BlogHer: Night One

Please. People. STOP CALLING ME and asking me WHERE I AM, WHY AM I NOT DOWNSTAIRS, WHY AM I MISSING THE OFFICIAL CONFERENCE KICK-OFF. I got about 20 minutes of sleep, I am hungover, jet-lagged, there is some jackass HAMMERING OUTSIDE MY ROOM and I still don't understand how to work the shower.

This is pretty much the most I can say right now:

All things considered, it's probably the best we could hope for.

Dispatches From the Wee Small Hours of the Morning

Well. I am here in California. I survived two flights, including the Scariest Connection Ever at the L.A. airport, where I was quite literally herded out towards a dumpster on the side of a runway and told in Spanish to wait for a bus, a bus that was labeled with every airline that WAS NOT THE AIRLINE I NEEDED, but everyone who looked sort of official just kept nodding and pointing at the bus and I actually thought for a few minutes that I was going to be deported.

I was not deported. In case you were wondering. I am, as I said, here in California. I don't know if das boot is off my car (we had more than two unpaid parking tickets more than 30 days old is what we did, only replace "two" with "seven" and "30 days" with "assorted lengths of time, topping maybe five months or so"), my hotel room smells funny and I don't understand how to work the shower.

I am going to go find the bar. Here is something I wrote many, many hours ago, when the day was young and runway dumpsterless, at the airport in Washington, DC.

All checked in. As usual, I'm ridiculously early, nervous as all hell and regretting my choice of travel clothes.

I'm not a nervous flyer. I'm a nervous traveler. I am a nervous airporter.

Oh. My God. I hate airports. 

I'm actually the person who calms down once I’m on the plane, because that’s the only way I'm satisfied that I really, really won't miss my damn flight.

So I show up hours earlier than I have to and quietly freak out at the sight of any lines, because OMG LINES WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE. I'm always totally fascinated by those people who are cutting it so close they have to get called to the front of the check-in line in order to make their flight -- how are they not weeping? Pushing and fighting and biting their way through the crowd and knocking small children over with their luggage?

And also, how dare they get to cut in front of me. You might make me miss my flight, motherfucker. You know, the one that's four hours from now.

The thing is, I've never missed a flight in my entire life, except for one connection in Florida that I knew full well that I was going to miss before I boarded the first flight, yet tried to run for it anyway and then ended up nearly missing my back-up connection, and I would go into more detail about that exercise in terror except that I have a sneaking suspicion that I wrote about it when it happened, like DUDE. I've been blogging so long I've officially run out of fresh life experience to draw from.

Also, talking about that story is bad luck because I have a connection in L.A. today and I may have jinxed myself now and gaaaaaah I will not relax until I’m on THAT flight and that’s not for many more damn hours and I have no Valium.

We also aren't even going to talk about what a wreck I’ll be the first time I fly anywhere with Noah, mostly because the logistics make me twitch but also because WE ARE NOT TALKING ABOUT NOAH WHOSE SLEEPING, DOWNY HEAD I KISSED GOODBYE THIS MORNING AND WAAAAH.

I'm actually kicking it old school right now, as I'm scribbling all this nonsense down on an actual paper notebook so as to save my laptop battery for the flight.

I hate writing longhand, as my handwriting is really, really slow and I'm invariably tripping over thoughts for three sentences later and I just can't keep up. Plus, when I go to retype it, I'm always a little embarrassed. There's just something about seeing my words written out in my awful chickenscratch that reminds me of the terribly earnest and just plain terrible writing I did back in high school and college.

Plus, I'm balancing the notebook on my lap and my hand is cramping.

There's an empty table over there in the food court, but it's more than my approved safety zone of five feet from my gate and therefore unacceptable as I could totally miss the call for boarding.

The one that should be coming any hour now.

Das Boot

Or, From the Department of Yes. Yes! This Right Here is Totally What I Need Right Now

We interrupt (okay, "mercifully kill") today's liveblogging spectacular (okay, "spectacularly boring") with some breaking news:

Son of a bitch.

No, seriously. This is so totally awesome of you, District of Columbia.

Okay, yes. We probably deserve it. In fact, it's probably a bit of a goddamned miracle that we've never been booted before, but...but...

*looks down, kicks a rock and mutters some profanities*

Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to have a margarita or four and really get this packing party started, and by "started" you know I mean "shot straight to hell, ensuring that I will arrive in California with a suitcase full of sweaters, ugly shoes and diamanté pasties."

