The Everything Is Okay Alarm

Oh. Hi! We went away there, for a little bit. Off on an exotic vacation, sampling the various regional delicacies of the Maryland shore. Like sand. And plastic beach toys.

I always go back and forth on the whole "tell Internet you're on vacation" vs. "tell Internet you're on vacation and thus your house is empty, the TV is in the living room, jewelry is upstairs, come on over and bust through a window" thing, but this time I simply plum ran out of minutes before we left and didn't get around to updating. And there was no real reliable (and non-forty-damn-dollars-for-two-days-or-something) wifi once we got there. And while I kept MEANING to use my phone to Twitter or Facebook, I just never managed to get around to it, what with all the crazy important sitting-on-my-ass that needed to be done.

Actually, there was one time, one afternoon, while both boys napped under the careful eyes of relatives ("As thanks for the essentially-free beach vacation and for making us pancakes every morning, we present: OUR BRATTY CHILDREN. They both like macaroni and need occasional watering. Bye!"), that Jason and I managed to catch some stray wifi from a nearby hotel. Since it was such a precious commodity, we used it to challenge each other to some virtual Texas Hold'em. I apologize for not alerting the Internet to my most-definite state of Alive and Okay-ness, but. Outside straight draw! You understand.

So now we're back and in various states of unpacking. I cannot find my hairbrush, something in the fridge is stinking to high holy heaven and the only news from the past few days that I am aware of is that Michele Duggar is pregnant again. (Today Show: Coming up, the Duggars are here with a surprise announcement! Jason's Aunt: Well, she can't be pregnant again, because that wouldn't be a surprise. That's like, the opposite of a surprise. Amy: True. A surprise would be, "Fuck this, we're getting a vasectomy.") Ezra is discovering new and wonderful ways to injure himself by the minute; Noah is currently wearing his underwear and nothing else, unless you count the stretchy sport headband he has decided is a belt. Right now they are playing tug-of-war with a jump rope and laughing hysterically. I see several ways that this could potentially End Badly, but I am choosing to finally update my blog instead of intervening. 

So. You know. Business as usual, priorities back where they belong and all that. Onward!

Blogher, Part Three

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.

HER: (pause)

AMY: (holds up business card, points) Eh?

HER: No.

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.

Blogher, Part Two

DAY TWO, FRIDAY

Part One: I've Made A Huge Mistake Of Bluthian Proportions

The next morning Jodi texted me and offered to sneak the baby and I into the Club Level for the free breakfast. I wrote back that I wasn't showered yet, but then decided that I didn't really care, and went up anyway, only to immediately bump into a crew of immaculately coiffed and professionally dressed women from MomCentral. Stacy DeBroff fed Ezra a banana while I blearily caffeinated myself and by my third sip my brain suddenly turned on and I realized that I was out in public -- at a professional blogging conference, where people take pictures and blog and stuff --  in pajama bottoms and no makeup and gross oily hair.

And my nipples were showing through my nursing tank. I ate a croissant and fled.

Part Two: All Better

Down at the actual conference, I learned that with Ezra in the Ergo's back-carry position, my hands were truly free to carry both a cup of coffee AND a complimentary bloody mary.

I started meeting people and recognizing people and being recognized by other people, reuniting with Linda, fangirling at Alexa, awkwardly screaming after Kate seconds after she'd stepped on an escalator, like NOOOO COME BACK I LOVE YOU. I met...a lot of people, and I hadn't even retrieved my conference badge yet. (They didn't have it under my real name, the name I registered with, but just my blog name, meaning all weekend people squinted at my badge and said "Ahhhhmala? Who the hell?)

I want to thank everybody who listened to my plea last week and came up and introduced themselves. It was beyond lovely meeting each and every one of you, and I'm glad you got to meet his Mighty Ezness in person. (He seems quite bored of me, now that we're home. He's all, "Where all my aunties at?") I know that feeling -- that panicked deer-in-the-headlights feeling -- of stepping off the elevator and walking into a crowded lobby and suddenly realizing that you know NO ONE THERE and you've left your conference agenda upstairs so you can't even PRETEND to study it while trying to figure out what to do next and the seconds are ticking by and you have NO ONE TO TALK TO AND WILL PROBABLY DIE ALONE MOMENTARILY.

