Dogged Determination

I got an email the other day from someone asking me if, by any chance, I was ALSO the author of a different blog. Like, a blog beyond any of the other four frillion sites I contribute to, maintained under someone else's name and life story, all sneaky-seekrit-identity-like. 

I cannot even imagine having the copious amounts of free time one would need to pull off something like that, and also the organizational skills. Like, is this the blog where I'm a boring suburban mother-of-two with a penchant for sucker-punching my readers in the vaginas at the end of every post, like "funny funny Star Wars run-on-sentence funny BAM! EMOTIONAL KAPOW! WHO'S CRYING AT WORK NOW, SUCKAH?" Or is this the blog where I'm a fabulously carefree 20-something in Los Angeles who blogs about all the interesting people she sleeps with and spells everything The British Way, because she thinks it makes her sound fancy? Or is this the blog where I'm a 40-something dude who posts a lot of Stargate fanfic and bitches about all the major dramazzz at this year's ComicCon? I AM SO CONFUSED. I DON'T KNOW HOW SUPERMAN DOES IT.

Anyway. So I get this email and click through to the other blog in question -- you know, just to make sure I WASN'T maintaining a second secret blog identity (maybe I had a stroke? or am taking too much melatonin and sleep-driving to all-night Internet cafes?) -- and it was Hyperbole and a Half. Which. You know, MAJOR COMPLIMENT THERE, for anyone to possibly think Allie and I are the same person, even though we have both been repeatedly harassed by vicious geese, because she is so, so much funnier than me. And probably you. I'm sorry, but it's the truth. 

ANYWAY. OH MY GOD. THE POINT! IS! That thanks to that email I got all sucked up into an Archives Vortex, that thing you do when you just start clicking "previous entry" over and over again and then next thing you know it's two in the morning and you're reading stuff from two years ago that you maybe even actually READ two years ago, but it's like when you turn on the TV and there's that one rerun of Cheers or Seinfeld or the Star Trek One With Tribbles and you've seen it before but it's one of your FAVORITES and you have to watch it anyway. Because it's AWESOME, and maybe only reruns once every couple years! This is your chance! Until TV Land reruns it again next Sunday, or whatever.

Wait. Shit. That wasn't actually my point after all. 

No, my point REALLY is that I read this entry about Allie giving her dog an IQ test, and it made me laugh a ridiculously snarffily amount, and then, because it was -- again -- two in the morning, I started eyeing my own dog, who was sleeping on a piece of paper next to her dog bed, probably because that paper was something important and her underside gets all oily in the summer. 

I totally should give her an IQ test, I thought. And then post the results on my blog, which wouldn't be copycat-like at ALL, because one single solitary person thought our writing styles were possibly kind of similar already! We might even be the same person! YOU CAN'T PLAGIARIZE FROM YOURSELF. FACT. THAT'S HOW WORMHOLES GET STARTED. 

At this point I wisely decided to go to bed. 

Only to wake up a few hours later thinking: DOGGY IQ TEST TIME, BITCHES.

Test One: Problem-Solving Ability

This involves hiding a treat under a can, and seeing how long it takes your dog to knock the can over. 

I thought a full-sized can would be unfair for Ceiba, since that would be like me expecting you to knock over one of those orange road-work barrels with only your nose, but using something like a tomato paste can seemed maybe too easy, so I went with a small plastic cup. I hope this does not invalidate my very scientific results.

 

To her credit, Ceiba definitely seemed to know the treat was under that cup, though she was at a complete loss as to what to DO about this confounding conundrum, other than 1) sniff the cup, and 2) stare at me.

 

I DO NOT UNDERSTAAAAAAAAAAND.

 

ALSO, FUCK THIS SHIT.

After a few minutes, it appeared that Ceiba forgot that the treat was even under the cup in the first place, and kept looking for it elsewhere. Over here? Over here? Now back over there again! Wait, over here! Still nothing over here, let's try back over there again!

I thought, perhaps, that my dog is simply a visual learner, and this test was unfairly skewered against her skills, so I switched to a clear glass. Maybe if she could SEE the treat, she'd be a bit more motivated?

 

NO. SERIOUSLY. FUCK THIS SHIT. AND YOU.

Score: 1 point.

Test Two: Escape Skills
 
This one involves tossing a towel or blanket over your dog and seeing how long it takes them to escape.
  
