today Casey starts another chapter in her quest for Moosh 2.0.

Please take a moment to stop by and send her some words of encouragement as she dopes up her vagina(s) and prepares for some uterine housekeeping.

I love you Casey! You’re in my thoughts and I’m (virtually) holding your hand.

And one more request: Britt had a request to see #caseysuterus as a trending topic on twitter today. If that really could happen? It would probably be the most awesome thing ever. (You know, next to shiny clean ovaries and what not.) ~ says Casey.

*pictures were shamelessly lifted from Casey’s Flickr.