You guys are all awesome, so I didn't die after all. Hooray!

(Photo by Carla Duharte Razura)

(Arm and half a head by Lori of Spinning Yellow)

(Nail biting due to overwhelming anxiety, deflated muffin gut courtesy of THAT KID RIGHT THERE.)

Part Three: In Which I Attempt To Learn Stuff

I made it through oh, about 15 minutes of the Transformational Blogging panel before Ezra decided noisily to work out that banana from breakfast. Good job, son.

Part Four: OMFG I LOST MY iPHONE AGAIN

It fell out of my pocket at lunch and was hidden under somebody's purse. I proceeded to panic for...oh, a good amount of time because I DIDN'T WANT TO TELL THE INTERNET I LOST MY iPHONE AGAIN, and pretty much everybody at the table remembered the time I dropped it in the toilet, which is still one of my top trafficked posts thanks to all the other people out there who turn to Google after dropping their own iPhones in their own toilets.

Part Five: "I Just Think You Need To Keep Things In Perspective"

Ezra and I retreated to the Lactation Lounge (yes, seriously) at some point in the afternoon for some downtime -- I realized I'd left my wipes container in there from the morning's diaper change and was kind of surprised it was still there, what with everybody kind of losing their minds over OMFG A FREE HUGGIES TRAVEL WIPES CONTAINER MINE MINE MINE. I nursed the baby and hummed to him and cuddled, feeling very calm and motherly and proud of what an amazingly good little trooper he'd been all day. He smiled at everybody (except for Mir, who made him cry) (but only one time, and they later bonded), took naps right in the carrier, and patiently indulged the approximately 6,429 people grabbing at his toes. (NOTE: I may have encouraged this. In fact, I believe I told at least one woman to "git in there an' git you sum.") After a rocky start, we were getting this thing down, we were both having fun, and I was cheesily treasuring this trip -- the most uninterrupted one-on-one time I'd had with my second child since our hospital stay.

Two women came in right as we were getting ready to leave. One was there with a four-and-a-half-week old. The other was there with a two-week-old.

I'd entered the room with a BABY and left with a goddamn freaking Godzilla child strapped to my back.

Part Six: Sponsorville

I've read quite a bit about the sponsored bloggers and whether people found them rude or amateurish or whatever. I only met two, and in case they're reading those posts as well and feeling embarrassed or worried that they came off that way: No, you did not. I'm not sure either of them actually knew who I was so they may never read this, but I met a lovely woman who was sponsored by Born Free and who let me get ugly and baby-elbowing over bottles and sippy cups and listening to my long and involved story about how I clogged the hotel room toilet with a gDiaper insert, and another (and I don't remember her name, I'm sorry!!) who simply admired Ezra for a bit before presenting him with an Eric Carle lizard from Kohl's.

I haven't been able to afford Blogher some years either -- this is actually the first time I went on my own dime, having been lucky enough to have employers who sent me in the past, and I've skipped the other years when that didn't happen -- so I totally understand desperately wanting to go but wanting to offset the cost. And I also understand that some sponsored bloggers did not necessarily do this in the most professional manner, or even realize that it was indeed, a professional arrangement and not a lottery ticket. Hell, there's a right and a wrong way to go about everything. As Kristen said, quite aptly: Not all bloggers are like that. Mommy or sponsored or otherwise.

(Also, I stupidly only packed one bottle for Ez and so I was REALLY REALLY GRATEFUL for the free bottle. Yay!)

Part Seven: Sparklecorn 2009

I...

Uh...

Dudes...

That was a ridiculous amount of fun, no?

(Unicorn cake by the CakeGirls. I was a little disappointed that it wasn't red velvet cake, but it was still a really nice piece of ass.)