 

WAAAAAAAT.

She actually did pretty well on this one! It took her about 20 seconds to get free, although she did run directly into the TV cabinet first, but the testing criteria doesn't mention any point deductions for headbutting large obstacles, therefore I am awarding her the full 3 points.

(ROCKY FIST-PUMP DANCE!)

Test Three: Social Learning

Stare at your dog. After three seconds, smile at your dog. They're supposed to see this and come over in search of love and validation and who'sagooddog who'sagooddog and etc. At the very least, there should be some tail-wagging. 

Results: Inconclusive, because Ceiba never made it through the initial three seconds of eye contact before she charged over to me, all FOOD? YOU HAVE SOME FOOD? ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME BECAUSE YOU WANT TO GIVE ME SOME FOOD? I WOULD BE HAPPY TO ACCEPT SOME FOOD OH MY GOD WHY ARE YOU SMILING AT ME INSTEAD OF GIVING ME SOME FOOD?

I skipped scoring this one, mostly MY DOG DOESN'T HAVE A TAIL, YOU ASSHOLES. Way to make her feel self-conscious about it.

Test Four: Advanced Problem-Solving

A god-awful hybrid of past failures. Hide the treat under the blanket or towel. See how long it takes dog to find it. 

Results: Ceiba immediately deployed her patented make your beddy digging technique that she uses to, well, make her beddy, before collapsing in an exhausted I've done nothing all day heap. She has also destroyed our couch cushions and multiple decorative throw pillows with it, but BOO-YAH, if it didn't help her find that treat in just over 30 seconds.

 

If you would ever like her assistance in recovering buried dead bodies in the woods, email me. Just make sure they smell like compressed turkey jerky first.

Score: 3 points

(OBNOXIOUS CROWD SOUND EFFECT THAT FRAT GUYS DO THAT ACTUALLY SOUNDS NOTHING LIKE A CROWD)
 
Test Five: Manipulation Skills

This test requires that you build a low table that your dog cannot get her head under. Then you hide a treat underneath it to see if it occurs to her to retrieve it with her paw. This presented a challenge, because 1) my dog's muzzle is the size of a roll of pennies, and 2) my dog has a somewhat long history of getting her head stubbornly stuck in places, so I didn't want to use anything that could possibly crush her puny head like the overripe plum that it is.

I went with a heavy package of Ikea curtains I've been meaning to hang up since, oh, 2006, propped up by couple Sookie Stackhouse novels. 

Since I wasn't sure if that was Ceiba's preferred vampire franchise, I added a magazine with Taylor Lautner on top. 

The results were astounding. It took Ceiba less than three seconds to retrieve the treat. Unfortunately, she went with violent brute force instead of dexterity...

 

IMMA GUNNA EAT U

 

YEAH. I FUCKED THAT SHIT UP RIGHT. *Z SNAPS*
 
Score: Obvious test proctor error. Student should not be penalized. 3 points. 

Test Six: Language Recognition

An easy one: Shout random words at your dog in the same tone you usually use to call her name and see if she knows the difference. If she stays put, call her name. If she comes only to her name, congratulations! Your dog is not a complete moron.

Words Ceiba responded to in a super-excited, running-over-and-jumping and OMGOMGOMG fashion: Refrigerator, movies, tangerine, Sookeh, dumbass.

Words Ceiba ignored completely: HER ACTUAL NAME.

Score: 1 point for enthusiasm; sticking the landing. 

Ceiba's final score was a measly 11 points, which puts her in the Your dog is not too bright, but is most likely very cute range, and thankfully the testing website did not include a caveat or asterisk that added "provided you find seizing hummingbird-eared hamsters on stilts to be 'very cute'" or something. 

Basically, I just spent an entire morning scientifically proving (and documenting!) something that I (and the Internet!) already really knew: My dog is pretty damn dumb.

 

Good thing she coordinates with our floors so nicely. 

Not Exactly Fearless Blogging

About 10 minutes or so into the Blogging Autism panel at BlogHer, the table surface started to get all fuzzy and my eyeballs felt hot. "Shit, I'm not gonna make it," I mumbled to Christina, as we'd already briefly debated the odds of getting through the session without crying.

