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All dressed up and heading to NickMom’s Middle School to the Max party with Foxy Wine Pocket and The Keeper of the Fruit Loops. I wanted to kidnap these ladies and hide them in my suitcase.


It’s always best to begin at the beginning. From the moment, I decided to attend BlogU15 in Baltimore I was terrified and thrilled. The “bitch in my head” started to take over my brain and I did my best to quiet her. My flight would be leaving Florida at 6 am on Friday, which meant I needed to be awake at 3 am and in a cab to the airport by 4. Mornings and I are not the best of friends so when I sat straight up in bed at 1 am I decided it best to get dressed, add my last minutes things to my suitcase, and wait. That Tom Petty is spot fucking on because the waiting is the hardest part.

I watched a Harry Potter movie as the time ticked by. Because I was so afraid I would sleep through my cab honking his horn outside my window, I actually ended up pulling out one of the most epic 24 hours without sleep my adult life has ever seen. I’m gonna blame lack of sleep that day on all the biggest unfortunate incident that followed. My complete clumsiness had no bearing on anything – yeah right, on a good day I’m like a baby giraffe learning to walk.

My arrival on the Notre Dame of Maryland campus was a bit of a blur. Except for this amazing story with Audrey, of Sass Mouth. Southern lady, my ass. I finally got to meet (in the flesh) a group of people I’ve been interacting with on the internet for about a year. These women, these glorious and brilliant women, were all I expected and more, as my online world collided with my real life. Surreal would be putting it mildly. I pounded some 5-hour Energy as I would not, could not, miss one second of the precious 48 hours I would have at BlogU. “Sleep is for pussies. I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” was the battle cry on loop in my maxed out brain. And I was doing it too. I attended classes that afternoon, went to dinner, then a party and a fabulous open mic reading. I watched as some of the greatest bloggers of my generation read their masterpieces aloud in front of large crowds. I watched Allen Ginsberg do a live reading in Greenwich Village 21 years ago. The stories I heard at BlogU made Ginsberg seem like a hack. The energy was palpable. My decision to stay awake was the right one. At least until it wasn’t.

When the open mic finished I found myself with my girl, Toni Hammer, as we took an elevator to our respective dorm rooms. As the elevator door opened I fished my small metal room key out of my neck lanyard. While stepping out of the elevator onto my floor I said, “Night, bitch,” and attempted to flourish my right hand in some sort of strangely odd wave. Blame it on the sleep deprivation, or the excitement of where I was and what I was doing, or the fact that I have the coordination of a bear learning the pachanga… my key flew out of my Vulcan death grip and was now airborne. Toni and I watched in slow motion as that silver flash flew through the air and fell… right into the small gap that separated the elevator from the floor. We heard a little ping as it settled at the bottom of the old dormitory. It was a one in a million shot made by the whitest of white girls. I sure picked the wrong time to do a LeBron James impression.

The hour that followed was spent sitting outside my locked dorm room door, waiting for a security guard to let me in. He was a portly fellow who didn’t seem to appreciate the humor of the whole situation. Imagine that? Finally, after a great deal of begging on my part, he let me into my room, I fell into my bed and passed out.

The next day, between classes, I ran to the basement of the building hoping to find my sweet little key sitting there waiting for me. Even a broken clock tells the right time twice a day, but no. Lady luck had decided to flip me the finger as I was able to see my key, about 4 feet lower than where I stood. In the elevator shaft. Fuck.

Campus security made it a point to let me know the elevator company would be coming by to retrieve my key long after the conference was over, so I kept my door unlocked for the rest of the weekend and, not to my surprise, all of my valuables stayed safe and sound. Although, I do think someone stole the chocolate out of my swag bag. Which makes total sense because chocolate and coffee are more valuable to bloggers then someone else’s laptop and cash money.

In 48 hours I made a million amazing memories. My sides and face ached from smiling and laughter. Surrounded by women (and a couple of brave men) I was in my element. These people got me. And I got them. The relationships I solidified in such a short period astound me. I even won the class clown award, which is very surprising because I’m a really serious person who rarely jokes around ever – Ahem.

My only complaint? There wasn’t enough time.

Until next year, BlogU. Adieu.

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What? What?




Getting older can be a real buzzkill. One minute you’re 18 and the world is laid out in front of you like one of those naked chicks acting as a human plate in a European sushi place, and the next minute you’re attempting to do 8 minutes of abs on the floor of your baby’s room but all you hear is your hip cracking with every reverse curl.