I have no bragging rights to that party -- Tracey and Catherine planned it all, down to every last geektastic poster on the wall and the stand-up Edward (who vanished mysteriously at some point in the evening...I really earnestly hope someone out there tried to get him through an airport security line). My contribution was writing an entry once upon a time about talking deodorants, and one of those deodorant companies turned out to have an incredibly good sense of humor and agreed to help sponsor our party. The sole swag (besides, uh, booze) was a tube of Dove Clinical Strength, and for the record I did not get one. And I am pissed, because that's what I actually use and last time I went to Target I got so distracted by the new "deodorants as elaborate showpieces" trend in packaging that I FORGOT TO ACTUALLY BUY SOMETHING I WOULD USE.

(If you haven't seen the professional photos of the party, click here. I think I am dancing in that one photo, or possibly threatening to punch someone for not keepin' her hands offa mah damn man.)

After the Mamapop writers arrived but before we started letting people in, I had to take a moment and sit down on the dance floor to compose myself -- my laughing at the cake, the Edward, the posters soon turned to gaspy crying, because it was like the prom planning committee had been taken over by the nerds, by my people, by my friends, read my diary to plan my dream prom, and everybody got crowned prom queen just for showing up.

I kicked off my shoes and danced like a drunken moron to every song, I hugged everybody I could get my arms on and I wondered why I never did stuff like this anymore.

 

I woke up the next morning and was like, "Oh, right."

(Oh my God. Will I ever shut the fuck up about this? One more day to recap, I swear. Trust me, nothing else has happened since I got home, except that Ezra has suddenly become Mr. Professional Cruiser and is spending horrifying amounts of time upright on two legs and RUN IT'S GODZILLA BABY NOOO.)

Quick. And Hurry.

I need ideas for things to keep a nine-month-old baby amused on an airplane that:

1) fit into a small diaper bag
2) do not make a shitload of jangly beepy noise
3) do not resemble some kind of sex toy and/or rudimentary weapon, thus arising suspicion at security, causing me to miss my flight while I explain that no, it's a spork. A SPORK!

So far I've got:

1) food
2) toothbrushes
3) a sippy cup of booze.*

*I may share.

**Probably won't.

***Also, have you have seen my camera?

****Or my phone charger?

*****These footnotes do not actually footnote anything, fail to cite sources, suggest a certain amount of procrastination is going on.

******GAAAAAH

Obligatory Oh God Don't Make Me Write Sentences Yet Post-Vacation Photo Entry

(Suck on THAT post title, TinyURL!)

Four solid days of zero Internet access. Once I got over the initial convulsions and hallucinations of trolls and unanswered important emails and OMG What Topics Are Trending On Twitter RIGHT NOW, the symptoms eventually settled into a vague itching sensation.

Although...on second thought, maybe it was just sand.

It looks sort of like food, but doesn't taste like food, but maybe I should eat it again, just to be sure.

Nope. Not food.

On the Naughty Seat (damn, those things are EVERYWHERE) for throwing sand. Can't you feel the love?

The last time he went anywhere near the water of his own free will, thanks to a Father-Son Wave Incident on our first day there. He really loved the pool, which was thankfully indoors and a good retreat for when the weather turned to absolute ass. Of course, if you comment that you'd never know I was at the beach, what with my continued winter whiteness, I will probably cry a little bit. But I did read the shit out of a couple novels with zero literary value but a ton of sex scenes, so it's not like I accomplished NOTHING all weekend, or anything.

I left my iPod behind, and Jason's uncle called this morning to let me know he'd found it and would mail it back. He also mentioned that next time they really wouldn't mind if we left Ezra behind. You know, for a few days or months or FOREVER. He was kind of a hit, that one.

Really, all things considered, the whole trip was a hit. I knew for sure the night I went in to check on the boys and realized that Noah was no longer in bed...

But had opted to curl up behind the door, on the floor, snuggled up against our beach blanket.

And Then I Threw Up. The End.