Packing Diary IV: Live on Ice

Semi-real-time blogging! Right here, all day long! Get ready to refresh like you have never refreshed before! Or to get really bored, lose interest and wander off somewhere else entirely!

8:28 am: Wake up, gloriously late. Or maybe not so damn glorious, as Noah is in the evil clutches of a major sleep meltdown and pretty much howled his head off all night.

8:29: Heh. Heh. Leaving him with the in-laws. Heeeeeeeeeh.

8:32 But Noah's excitement at being retrieved from his crib? The bouncing? The smiles? The great!big!hugs? Oh man. OH MAN.

8:45 Coffee. Bottle. Everybody's happy.

8:47 Sounds of dog, puking.

8:58 Retrieve yesterday's coffee cup from random shelf on wall. Ew.

9:10 Dude. I smell.

9:13 BLUUUUUE'S CLUUUUUES! I am so damn excited.

9:14 Should really start making a packing list, or something.

9:15 OMG it's the 100th episode spectacular! Steve and Joe! Reunited! I may very well faint.

9:45 Ok, ok. Must think about packing. Must think about how to pack with a semi-toddler-type person wandering around.

9:46 More coffee is definitely required.

9:47 Hey look! The Wednesday Advice Smackdown! Still kind of crazy, that.

9:53 Ok, ok, OK! Will start with carry-on bag.

9:54 Contents are something like: laptop, two laptop batteries, charger, phone, charger, iPod, charger, wallet, charger, lip gloss, charger, compact, charger, charger, charger

10:50 Since my last update, I have: drank two more cups of coffee, eaten Noah's Cheerios, been the proud recipient of a YoBaby yogurt raspberry, emailed several people to freak out about various BlogHer freak outs, emailed this sexy mama using way, waaaay too many exclamation points and various aeeeeeeeeeiiiii! sounds, watched Noah disintegrate into some kind of exhaustified, yogurt-hating tantrum, been bitten.

10:53 Things I have not done: packed, thought about packing, showered.

11:30 please take a nap please take a nap oh my god please take a nap

12:07 You don't have to tell me I have a problem. I already know I have a problem.

12:08 I also already know that I STILL look like crap.

12:15 Nap? What? No nap! Naps suck!

12:16 *weeps*

1:21 I have just put a hysterical, punch-drunk tired baby down for a nap, despite the fact that he is not napping, or down, but is standing in his crib, furiously protesting. Now I am upstairs, ignoring the protest, and sorting through my tank tops. Please don't judge me.

1:24 *wall-rattling THUMP*

1:25 silence

1:26 Um. Shit?

1:28 Noah is sound asleep in his crib. Thumping sound was actually just Sing Along Blue, who was hurled mightily from the crib with his last ounce of tantrumstrength.

1:37 Ok, on to the MAJOR ISSUES, PEOPLE: black pointy stilettos or black strappy espadrilles? Also, is it silly to bring pink Prada sandals despite not really having any clothes that match pink Prada sandals, but what if I get out there and realize that lo, what this outfit really needs is a pair of pink Prada sandals? I mean, WHAT THEN, INTERNET??

1:53 Made real progress there for a few minutes -- carefully laid out an entire pair of jeans and one whole shirt, lined up seven pairs of shoes to stare contemplatively at -- then turned around and saw that the cat decided to make a bed on the jeans and shirt and then the dog threw up in the suitcase.

2:01 I just sewed up a ripped seam in a skirt. With a needle and thread and everything. And I did a really bad job and the thread is the wrong color. I am so freaking proud of myself.

2:14 What, you call that a NAP? THAT WAS NOT A NAP. NO NO NO NO.

2:17 Sigh.

2:18 Yesterday I had a babysitter. And so his nap was naturally three hours long and cost me $30.\

2:57 Am officially auctioning off the damn pets on eBay. Ceiba (for those of you who asked, and I'm guessing your next question will be WHY AM I READING COMMENTS INSTEAD OF PACKING) keeps eating Max's food and then promptly yakking it up. I take it away and then Max looks at me, all mournful and starving-like, so I put his bowl back down. He sniffs it and huffs away in disgust, and then Ceiba dashes in, chows down and the cycle of non-digestion goes on. Sigh. Also discovered Max ate the strap off one of my most favorite sundresses. WHOREPETS, the lot of them.

