DAY THREE, SATURDAY
Part One: They Vacuum Carpets, Don't They?
The baby's breakfast consisted of a couple handfuls of swag bag fruit puffs tossed on the floor of the hotel room.
Part Two: It Takes A Village
I once again attempted to attend an actual panel at the actual conference that I had paid actual money for -- this time with the Vaginally Challenged Men of Blogher. When I walked in, Ezra was asleep, but oh, no, that did not last very long at all. Luckily, there were plenty of women around us willing to offer us various forms of baby-amusement: toys from their swag bags, handfuls of Quaker cereal, their noses.
The first time he squawked an emphatic "EEEEEEEHHHHHHHHAAAAA," it was funny, and all the faces that spun around to stare at us were sympathetic and amused. By the third or fourth time, not so much, and when I caught a definite glare of "ENTITLED MOMMYBLOGGER" from a few rows up, we got up and left. Which was a shame, because it was a good panel, except that apparently NO ONE on that panel was sleeping with ANYONE in the audience, except for like, THEIR WIFE, or whatever. Booooring!
Part Three: Amy Storch, Star Of Such Films As "The Internet" and "Getting Too Big For Her Old Navy Britches"
At lunch, my tablemates and I were approached by a marketing type offering entry into a contest for a new MacBook. As my current MacBook is in need of a new motherfuckingboard (I believe that's the technical term for it, I am pretty sure), I enthusiastically agreed. As she explained the rules, she stopped and mentioned that I looked VERY FAMILIAR and asked my name.
ME: (all smuggish asshole-like) Amy. Amalah.
HER: And your blog name?
ME: (less smuggish asshole-like) Amalah. Dot Com.
AMY: (holds up business card, points) Eh?
It turns out that she thought I looked like some local newsperson's daughter, or something. I get that a lot, I told her.
(Actually, despite the fact that I get a good 25 PR pitches A DAY over email, not one single PR or marketing person at the conference had ever heard of me or my blog. Which means there are either 1) waaaaaay too many PR and marketing types out there targeting bloggers, or 2) the ones who send me pitches are not really reading my blog like they claim to. Whichever could it be!!)
Part Four: Stop! Paneltime.
Things I did not bring to our panel on Pop Culture & Gossip & Feminism & What We All Think About Gwyneth Paltrow & Jon & Kate:
1) My notes
2) Something in lieu of notes to serve as a Fidgeting Prop that would keep me from doing weird twisty things with my hands the whole time, as can be seen here.
Ezra tried to participate in the proceedings, first by shrieking, as if to bring to mind the level of discourse in the comments section at Perez Hilton, then by attempting to climb up a microphone stand like a stripper pole, as meta-commentary on the sexualization of young celebs these days, and finally, in a brilliant bit of performance art about the plight of the drunken young starlet, by passing out cold on the stage:
Photo shamelessly swiped from Poobou.
Photos I actually got permission to use, by Suzanne at Twentyfouratheart
As for all the other photos floating around from this panel, and hell, the whole conference, I would just like to ask my chin, which since getting pregnant decided to melt downwards and eat my neck in every photo: WTF, chin?
("In every photo." Ha! Because it can't be that I actually LOOK LIKE THAT, with the double saggy chin. No, there must be something wrong with your camera. You should get a new one. I hear Nikon does good work.)
Part Five: Quality Assurance Standards Are Slipping
The baby's dinner consisted of a lamb lollipop and five mini Beef Wellington hors d'ourves at the official conference cocktail party.
Incompetent mothering? MOI?
(Photo stolen from AngellaD. My word, I am a TERRIBLE example for the children.)
The Beef Wellingtons left a ton of greasy pastry crumbs all over my dress -- my last clean dress, my last clean ANYTHING, really -- but the highlight of my babywearing weekend was looking down at some point and seeing my baby gnawing on a giant hunk of meat. Meat that I did not give him. So I immediately became suspicious of my fellow party-goers, asking them, "Who the hell gave my baby meat? Did someone seriously come up and hand him MEAT?"
That's when I realized that it had fallen out of the last Beef Wellington he'd eaten about 20 minutes before and he'd been saving it in the sling for later. Also that it was probably a good thing that I was leaving him with a babysitter again that night.
Part Six: In Which I Eat A Lot Of Cheeseburgers
And steal MORE PHOTOS from poor Angella (pictured here with me and everybody's favorite person, Isabel from AlphaMom). This is absolutely no way to repay her for stopping me from heading outside the hotel at 1:30 in the morning in search of an ATM so I could pay my sitter after the party.
I kept saying, "There's one in the hotel, right?" And everybody else kept saying, "No, actually, I don't think there is." And then I'd say, "Y'all are drunk. I'm sure there's an ATM in the hotel. Or close by. Probably not more than a couple blocks. I'll go look!"
Angella lent me the money for the babysitter. (AND my chin is behaving in every photo of me in her Flickr stream. Clearly her camera is working just fine. GAH.)
Man, who knew the apple juice from McDonald's could interfere with your thought processes and judgment like that?
I went back to my room, and not to be outdone by CERTAIN ROOMMATES who decided to stay out partying until FIVE IN THE MORNING, MISS CHICKY, I opted to pack instead of sleeping. And dance around the room listening ABBA on my iPod. Because...yeah.
Part Seven: The End
The next morning Ezra woke up with a cold, a slimy disgusting cold that he smeared all over every surface of our room and the back of my shirt while in the Ergo. It was time to go home.
There are so many more people that I should mention, link to, rave about. So, so many. I will say this, though -- I sense some people left Blogher disillusioned, irritated, and concerned about the future of our little corner of the blogosphere. That "community" word, again, imperiled.
I didn't. I left invigorated. Inspired. Pledging to do better and be better. To not show up next year and admit to someone that I've read them for YEARS, despite never commenting or linking to them. (Just like I did last year!) To make sure that if you're in my Google Reader, YOU KNOW IT, either by my comments or your URL on my much-neglected and terribly-out-of-date links page. To not talk to you, but with you. Because you -- collective you, general-sense you -- are all incredible. And you've helped make my life incredible, PR pitches and trips and swaaaaaaaaaaag aside. Jesus Christ, that baby you met this weekend? I get to stay home with him every day, all the time, and write stuff on the Internet because of you.
Thank you. So much. I'm sorry if I don't say that enough, in words or deeds.
Ezra fell asleep in my arms as our plane took off, and didn't wake up until after we landed.
We both had a great time, honest.