So I went to New York City on Thursday. You know, just the random sort of glamorous day trip that is so typical of me and my fabulous jet set lifestyle. Or train set lifestyle, I guess, since I took NJ Transit, and probably had a Thomas and Percy floating around in the bottom of my bag. And I made the train on time and did not get off at Newark by accident and it was all fabulously boring, though I like to think that the baby strapped to my chest in an Ergo carrier paired with high-heeled boots and a ridiculously overstuffed diaper bag added a little bit of intrigue. Will she fall down? Get stuck in a sidewalk grate? Leave behind a trail of wadded-up bumGenius diapers* all over the East Side? DUN DUN DUUUUN.

The Whole Point of the trip was an extension of the Hewlett Packard Moms for Simplicity ad campaign that you are probably currently using an ad blocker on, and was supposed to be about moms momming around and using the latest in mom technology to make their momming easier and simpler and 75% more mommier. This included meeting Olympic champion swimmer (AND MOM!) Dara Torres and watching her swim LIVE AND IN PERSON, while we all stood by the edge of the pool and took pictures of her. God, it was embarrassing, the way we all stood there taking pictures of her.

 

An alternate-reality "oh god where are my pants" nightmare for anyone but Olympic champion swimmer Dara Torres.

 

He judges your fangirling.

I almost did not get to meet Olympic champion swimmer Dara Torres because of...wait for it! you just fucking wait for it!...technology. As I have no use for your mere mortal PAPER, I did not print out a copy of the day's itinerary, which had been emailed to us all a few weeks ago. Instead, I figured I would just look stuff up on my phone whenever I needed an address or phone number or...hmm. Why won't Gmail load? Why won't anything load? And that's how Tracey and I ended up smack dab in the middle of Manhattan tilting our iPhones this way and that, trying to get usable signals or remember anyone's stupid phone number because we had absolutely NO idea where we were supposed to be headed after a meeting with our ad people**. Except that it had a pool. Our cab driver found this to be supremely unhelpful. Look, dude. I once mistook Newark for New York. You're lucky I didn't direct you to the sprinkler system in Central Park.

We eventually got there, of course, and then after the pool thing we went to lunch and were offered the chance to sit and interview Dara one-on-one for a few minutes, and because I really care about bringing you guys nothing but the most top-notch content, I panicked and said no, thank you, OMG. What would I say, I have no idea what to say, me and my extra mom chins will just sit over here with my mom arms, hardcore momming, feeding my baby edamame paste from the bruschetta, and after the event was over I realized I also had avocado all over the crotch of my dress. AND my bra was showing all day because my dress did not have nearly the post-nursing elasticity that I thought it did.

 

I had a really handsome dinner date, though. We ate at one of New York's finest dining establishments, and I mean that, because I can at least rule my sister's kitchen out as the place where I got a touch of food poisoning, leading to an entire night on the floor of the bathroom at my in-laws' house. Which was awesome! See post title, fin.

*Speaking of cushy corporate blogging events, I was recently invited to one by a diaper company. And I was all, "I'd love to go! But, hey, full disclosure and stuff, I use cloth diapers most of the time now? Eh?" And then I was promptly uninvited. I am being persecuted for my principles! Denied fabulous getaways in...Ohio, I think it was. Barred from the exciting Powerpoint presentations! No swag bag for you! Oh, woe.

**And at that meeting with the ad people, after drawing a blank on any sort of "sponsorable" content (bleeeargh) ideas, I ended up describing the Deodorant Wars entries. And that's about when Ezra spat up all over my arm and I tried to be all smooth about wiping it up and ignoring the looks of horror on the faces of the young hip sales staff, and for some reason it wasn't until that exact second that I fully grasped that I 1) had brought a BABY to a BUSINESS MEETING like an ASSHOLE, 2) was discussing TALKING DEODORANTS as a viable form of conversational marketing, and 3) was sweating profusely from engorgment and said baby was pawing furiously at my chest. So I got up and hid in a closet for awhile. Buy ads on my webbity blog, companies! I am an opinion influencer! I am authentic! I AM A MOM TO THE EXXTREME.

Last Hurrah

Oh, right. We went away for a few days right there.