3:00 Pretty much the Worst Idea in the History of the Packing World: "Gee, I am really bored with the music on my iPod. Maybe I should just pop on over to iTunes really quick and download a couple new songs."

3:23 OH MY GOD I NOW OWN MORE CRAPPY ONE-HIT WONDERS THAN COULD BE CONSIDERED IRONIC.

4:09 laptop battery dying packed the charger already am dumbass shit

4:51 Also a Really Good Use of My Preshus Time: Uploaded about seventy dozen new pictures to Flickr.

6:26 GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

6:27 All is lost. I hate all my clothes. I am tired of doing laundry. I finally got the suitcase to zip and then realized the massive bag o' cosmetics is still down in the bathroom.

6:28 And excuse me, did someone say something about having to go to the AIRPORT tomorrow? And get on a PLANE? And FLY? On a PLANE?

6:29 Motherfucking snakes. Motherfucking planes!

7:13 OH FORGET MOTHERFUCKING SNAKES. I HAVE JUST LEARNED THERE IS A MOTHERFUCKING BOOT ON MY MOTHERFUCKING CAR.

More Deep Thoughts About Leaving

Forget missing Noah and the mommy guilt and the blah blah weepcakes. We've got bigger things to worry about...

We've got snakes! On a motherfucking plane!

But If I Weren't Leaving You

 So. I leave for California on Thursday, to attend this little bloggy-type shindig conference thing. (You may have heard about it? I don't know. It seems like it may have been discussed recently on a blog or two or four thousand, yawn.)

I leave on Thursday, but would just like to point out that Noah does not leave on Thursday.

In what seemed like a super swell idea a few months ago, Jason proposed taking a mini-vacation post-BlogHer. I leave on Thursday. He leaves on Saturday, after dropping Noah off with his grandparents. Then we return on Wednesday, refreshed and invigorated from a few blissful days of sleeping in and champagne for breakfast and also sleeping in. (Jason: Also sex! Amy: Okay, but only if it doesn't impose on the sleeping in.)

Now that the trip and the reality of non-refundable airline tickets are upon us, this does not seem like such a super swell idea. It seems like a HORRIBLE IDEA. THE WORST IDEA WE EVER HAD, AND PEOPLE, WE PAINTED OUR LIVING ROOM ORANGE.

So I have lately been dealing with this absolutely horrible, terrible idea of ours (we also painted our front door purple. PURPLE!) by pretending that I am not actually going anywhere. I have not packed, or even considered packing. When I get excited emails from blogging friends about BLOGHER! BLOGHER!, I smile wanly and talk about how great it will be to finally meet everybody in person, and then I go drink some tequila.

Yesterday I decided to give myself a little pre-BlogHer pedicure, and then put my shoes on before the polish was completely dry. So judging by my feet, I've actually done NEGATIVE preparation for the trip. I found a suitcase at TJ Maxx to replace the one I kind of broke in New York when it got stuck in an elevator door and I decided that brute force is waaaay better than pressing the "Door Open" button, but then I didn't actually buy the suitcase. I don't know.

I did type out a very detailed schedule for Noah, working from the assumption that Jason and our parents are complete idiots who would feed him a buckets of raw KFC if I did not specify that Noah can eat "SMALL cooked pieces of chicken."

So. Things I Must Do Before Thursday:

1) Teach Noah to express his needs verbally, lest no one remember to clip his fingernails.

2) Illustrate the concept of "sometimes Mama says bye-bye and it's for a little while, but Mama will alway come back because Mama loves you more than anybody on earth, even Daddy, who by the way doesn't feel guilty about leaving you AT ALL, NOT ONE LITTLE BIT, so perhaps you could knock off the delighted screams of delight whenever you see him, or at least try to not KICK MAMA IN THE FACE in your attempts to get to Daddy, but actually, never mind, kick me all you want if it means you won't forget about me, ME, MEEE, I LOVE YOU BAYBEEEEE, WAAAH."

(I'm not sure how to best illustrate that one. I am thinking finger puppets?)

3) Actually purchase suitcase or simply start tossing clothing into a large plastic trash bag, claim it's performance blog art.

4) Locate various batteries and chargers for about four dozen different pieces of electronic equipment, including my brand-new webcam, purchased just so I can watch Noah and pretend that he totally can see me and won't forget about me! And that he cares! See! NOAH! See Mama? Hi! Hi! I am in the computer Noah! Noah! Over here! Over...okay, that's fine! Grandma is great, isn't she! We LOVE Grandma! What? Oh, um. Yeah, hang on. (turns around) People? Could you please stop flashing my webcam? My mother-in-law is not impressed. Thanks.