Nothing had even been SAID yet, beyond introductions to the panelists and the theme for the discussion, and yet there I was, hiding my reddening face behind my conference schedule as the weight of the previous days with Noah decided to drop from the ceiling and land squarely on my chest.

"It's just been a really bad week," I whispered as my neighbors patted my back and scrambled for tissues, probably wondering what the HELL had managed to happen in that 10-minute timespan, because I'd all but floated in like, WHAT UP BITCHES, LET ME ENTERTAIN YOU WITH ANECDOTES AND EXAGGERATED HAND GESTURES. ALSO, MY SHOES ARE CUTE, NO?

Just a few days before, Noah had a panic attack. A really, really bad one. And while we've certainly dealt with anxiety and freak-outs in the past, this was...different. Worse. Especially because goddammit, wasn't he doing so much BETTER, a few weeks ago? We're supposed to be moving forward, onward, upward. So why are we rewinding? 

And so I sat there, trying to squeeze the image of Noah's furious balled-up little fist swinging at (and making contact with) Jason's face out of my brain, along with the bewildered, terrified face he had immediately after, his wide eyes desperate with guilt and fear over that involuntary fight-or-flight gesture. A few minutes later, he'd kick me in the chest while screaming NO HANDS, NO HANDS! at the top of his lungs. 

A half hour later, his hands would still be shaking, his breathing ragged.

(I wrote a little bit about this night over at The Stir, but for the sake of completeness here: This was all over a Star Wars DVD. One of his little friends had told him The Phantom Menace was kind of scary. We assured him it really wasn't. By the time Jason pulled the DVD out of the Netflix sleeve, Noah's anxiety amped up to the point of no return, as if the mere presence of the movie in our house would bring about a Ring-like curse of death in seven days, or cause Jar-Jar Binks to climb out of the TV and annoy the living shit out of us for all of eternity.)

(Fucking Jar-Jar, man.)

I sat there, as the full realization and possible implications of what another violent panic attack could mean for Noah hit me for the first time, now that we've decided to fully cast our lot in with the public school, where a child who hits or breaks things can be quickly yanked from the inclusion track and tossed in the self-contained "intensive needs" unit. Would this happen again? Will this be a "thing?" A new thing or just a new symptom of his other things? Will he need medication? I don't want to put him on medication. I don't want that attack to ever happen again. I don't want him to be scared. I want him to feel safe. He was doing so well. I know these things are never linear but I WANT LINEAR. BECAUSE HE WAS DOING SO WELL. 

If I hadn't been so utterly mortified to be crying in the first place, I probably would have punctuated my internal monologue with an "it's not FAIR" fist bump to the the table. 

The discussion, by this point, had turned to the myths of autism -- namely, the uber-negative portrayal we all know from the media, that a Spectrum or sensory diagnosis dooms your child and family to a life sentence of misery, because it's just so "awful" and "sad" to be forever tied to a child who cannot love or laugh or live any meaningful life -- you know, because they're too busy hand-flapping in the corner and calculating out Pi to the 3.000th decimal, while you change their adult diapers and spoon-feed them pudding. 

Everyone in the room laughed at the suggestion of the "misery." 

And so did I. 

 

Loud, and long, and clear.

 
 

BlogHer, Part Two

And now the full story can be told.

I arrived in New York with no less than 1,200 glow bracelets in my luggage. And two pounds of unicorn-shaped confetti. 

If I'd had my full control-freak way with everything, I would have been carrying 1,000 glow necklaces with me too, but Jason had a moment of common sense early Thursday morning and lugged those boxes to FedEx instead. I'd also, at one point, lobbied for driving to New York so I could have physical possession of 800 packets of Pop Rocks, 500 unicorn-horn lollipops, a 100 or so posters and half a dozen life-sized cardboard stand-ups of Darth Vader and Spock and the Jonas Brothers and our Commander-in-Chief. 

(All of these, by the way, I ordered from a coffee shop one morning during our power outage, spending literally HOURS scrolling through a dizzying array of posters, trying to find that perfect balance of GOOD pop culture crap and IRONIC pop culture crap. And then this guy was waiting for a seat and loudly bitching about how crowded it was and how rude everybody with laptops was being, saying something like, "I mean LOOK, some of them are JUST SHOPPING!")