It was great. Until everybody got sick. Noah threw up purple Tylenol on Jason's aunt and uncle's guest bed, and then on his uncle.

(For any rookie parent who might see "Children's Tylenol Meltaways" on the shelf at CVS and think, "Oh! I bet those are easier than the liquids," let me just tell you that "MELTAWAY" does not necessarily mean the same thing to Tylenol as it does to you and me. For example, that it melts. Away. In a reasonable amount of time before your child can work himself up into a royal state over OMG THERE IS SOMETHING PURPLE IN MY MOUTH THAT TASTES LIKE SUGAR BUT I AM SICK AND PISSED OFF AND I SPIT OUT YOUR PURPLE SUGAR TABLET REPEATEDLY UNTIL THERE IS PURPLE SUGAR SLIME EVERYWHERE AND THEN I SHALL VOMIT ON PURPOSE JUST IN CASE I MANAGED TO ABSORB A SINGLE ATOM OF MEDICINE.)

(Oh, and then you'll look at the bottle and realize that the dosage is TWO TABLETS, and even if you wise up enough to mash and/or dissolve the second tablet in a sippy cup, your child is SO ON TO YOU NOW, so...have some paper towels nearby, is all I'm saying.)

He's fine now, more or less. He woke up the next morning fever-free and clamoring for da beach! da BEACH! GO TO DA BEACH RIGHT NOW! But still, our last vacation as a family of three was a little less than the magical special time we'd planned for.

At least I didn't go into labor, other than the six or seven body-shatteringly painful contractions I had late on Saturday night while Jason slept obliviously nearby, dead to the world from Theraflu. I think my uterus was tired of being overshadowed by other people's head colds and got a little uppity about it.   

HOWEVER, I did learn that I do still, in fact, have it going ON, as I got catcalled at from some drunkish dude who said, and I quote, "HEY BABY, I KNOW LAMAZE" as I waddled by.

I opted to ignore him with grace and dignity and extra chins.

Please Hold

We've been at the beach. It's been very taxing.

Will post real sentence-y update soon.

The Princess & the Pantyhose (aka Blogher '08)

I lugged about 10 pounds worth of camera and lenses to Blogher, and the only photos I have in my possession to share with y'all are these two, taken with Kristen's iPhone. During our impromptu Floor Party in the pantyhose department at Macy's:

After realizing that I was simply not getting nearly enough attention, I decided to have a dramatic fainting spell en route to the shoe department portion of the Blogher cocktail party. (For anyone who wasn't there and is thinking...Macy's? Shoe department? Cocktail party? What? Yeah, I don't really understand either, and I was both THERE and SOBER.)

The party started out in Handbags, and I started out very horrified by the sight of hummus and various hors d'oeurves plates perilously close to the Marc Jacobs, I was soon distracted by this vague feeling that Oh Shit, I've Possibly Gone And Overdone It, and started meekly asking people if they knew where I could get some water. Various people went on a search mission for me, but returned with the news that champagne appeared to be the only option available. (Pregnant traveling ladies, I highly recommend you get yourself a whole posse of Danas and Catherines and Traceys and and Isabels and a couple Laid-Off and/or Backpacking Dads, who will ignore your protestations that you are FINE, stop FUSSING, and bring you chairs and shake down cocktail waitresses on your behalf.)

And then, while walking through the aisles of pantyhose, I found myself grabbing the nearest elbow and hissing that I needed someone to GET ME ON THE FLOOR, RIGHT NOW, and...I remember spinning, high-kicking, thigh-highed mannequin legs and very cold marble and Catherine rushing off to find water and returning with a little thimble of a Starbucks cup and wailing that it was all they'd give her, and then I laughed so hard I thought I would puke, and that's when I noticed pretty much every conference attendee filing by and staring at me strangely. After awhile a nice group of people joined me on the floor, where we accepted bottles of water and Luna bars from anyone who could scrounge one up for me, like some kind of really fucked-up Nativity scene.