5) Re-do pedicure.

Anyway, due to the unrelenting march of time, it appears that Thursday will come, ready or not. And I will leave. And I can only hope that the actual leaving will not feel like the actual severing of limbs with a chainsaw.

City of Mine

Yesterday I had a meeting down in Georgetown -- the part of Georgetown where foot traffic kind of dies and there isn't a beauty product to be purchased for several blocks. I took the bus, because I am Industrious and Independent, and as I was walking (okay, more like tottering gingerly over the cobblestones in my stupidly high heels) towards my destination I passed a man who had just parked his car.

A very nice, newish Acura. With leather interior. And Virginia plates.

He unloaded some milk crates from his trunk onto a little hand truck.

The milk crates were stuffed full of newspapers and plastic grocery bags.

A cardboard sign and a beat-up Big Gulp cup were attached to the crates with a bungee cord.

As he stepped away to feed the meter, I got a better look at the sign.

HOMELESS VET. HUNGRY PLEASE HELP. GOD BLESS.

I stopped and stared at him. He was wearing ripped jeans and several flannel shirts despite the broiling heat and humidity. I watched him swipe a credit card through the high-tech meter, pocket his receipt and then merrily make his way up M St., up to where the sidewalks are a sea of shopping bags and outstretched cups of change, with the hand truck bumping and clattering on the sidewalk behind him. He didn't care at all that I had seen it all and was still standing by his car, staring after him. I think he started whistling.

I didn't know whether to yell at him or call him an asshole or indignantly snap a camera phone picture of him, or his car, or his license plate, or what.

I just walked away instead. It really wasn't anything I didn't already kind of know.  It was just concrete evidence for a working theory.

Later, while waiting for the bus home, another man approached me. He was dirty and smelled bad.  He asked for a quarter for food, and the fingernails on his extended hand were long and crusty and yellow.

I gave him a dollar. He said God bless and kind of bowed. Then he walked away, whistling.

The Kind of Thing I Should Probably Keep to Myself

I just watched Blue's Clues. By myself. While Noah was napping.

And yeah. I knew exactly where the remote was.

Today's question: What does Blue want to buy at the store?

Today's clues: Numbers, lines and a block of wood.

So I was thinking, okay, obviously the lines go on the wood, although I was a little thrown by the lack of a mirror, but the continuity errors on this show do kind of drive me nuts sometimes (how many doors to the backyard ARE THERE, especially since the front of the house is approximately six feet wide, and also, on the "Bedtime Business" episode they made a huge fricking deal about the special notebook that was soft and puffy like a pillow, yet everytime we saw Joe draw a clue it was OBVIOUSLY just the regular old paper notebook, and yeah, I did write a letter, like, what are we supposed to believe it's some kind of "magic notebook" or something? Jesus.), so um. I was willing to overlook the lack of a mirror.

The numbers kind of confused me, unless they were a measurement for just how much blow Blue wanted to buy, or possibly she didn't want to buy cocaine at all, but was planning to barter with a crack whore for the monetary equivalent in sexual favors, and the block of wood was just there in case an agreement couldn't be reached and Joe needed to smack that bitch up.

OR maybe the numbers were a symbol of a mysterious universal force that has brought all these strange animated household items together in this tiny little house, from whence no one escapes, except Steve, who went to "college," despite having the mental acuity of an ironing board and regulary needing guidance from preschoolers to make it through his day. That would possibly explain why the salt and pepper shakers came from France, but doesn't further the storyline about why a fucking sidetable drawer can talk but Blue can't, unless she's in her weird little hatbox playroom, which, DUDES.

It also doesn't explain why the plastic shovel doesn't wear clothes yet still requires pyjamas, but maybe next season will get around to that. My pet theory is that Joe is actually in a coma following a bicycle accident and will awake to find himself in a home for mentally disabled adults, where "Blue" is actually his deaf-mute roommate who thinks he's a cross-dressing police detective, and then they'll all teach us an important lesson about bike helmet safety.

Anyway. Turns out Blue wanted a ruler. I was pretty close though.

God, I love this show.

Sing Along Blue, who was only vaguely purchased for Noah.

Recycled

Gah! The cursor! It blinks! The page! It is very white and blank!