("JUST SHOPPING." YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH, SIR. THIS FAIRYLAND UNICORN POSTER IS a) VERY IMPORTANT, and b) TOTALLY DOPE.)   

If you bumped into me on Saturday, chances are the frayed edges of my nervous breakdown were starting to show. Don't get me wrong, planning Sparklecorn was 100% a labor of love and privilege and squee for Tracey and I, starting many, MANY months ago when we sat down with Mary Alice at Charm City Cakes, discussing the physics involved in a bucking unicorn cake, fighting back choking on our own tongues when Duff Goldman walked in. 

It was also a party with over 10 times the number of guests that attended my own WEDDING. 

But after a brief meeting with the Hilton events people, things seemed...okay. Together. Smooth-ish. They were like, "Yeah, we got this. It's kind of what we DO." I calmed down enough to participate in a dance-off with CoolMomPicks (SPOILER: I LOST) before heading to my room to get all dressed up and glittery, confident that I'd arrive in the ballroom just in time to see everything coming together and to toss that unicorn confetti on some tables and get my first taste of a Sparkledew cocktail.

OH. EM. GEE. YOOGUYS.

We walked in to see...rows of chairs. No tables. No dance floor. No cake. No DJ set-up, no disco ball, no posters. Scads of bloggers still milling around and typing on keyboards. The closing keynote had run long, and the room was JUST NOW BEING TURNED, 45 minutes behind schedule, 75 minutes before the party was supposed to begin, and the Hilton people were officially Not Making Any Promises.

And there was nothing we could do about any of it. 

Or was there? DUN DA DA DAAAA!

Tracey sent out a Mamapop-wide S.O.S. email, asking for everyone and anyone to pleeeeeeease get down to the ballroom to help out. Turns out they were already there, waiting outside, and I looked up just in time to see this line of fabulously dressed-up people marching in with looks of singular determination on their faces: Goddamnit, they were here to SAVE SPARKLECORN.

Within seconds, everyone was shoeless and mobilized, grabbing poster after poster and scattering across the room to hang them. Other people wrestled with tape-dispensing duties and assembling Snape and Wizard of Oz stand-ups. I cracked glow-sticks over my knee 100 at a time and we scattered confetti and candy onto the tables as soon as the tablecloths landed on top. 

By 8 p.m. I was hoarse and sweaty and my hair had already gone flat, but DAMMIT, we'd done it, in just under 45 minutes or so.

And it was all so very worth it. I had the best time. It looks like a lot of other people did too.

Official Sparklecorn teaser video

Official Sparklecorn full video

Sparklecorn Flickr group photo pool

(Special thank you to the BlogHer ladies for all the sponsor-finding and hand-holding, our amazing photographer Ryan, and the Mamapop folks: BHJ, Palinode, Schmutzie, Amy, Laurie, Sarah, Kelly, Miss Banshee, Amber, K Best, Katie, Jodi, Marilyn, Melissa, TwoBusy. Thank you to Charlie for bringing me that vodka, and to Jason for remembering that I'd left the fucking glow bracelets in my room.)

(And thank everybody else for sticking with this entry. I leave you with this, from Friday night:)

 

(WHAT? I just think Endless Love is a really, really boring choice for karaoke, and decided to lie down until it was over. WHAT OF IT?)
  

BlogHer, Part One

Oh, hi. I'm at BlogHer. It's exhausting. It's awesome. I just had to get talked off a ledge by a really nice lady in the Hilton Package Room, who cheerfully looked at her computer and was all, "Yes, we have three packages waiting for you." And I was like, 'THREE? THAT'S IT? OH SHIT. OH SHIT." And then I yanked out my laptop to show three dozen or so Sparklecorn-related delivery confirmations like, "BUT I HAVE EVIDENCE! LOOK AT ALL THESE FIREFOX TABS!" 

And then she assured me that you know what? Their computer system is kind of shit. Everything is there, after all. 

As usual, BlogHer is bigger than ever, sponsor-y-er than ever, and more overwhelming than ever. I had one of those panicked moments yesterday when I resorting to Fake Texting on my phone in a hallway just to mask my sudden terror at realizing that there was no one around who I knew, or who knew me, or who seemed relatively open to small talk with a stranger, and I didn't really have anywhere in particular to be and Twitter's gone Fail Whale and OH WOW I FEEL CONSPICUOUS AND AWKWARD. 