(TANGENT! For anyone who has been to Blogher, you know how you go with a List? That List of bloggers you're just really jazzed about and hoping to meet, and you possibly rehearse what you'll say when you meet them [because OF COURSE you'll recognize them, being so excellent with names and faces already] just so you don't do something lame like SCREAM DIRECTLY INTO THEIR FACE [sorry, Cecily] or otherwise make a fangirl ass out of yourself? It was at this moment, there on the floor of the pantyhose department, that Jenny the Bloggess sat down next to me. All I can say is that I'm very happy I was having some kind of horrific Blood Sugar incident at the time because at least I am not forced to live with very detailed memories of what a spastic dork I was -- it's all lost in a glorious haze of dizzy spells and those weird spots that cloud your vision. Ahh.)

(TANGENT, PART TWO! I missed all the drama, is all I can say about all the drama. I was TRYING to rest up and take care of my delicate little self and missed the keynote.)

THEN the party moved up to Furniture, where I at least got to recline on a sofa while signing books with Cagey and Kristen (the Non-Dramatic Pregnant Lady) and...oh God, everybody else, until I 1) kicked over somebody else's glass of red wine all over the rug, and 2) really really really really really had to pee and had to take an ELEVATOR to another floor and it was like I was back at the airport and once I found the bathroom I was completely baffled by the stall doors (they didn't look like doors! and you couldn't tell if they were occupied unless you hurled your body at them and after slamming myself into the third locked door I turned around and randomly screamed to the heavens and scared a lovely group of young 20-something non-mommybloggers before spotting a slightly open door and peeing for oh, about the entire running time of Juno.

On Sunday my friend Julie (some of you may remember her as Bunny. Met her in Gymboree, bonded over our hatred of everyone else at Gymboree, moved to California in February, broke my heart, is total whore) picked me up at the hotel and whisked me off to her house/decompression chamber, since she knows about my blog but doesn't read my blog, doesn't read ANY blogs and if I dared spend one second trying to rehash some kind of OMG DRAMZZ! moment from the conference she'd...she'd...well, probably just call me an asshole and change the subject. Perfect.

Now I'm home, surrounded by the dozens and dozens of business cards I picked up, marveling at how many new people I met, old friends and whores I reconnected with however briefly, and then there were the people I technically met for the first time who already felt like old friends, in that weird Internet way.  And that's just culled from my memory (haaaaa) and the cards I stashed in my camera bag (well, I had to use that bitch for SOMETHING)...I'm pretty sure I have about a hundred more in my actual suitcase, but opening that one means I would have to do laundry. And...it is not time for laundry yet, I don't think.

Jason and Noah met me at the airport last night, and Noah pointed and screamed (he gets that from me -- he'll be a huge hit at business conferences!) and came barreling at me for a huge hug, and then pulled back and said (for the first time ever), "I love you, Mama."

(That one goes out to all my peeps at the Blogging About Special-Needs Kids panel, who both refrain from playing the Pain Olympics AND are okay with me cornering them at parties to talk about SPD Manifestations in Poop without batting an eye. All we need is a gang sign that somehow incorporates what Miralax dosage we use.)

(Regarding Every Other Photo Of Me Out There: Look, I forgot lipstick, AND I brought sample-sized everything, including foundation, which I guess was a TAD PALE, bordering on TRANSLUCENT REFLECTIVE POSSIBLY UNDEAD. The persistent double-chin, however, I have no excuses for.)

Well, At Least I'm Not In Newark

Or, How I Almost Missed Blogher Completely

As we pulled up to the airport early this morning I sighed and whined (for the zillionth millionth squillionth time) about how much I hate airports. Flying, I can deal with. I was actually looking forward to this flight, since I'd managed to score a fairly awesome deal on a nonstop trip via Virgin America (of the leather recliners and touchscreen entertainment consoles and wheeee, self-serve bottled water minibars), but first, I had to get through the fucking airport.

"I'm just always convinced something is going to go terribly wrong, you know?" I continued, chewing nervously on my index finger. "Like I'll get bumped to standby or find out that my reservation never went through or...or..."

