I've been getting hit with almost non-stop Trackback spam this week, which pisses me off because I thought I'd closed Trackbacks down and good, but apparently, deeeep within my archives were a few straggly posts that still accepted Trackbacks.
(Whoa. I just felt the wave of thousands of eyeballs simutaneously glazing over. Glazing over like ham.)
ANYWAY. While I was going through the archives, shutting off Trackbacks left and right, staying mere seconds ahead of the spammers, and oh, it was breathtakingly exciting, like Indiana Blog and the Archives of Doom or something -- I realized that I have dozens of unpublished, unfinished posts saved as drafts.
What were these incomplete thoughts, these literary abortions? Why were they ultimately abandoned and/or deemed not post-worthy, yet why did I still fell compelled to save them in some form?
And most importantly, could I drag them out, mash them together and get a really easy readymade entry out of them today?
Survey says: Oh, hell to the yes.
Draft #1: November 28, 2005
Title: Plot Holes
Over the past year or so, my readership has kind of exploded all over itself. Which is great, because...well, DUH. Because it's great.
There are drawbacks, of course. I no longer really know all of my readers or regular commenters, I can't keep up with all of YOUR blogs, no matter how much I'd like to, and mostly, I've become one of those online writers who almost never responds to emails.
I've thought about taking that little "contact" link on the sidebar down -- not because I don't want to hear from you, but because I worry people think it means I'll definitely reply in a timely fashion, and that I'm being personally shitty just to them when they don't hear back from me.
I'm not being personally shitty to you. I'm being shitty to everyone, because I am just shitty, personally, when it comes to replying to email.
Especially when I get SO MUCH EMAIL. And while this sounds like a total cop-out, I do read every blessed email I get. (Unless it's gotten dumped in the spam folder for some reason, which does seem to randomly happen sometimes, and in that case, sorry; I make it a point NOT TO EVER LOOK IN MY SPAM FOLDER, BECAUSE LO, IT IS SCARY IN THERE.)
But all other emails are read. And I thank you for them. And I can guarantee that I will never, ever think of a good way to respond to emails telling me how much you love the site, because I cannot take a compliment without blushing and hiding behind my fingers and chewing on my hair. I try, but "thanks for reading! durrr!" sounds so deathly form letter and uncreative, so then I try to be funny and witty and then 20 fucking minutes later, the baby is awake and I'm still overthinking a stupid email.
This is just who I am, and I'm probably the kind of person who isn't worth taking the time to email in the first place.
(As for hate mail, while I reserve the right to publish anything you send me, including your name and email address, I probably won't, so don't waste your time writing some scathing crap diatribe because you think it's your shot at seeing your name in Internet Lights or the satisfaction of knowing that you, Small Ugly-Souled Person, managed to hurt the feelings of a STRANGER ON THE INTERNET. The best you can hope for is for your email to get forwarded around to other bloggers and laughed at, because of your spelling or your faulty logic or your oh-so-subtle pleading dare that I post your email, like it even registers on my plane of existence that someone else out there thinks my hair is ugly and felt the need to spend 20 minutes on a Friday night telling me about it.)
(Also great hatemail fun: Logging your IP address into my stat program so I can watch you visit the site over and over and over again, desperately refreshing and hoping that I'll have written about you.)
The point is: Lots of new readers, lots of emails, lots of questions about some glaring narrative holes in the archives.
SO today, I'm going to wrap up some Amalah Life Storylines that I kind of let fall into the cracks for whatever reason.
Today's Take: Oh my God. Chill out. Chill out! Obviously, I got so exhausted by my bizarre hatemail tantrum (Translation: I Just Got a Really Mean One That Hurt My Delicate Little Postpartum Feelings and How Can I Yell at That Person Without Actually Acknowledging Them or Their Stupid Mean Email and Yet Still Let Them Know That I Think They Are a Big Lame Stupidhead, Wah?), that I had no energy left for the actual post.
I think I planned to talk about why I took my depression recovery offline, Noah's conception in light of my infertility, and the death of stuff like the Haiku Smackdown and the Judith Light Brigade.
Which: yawwwn. You know what? Let's all hope that, instead of post-passive-aggressive-hater-rant exhaustion, I had a rare moment of clarity and self-awareness. Which was: NOBODY CARES, DUMBASS. JUST POST SOME BABY PICTURES.
Draft #2: December 19, 2005
Title: Dear Noah
Today's Take: Yeah. Clearly on the path to greatness, there. This is the sort of thing that will end up on eBay after I die.
Draft #3: April 11, 2006
Title: We Can All Go Home Now
...because I no longer need to write 3,000 words every damn day trying to find the right ones to adequately describe motherhood. Mommybloggers across the Internet can give up the fight. Because this is it right here. The Essence of Being Mama:
Noah called Jason "Dada" this weekend.