So I pretended to tap on my phone for awhile. Then I went back up to my room and stared at the wallpaper.

BEHOLD. I AM A WIDELY-READ BLOGGER IN A SMALL SUBSET OF A SPECIALIZED NICHE IN THE FEMALE SEGMENT OF THE BLOGOSPHERE WHO CANNOT FEND FOR HERSELF IN A CONFERENCE HALLWAY.

The only photos I've taken so far:

1) Riding in a rickshaw with Loralee. If someone would like to cast us as the stars in some predictably adorable romantic comedy about two friends starting over in love and life in the Big City, during which we have many wacky adventures that MAY or MAY NOT include figuring out that miniskirts and rickshaws are NOT THE BEST COMBINATION, feel free to use this photo as the promotional poster:

 

2) Broken blood vessels all across my shoulders from the weight of the swag bags. It's all fun and free shampoo samples until some pasty girl gets hurt:

 

The best parties so far, as usual, have been the swag-free gatherings, chock-full of many (but never all, or even enough) of my favorite, favorite people. Even the one I got hurt at, when Catherine and I decided to launch into a very elaborate interpretative ballet routine while other Mamapop writers sang Total Eclipse of the Heart on the karaoke machine, which ended with both of us flat on the floor with TREMENDOUS DOWNWARD FORCE, but apparently there is some kind of dance-off planned for later to determine who we get to lay the blame for that particular disaster on, so I guess the full details will have to wait. Plus, I have to pee and you would not believe the lines for the ladies' around these parts, you guys. 

P.S. SPARKLECORN COMETH! TONIGHT! 8 PM EAST BALLROOM, WHEREVER THE FUCK THAT IS. OMFG I AM SO EXCITED I COULD PUKE. 

Trees, Knees and God-Knows-What Else (Nonsensical Bullet Point Edition)

I am feeling much better today, thank you. 

Not so much better, mind you, that I am capable of delivering a super-coherent blog entry or anything. I've yet to venture beyond Saltines, white rice and strawberry Jell-O, which means the best I can do for you today are some semi-deranged blood-sugary bullet points. Aren't you excited NOW.

1. Remember the tree that fell down after The Tornado That Apparently Happened While We Were In The Mall? This is what it looks like today:

 

IT'S ALIVE!!!!

No, actually, it's really not. A crew came by last week, hacked off all the branches, removed a couple of smaller trees that this one had taken out on the way down, and then just...propped it back up. And left it. You can still see the separation all around it on the ground, like a giant Christmas tree skirt, the only indication that this tree is NOT ACTUALLY ATTACHED TO ANYTHING, like it used to be. You know, like it was on the day it BLEW THE FUCK OVER. 

Things That Could Possibly Go Very Wrong Here:

     a) Another storm.

     b) Another EARTHQUAKE.

     c) Some goddamned wind. 

     d) Passing texting/drunk/mascara-applying drivers and/or bicyclists.

     e) Birds. Fat ones.

     f) Vicious regenerating zombie trees of the apocalypse.

Things That Could Possibly Go Very Right:

    a) FRIENDLY regenerating zombie trees of the apocalypse.

Moving on.

2) I got a mosquito bite that looks like the devil. Or possibly a very angry bull.

 

Oh, come on. Don't pretend like you don't see it. Just ignore my alarmingly knobby knees and turn your computer screen upside down. It'll come.

3) Robots, take note. You are NOT WELCOME at Noah's summer camp.

 

4) Blogher. I KNOW. The pre-conference freak-out posts on other blogs start earlier and earlier each year, usually ending just in time for me to realize that:

     a) Oh shit, it's Blogher! and

     b) There are Christmas trees at the mall already, MY LANDS.

In honor of our 12th wedding anniversary, I am dragging Jason (hereforeafterever known as Poor Jason) with me this year, and to several of the parties. If you see or approach us, please to be prepared for:

     a) Me to hug you, only in a horribly spastic way that might trigger your instinct to protect your head, and...

     b) Jason to look at you with wide eyes full of terror, and possibly slip you a note promising you one (1) slightly used purse dog or child (your choice) in exchange for safe passage OUT OF THIS CIRCLE OF SOCIAL HELL.