Lately I have been suffering from the deadly combination of Writer's Block + Unbelievable Laziness. I have topics all picked out and lined up neatly in my brain (Things We Have To Fix Before We Can Move, or the Ballad of the Sort-of-Broken Toilet; Adventures in Homemade Baby Food That I Made, At Home, and the Various Manners In Which It Was Rejected; and finally My Dog: Do You Want Her?) and then I go to write about them and...and...huh.

I wonder what is on TV? (HINT: PROJECT RUNWAY.)

I wonder if I could beat my top score in Hexic? (HINT: I RULE! PWNED!)

I wonder if I could take a nap? (HINT: YES.)

And I wonder if I could mightily abuse the whole work-related purpose of having a part-time babysitter by spending all of Friday afternoon getting my hair cut and colored, which combined with babysitting costs meant the whole afternoon cost a bloody fucking FORTUNE, despite being just one  day after I learned that my highest-paying freelancing gig is gone, over and done with, andwhile I don't mind the "less work" part, I was shocked to hear that they will no longer be sending me checks. Checks of money! No more! That hardly seems fair at all.

(Oh right. I was supposed to end that one with a question mark and an all-caps HINT. Um. HINT: MY ASS IS BROKE, BUT MY HAIR NO LONGER MAKES ME CRY.)

So I end up not writing anything at all, beyond my cheerful sunshiney and contractually obligated blather over at the ClubMom blog, where I have to say things like "bullcrap" instead of "horseshit" and "heck" instead of "hell" and "oh fudge" instead of "fuck you, whore." 

And...yeah. That's all I've got for today too. Except for (glances around the apartment, franctically looking from something not too dusty to re-gift)...a video! Yes!

Although it's not a NEW video or anything, because that would require me knowing how to operate our video camera. And it's...well, not really even an actual video either, now that I think about it. It's more like "photos you've mostly seen before, only in a jazzy order and set to music."

My (other, non-New-Yorker-stroller-adventure-in-the-subway) sister made this for me last Christmas, and since Noah has offically turned into some kind of HUMAN CHILD, WALKING UPRIGHT AND ALL SORTS OF SHIT, I absolutely CANNOT WATCH this without turning into a nostalgic, snuffly mess.

So here. Gaze upon the baby who once was, and weep for the smallness, yet also rejoice for the thick-waisted mother who no longer looks like that either.

Flashback Noah! on Vimeo

Bah

Stupid TypePad was down for most of the day yesterday, leaving me unable to post or even to comment that I couldn't post. Trust me, I was just as sick of that nanny entry as you were. Oh, she has a nahhhhny now, a nahhhny for her one whole child, ain't life just grahhhhnd for her, the stupid spoiled whore.

(No, I don't know why I imagine y'all with bad British accents either, but I kind of do.)

(You are also prone to pinching imaginary monocles when you talk.)

Hi. Yeah, I may still be drunk. Because I was last night, obviously, because when I woke up this morning I found the following typed up in a Word document:

TypePad hass been down for hours an hours an OUR. ERS. now. Want to write a durnk post about about Soyouthinkyoucan (beat) DANCE! Boom chicka wow! Exspecially about what's her name the judge with the face that DOESN'T MOVE and you can ALWAYS SEE HER BOTTOM TEETH and when she tallks it's like her actual vocal cords are the ONLY thing not Botoxed all to hell. Can you imagine being known as the middle judge on a Simon Cowell produced show that makes Paula Abdul seem totally grounded and sober? Duddes.

Hmm. On second thought, maybe it was a good thing that TypePad was down.

Although you also missed out on the THRILLING news that Noah has an ear infection -- ear infection number two, and I can't even blame daycare this time. I will blame the pool. Or his crappy ear-related genetics. Or maybe I will rock it old school and blame my boobs.

However, Noah's infection is a pretty mild one, so we're skipping the antibiotics (thankGodthankGodthankGod) and and hoping he'll fight it on his own (pleaseGodpleaseGodpleaseGod), with some help from Motrin and Hyland's earache tablets.

And whiskey, of course. Which is how I came to be documenting my deep thoughts about Mary Murphy's teeth.

Oh my God. Ear infections are boring. This entry is boring! Why am I still typing ? I am boring!

QUICK! CUT TO THE PHOTO ESSAY.

TODAY'S THEME: "DOOMED"

Standing unassisted.

Opening doors.

Various, sundry plotting.

Oh, crap.

Crap. Crap!

10 whole seconds later.

Deadly, dangerous levels of cute.