It can bring you down. Okay, I’m being nice, it can get you down and make you stay down.

But today I had this epiphany about aging. Although my body and gravity are far from BFF’s now, aging has given me something I never had before… a bit of clarity. Clarity about our place in the universe, and mostly about the feelings I have towards my friendships with other women.

We all know at least one woman that we look at and say, “Damn, girlfriend has got her shit together. I wish I had my shit together like that” and contrarily we also know many who we look at and say, “Bitch needs to get her shit together. I’m so glad I’ve got my shit more together than that.” I think I’ve fallen into both of these categories at some stage of my life. Some more than others. What freaked me out about having these types of attitudes and opinions about other women, was the fact that I’d pegged it as jealously, and the idea that I was jealous of someone else’s success made me feel pretty sick about myself. In hindsight, I wasn’t jealous. Not in the slightest, but I didn’t know better then.

Recently though, I’ve started to realize that being enamored of someone didn’t make me a jealous person. I didn’t want what they had, I didn’t want to take their mojo away from them. Well, maybe I wanted a little bit of their good stuff to rub off on me, but I’m not a mojo sucking vampire. That’s when the truth jumped up and bit me, some people just have that “it” factor. That little thing that makes them a true shining star in your day. Even when their life isn’t going according to plan, even when things are really screwed up, you won’t know because they shine bright in your You-niverse and that’s all you see.

Ironically it took someone, telling me, that I had that “it” factor in their eyes, which brought me to this mind-blowing-moment. Me? Who-the-hell would look at me like that? My first thought? A crazy person, but this is actually someone I love and respect. I was just so floored with this revelation that I needed to take a step back and see myself the way she saw me. Sure I’m old and tired, sarcastic and silly… but maybe, just maybe, on a good day, I can be the center of her You-niverse, that little thing that makes her say, “Hahaha, Yes!”

Women are usually their own worst critic and rarely give ourselves the props we deserve. I’m that type of woman, normally… but I’m gonna bottle up that good feeling from today, take her amazing compliment, keep it in the kitchen, and whip it out when I’m feeling down.

So I guess this is growing up.


The one cool thing about getting older is you give less fucks. I really could care less about what someone thinks about me. Unless it’s someone I actually like, then, of course, I’d prefer that person like me back. All of a sudden I’m in middle school again… I’m the girl in the Gap overalls my Mom got on sale at the outlet stores. See me? Right there… Yup. I vividly remember how hard it was to make friends, form relationships, and feel like I fit in. We lived in a completely different world then. All of my friends lived near me. I rode my bike everywhere, I walked to school.

Now, fast forward what seems like a hundred years and here we are.


Adults with little joiners of our own. And we are watching them forge relationships. Ones that, sometimes unfortunately, we need to be a huge part of. Our children’s childhood friendships come with extra “built in” friends for us. The friend’s parents, sometimes even their siblings befriend our other children. And then you’re not only dealing with you own family dynamic, but you’re forced to blend and mold that to accommodate other families and their dynamics. It’s a balancing act that can sometimes seem like a never-ending siege of power struggles and alpha dogs.

So here is the paradox. What happens when you dislike your kid’s friend? Or worse, the friend’s parents?

Now you’re thrown into social situations with people you would normally distance yourself from. Crazy, right-wing bigot? No thanks, I’m good. Religious, preachy zealot? I gave at the office.

But your kid likes their kid. So now you have to maintain a personal relationship with someone you would normally cross the street to avoid.

I’m just starting to feel the pressure with my oldest child. He has school friends, religious school friends, soccer team friends, and we live in an area that requires plans be made, and followed up with, that’s right, you guessed it, the parents.

I can’t remember the last text message or phone conversation I had that didn’t involve me making plans with an adult I met through my child, so he could play with their child. Ultimately, it is my son’s decision when choosing friends. I only hope that his father and I have given him the proper tools to choose wisely.

I must say, lately, I’ve been pretty lucky. My son seems to be able to sense crazy pretty quickly so he’s figured out the parents and/or children he doesn’t want to be around on his own. Which is AWESOME. Thanks buddy. But this same cycle is already starting with the middle guy, and soon the baby will have friends too. And although I enjoy having a diverse tapestry of relationships in my life I would like to have some personal responsibility about the people I want to weave in.

So although, I really don’t give a fuck about people’s perception of me anymore, I care deeply about how people perceive my children based on my actions. I don’t want to be “that parent”.

The one that people cross the street to avoid.