"But it's our ANNIVERSARY," I said to him several months ago. "We CAN'T spend it apart. Blogher will be FUN. You can learn about ISSUES. And MONETIZING. And WOMEN." 
 
I won that argument, so he's coming. Poor Jason.

5) I don't really have a number five. Here is a picture of my baby going down a slide.

I feel like there used to be a lot more slide, and I don't quite know where it went. 

When Life Hands You Lemons, Just Barf Them Up & Be Done With It

Is there anything as heartbreakingly sweet as a child creeping up to you in the middle of the night who doesn't quite have the actual language to describe what's bothering them? 

On Friday night Noah tapped my arm to wake me up, babbling something about how he "didn't keep [his] mouth closed so it all came out everywhere all over the bed." I reached out to touch him and his wet, sticky pajamas filled in the rest of the details for me.

(Wait, did I say something about "heartbreakingly sweet?" Am I high? No, I'm not. But I can explain.)

So first, let's back up to Friday afternoon, when there was a medical disaster of the Fruit Sticker variety for Ezra. Only this time it was not a Fruit Sticker. I know because I double-checked for that. Fool me once, and all. AND I called the doctor. Who told me to bring him in, but in the meantime, to put some Neosporin on it. And what else is Neosporin besides, essentially, medicated Vaseline? Right? Totally. I felt vindicated.

(Diagnosis: Some kind of abrasion of mystery, possibly caused by a very small fingernail belonging to a very curious small hand. You can find out more details in my upcoming book that I made up just now, entitled "THEY TOTALLY GET BONERS: And 250 Other Things Nobody Told You About Mothering Little Boys.")

Anyway, after spending most of the day fussing over the Not A Fruit Sticker problem, Noah came down with a stomach bug, the kind that required our presence every hour on the hour, for many, many hours. Finally he lay shivering in bed and pleaded "DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE," which: awww. And yet, dammm. 

Regardless, it was a good weekend! Turns out my children are at their most-ideal-most-charming setting while semi-recovering from illness or other NOT A FRUIT STICKER indignities. It was such a good weekend, I started saying crazy shit about having another baby OUT LOUD, which Noah unfortunately heard, so Sunday morning started off with him sneaking into our room very early and climbing up on the rocking chair while expressing his DISTINCT REQUEST for a baby SISTER, this time, because he already has a baby brother and that's boring, he wants a SISTER. 

And then he just sort of sat there staring at us for awhile. Like, well? Get on it, you two.

So of course, after refusing to let mysterious penis injuries and projectile vomiting fully remind me as to Why This All Sucks Something, I was way past due for a nice rude wake-up call of suck. Which happened, IRONICALLY ENOUGH, during last night's True Blood*. About halfway through I realized that the violence was actually making me a little queasy. Usually I just sort of bray uncomfortably at it, like HA HA THIS SHOW IS NOT TOO VIOLENT FOR ME OH NO, NO, FOR I AM A SOPHISTICATED GROWN-UP AND GAAAAH HOLY SHIT WHAT TEH FRACK.

So you see where this is going.** I came down with Noah's stomach bug, and then Ezra did too, almost exactly one hour later. Jason changed crib sheets every hour or so, in between holding the poor baby up over the toilet ("ALL DUN!" he shouted desperately, over and over, "ALLDUNNNN!") while I dragged my diseased ass back and forth from the bed to the bathroom and tried to remember to hold my own hair. Jason brought me some ice chips, which I managed to do okay with before getting dehydratingly greedy and deciding to drink two whole sips of the melted water in the bottom of the cup. This did not end well. 

So that was my night! All the way into the wee morning hours. I still am not feeling quite 100%, or even 50%. Pick something in the single digits and we'll talk. At least this is the perfect pre-Blogher crash diet? 

(UGH.)

*GEDDIT? Suck? And...you know...suck? Like vampires? Oh, shut up. 

**You know you've been writing on the Internet too long when one of the FIRST ACTUAL THOUGHTS you have while throwing up in a toilet is that the first person who says anything at all about pregnancy is going to get beaten in the head with a rusty shovel.***

***Way harsh, Tai. I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean that. I just wasn't exactly in the best mood right then, what with the vomiting. Let's just blame HBO's violent prime-time programming instead and make up. You wanna cuddle? I'm curious to know the exact incubation time on this sucker, for Jason's sake.