I paused, trying to think of a few more worst-case scenarios, but lo, we were at the gate and it was time to say goodbye. I begged Noah not to grow up any and squeezed in as many kisses for everybody as I could before finally making my way to check-in.

The self-service kiosk was out of ink and served me up a blank boarding pass. Glitch for the trip, I figured. Pretty okay as glitches go, especially since the Virgin counter was absolutely devoid of anyone else checking in and I was able to walk right up to my choice of Actual Human Ticket Dispenser Types.

Which...hmm.

The woman behind the counter frowned a bit, and asked if I was going to LA.

"No, San Francisco."

She stared at me. "Then...why are you here NOW?"

"8:40 am? Boards at 8:10?" I helpfully suggested.

"We don't...have an 8:40 am flight to San Francisco. Our morning San Fran flight has already left."

I pulled out my Travelocity confirmation email, the tiniest bit of panic starting to creep into my brain. See, when I'd originally booked the flight, I could have SWORN the departure and arrival times were slightly earlier than the ones listed on the confirmation, but I'd just assumed I'd gotten them mixed up or that the flight had just been pushed back 20 minutes or so. It had never occurred to me that I was booking a flight that apparently, just didn't flipping EXIST.

Oh, but it turned out it DID exist. And I was very, very, very, very early for it.

A good 12 hours early.

"PM!" I screamed in horror. How...what...no. No way did I do that. Just...no. Fucking shit ass no.

I started hyperventilating. "Oh my God oh my God oh my God."

I now had two Virgin America employees frantically tapping away at their computers, telling me not to panic...the morning flight to San Francisco was delayed and was still at the airport, although boarding had already started.  I had a crystal clear vision of myself waddling frantically up to some remote gate just in time to watch the plane taxi away. I put my hands over my face and wailed.

But the employees were all, NOT ON OUR WATCH, LITTLE PREGNANT LADY, and in lightening speed, printed out a new boarding pass, scribbled PREMIUM all over it, and then one of them jumped over the baggage scale and said they were going to take me through the employee-only security line. The other picked up the phone and called the gate, begging them to hold the plane. By some BLESSED MIRACLE of UNPARALLELED COMMON SENSE on my part, I'd kept my suitcase small and within the carry-on limits, right down to my little Ziploc bag of Sephora sample cosmetics.

"GO GO GO!" hissed the guy on the phone. Then he looked me up and down with a bit of concern. "But don't, like, run."

(Translation: Please don't give birth here.)

The female ticket agent calmly yet briskly led me past the INSANE security lines and down some escalators to the employee security check, which was 1) short, 2) downright effing jovial, with everyone discussing their hangovers and such. I struggled to extricate my laptop, completely befuddled by the zippers on my stupid bag, like I was in one of those nightmares where you're trying to run away from something but your legs are made of cement. The security guard looked at my name and was all, "Storch? Like Larry Storch? Like from F-Troop?"

AMY'S BRAIN: OH MY FUCKING GOD ARE YOU KIDDING ME.

AMY'S MOUTH, WHICH IS BETTER IN A CRISIS THAN SHE OFTEN GIVES IT CREDIT FOR: Yes! Exactly! Ha ha! Props for the recall!

I got through the line without a frisking, at least. I only sort-of shoved my stuff back into my bags (which felt like they were multiplying by the minute, and my shoulders suddenly seemed to be coated in Crisco), and booked off towards my gate, taking a couple seconds to watch the ticket agent disappear into the crowds and wishing I'd gotten her name. Or given her a hug, or managed to squeeze in a few more dozen breathless thank-yous.

My gate was...up an elevator.

Get on, hit button, pound CLOSE DOOR CLOSE DOOR, doors start to close, guy dashes through and -- thinking I'd held the door for him -- says "thank you!"

Pound CLOSE DOOR CLOSE DOOR, and oh my GOD, it happens AGAIN, right down to the "thank you!"

I gurgled out a semi-stifled scream in response.

And then...oh, OF COURSE, I had to take a shuttle. I got on and made my way to the opposite end, snagging a primo seat by the door. I called Jason and told him to pray for me, and for the first time I tried to replay everything and figure out what, exactly-the-fuck, had gone wrong with my reservation. How I had only asked for Travelocity to display morning flights. How the original time I thought I'd booked wasn't even the one on my reservation, be it AM or PM. How this was the only nonstop flight remotely in my price range -- booked mostly because of the nice early arrival time, which ALSO changed by the time the confirmation email showed up. And how I could have POSSIBLY read that email so many damn times and NEVER NOTICED the flight was clearly marked as PM, or at least listened to the alarm bells raised by those weird non-jibeing, not-what-I-booked times.

The shuttle crawwwwwwled across the airport and approached the gate and...oh for the love of crackers, it decided to turn around and pull in so I was on the OPPOSITE end from the exit. I shoved my index finger back into my mouth and bit down. Hard.

I dashed out, spotted my gate and took off. The plane was...was it still there? oh, please still be there...STILL THERE! IT'S STILL THERE!

Of course, the doors were closed and the monitors said closed and the attendant was making announcements for the next gate over and put her hand up to shush me when I lumbered up to offer my boarding pass (which was now marked "PRESHSDKJDFHU" since the ink had smeared all over my desperate, sweaty hands).

My eyes were probably the size of dinner plates by this point, I was half-gasping and half-just-trying-not-to-cry and I could NOT believe this: ME, the girl who arrives at the airport hours early for everything, including the fucking commuter shuttles, and who always checks and double-checks her reservations to the point of compulsion, standing at a closed gate for a closed flight that was supposed to have taken off an hour earlier, and oh, crap, here come the waterworks.

It turned out they HAD been expecting me -- "This is Amy," the attendant said to some guy with a walkie talkie, who ran down the hallway ahead of me to tell the plane that there was indeed one more person, hold up.

I got onboard, blubbering out thank-yous and apologies to just about every person on board, in between likely whalloping a lot of heads with my bags, which were in complete disarray and hanging from my elbows. An attendant got me to my seat and kept asking if I was okay (what, is a sweaty, crying and hyperventilating pregnant lady a WEIRD THING, or something?) and I tried to get out something coherent about changed flights and Mistakes Being Made and how It Wasn't My Fault, At Least I Don't Think So, I Don't Knooooowwww Anything Anymooooooore Sobbbbb. She patted my back and told me everything was okay now.

So I made the flight, barely. I was dehydrated and starving (the two big no-nos my doctor had warned me about when clearing me for travel on Wednesday, but of course I'd assumed I had TONS of time to get water and breakfast before my flight, since I was all early and conscientious and HA HA FAIL) and was having occasional Braxton-Hicks contractions. My index finger, chapped from all that nervous chewing, was split open and bleeding. There was no time to call Jason and tell him I'd made the flight.

(Hi, baby. I made the flight! Hooray!)

I still have no idea what happened with the reservation. I am pretty sure Travelocity shoulders some of the blame, since there did seem to be something pretty glitchy with the confirmation containing flight times I'd never even seen online, and I ended up arriving right at the time I THOUGHT I'd originally booked. But I am certainly not going to pretend that there isn't a decent chance that I just fucked it all up, start to finish, in addition to NEVER NOTICING that the flight was marked PM on the confirmation. Which: Jesus Christ, girl. Remind me to slap you once you're no longer in such a delicate condition.

Huge huge props to everyone at Virgin America, though -- I've never ever had any sort of preference for one airline over another, in fact, I'm generally an equal-opportunity hater, but...goddamn, they did not have to help me get on an already-delayed flight that may have cost a lot more than my cheapo Travelocity deal, especially since I was the moron standing there with piece of paper that was clearly marked PM and acting like I had no idea how that possibly could have happened.

Every time I went to the bathroom (which was a lot, as you can imagine), someone from the crew double-checked that I'd calmed down and was okay and did I need more water? And oh yeah, they've TOTALLY heard of PM flights getting marked as AM online before, or reservations just going completely haywire, happens all the time, sweetheart. Which: probably a lie, but sometimes lying is just an essential part of good customer service, you know?