Jason was tossing him around, all undeniably Daddy-is-fun-fun-fun-like, and I left the room to go get a fucking burp cloth, BECAUSE I KNOW WHAT HAPPENS AFTER THE TOSSING. I was standing just outside the doorway when I heard it:
Jason and the two grandparents in attendance gasped and then they
turned to see me standing there, fucking burp cloth in hand, glaring.
"Amy, it was so deliberate!" my mom gasped. "He was looking RIGHT at Jason."
Jason beamed, and I threw the burp cloth at his head. (What? That's
how we congratulate people in my house. Usually it's tea towels.)
"Where's Mama, Noah?"
*looks at dog*
"MAAAAMAAAA, Noah. MAMA. Where is your MAMA?"
*looks at dog, drools*
*looks at Jason, smiles*
FOR THE RECORD, DADA IS THE ONE WHO VOTED TO PUT YOU IN THE SOUP POT.
Today's Take: Hmm. Clunky storytelling plus a weak transition suggests this post was nothing more than an awkward reason to link to the soup pot photo again, or I may have figured out that doting grandparents aside, Noah did not really say "Dada" and mean it at five months old, you stupid braggy amateur you.
(Shut up. If this was the whole point to that entry, who am I to deny the fulfillment of purpose?)
Draft #4: May 16, 2006
Yesterday, just a few hours after I posted yet another entry that, immediately after hitting publish I re-read, cocked my head to the side, sighed, and told myself that I suck to levels of suction unknown, I maybe kind of lost it.
Noah was getting a little cranky -- his ear-rattling shrieks were a little (ahem) shrill, he was rubbing his eyes, you know those subtle cues that you pat yourself on the back for finally picking up on, like it only took seven-and-a-half months -- and after a few attempts to settle him down I gave up and plopped him in his crib.
"Go night-night," I told him. "You are tired."
Noah lay in his crib and blinked at me. But usually he'll just roll over and go to sleep after a few minutes, so I repeated my (PERFECTLY REASONABLE) order.
And I left. I plopped down on the couch and sighed. And checked my email. Two nice emails, one totally not nice, and one that I kind of couldn't figure out through all the backhanded compliments (I think you are really goddamned annoying but thanks for reminding me that you are a person and I'm sorry for thinking that you are really goddamned annoying.).
And then Noah woke up. Screaming.
And instead of going to get him, I walked into the kitchen, sat down on the floor, and cried.
Today's Take: OH MY GOD, THE ANGST!
Not to mock my own damn pain or anything, but JESUS GOD, WOMAN. Get a grip. Step away from your email and get a damn grip. (What is WITH these entries and the hatemail? Was I ever really that whiny and vulnerable over what random crazy people said to me over email?)
(Oh. Right. Heh.)
It's funny, a lot of people email me to ask for advice for dealing with their own trolls and hatemailers. And my advice is always the same: Ignore, ignore and then ignore some more. Don't respond. Don't engage. Don't even hint that they've even registered with you. Delete and ban and ban and delete.
Clearly, I need to take my own advice. And stop starting so many sentences with the word "and."
Draft #5: June 1, 2006
There was a time in my life when I would never, ever consider writing an entire entry -- or a few sentences even -- about my underwear. This was not a topic included on my short list of Reasons Why I Should Self-Publish on the Internet.
Then I got pregnant with a baby, had a baby and then decided to stay home with said baby. And suddenly my underwear is Big News. My underwear prompted me to Leave the House Today. I went on an Underwear Outing, people. And I got Felt Up By an Elderly Saleslady.
Ages ago, when I posted a belly photo, someone left a comment marveling that my boobs hadn't grown at all during pregnancy, and har har, that's a shame. And I read that comment and got myself uncharacteristally (HAR HAR! HAR!) bent out of shape, because dude. My boobs HAD grown. They were easily three times as big as they'd ever been.
When I was breastfeeding, they were mostly ornamental. Like a bag of chips that looks enticingly plump and full and then you open it and there's like, four and a half chips because Contents May Have Settled.
Today's Take: The point of this post was to inform the Internet that I now wear a 34AA bra.
34. DOUBLE. A.
That's a fucking training bra, folks. That's a size you can only special order on the Internet or buy in the Jockey Girls' department, which is inconvenient and embarassing, although it is funny to drag your husband shopping and then have him realize in horror that he is a 30-year-old man, standing next to a rack of little girls' panties.
Anyway, if I had actually finished it, I TOTALLY should have called the post "Untited."
Draft #6: June 3, 2006
Suitcases of SHAME
I have an exceedingly dirty and shameful secret to share.
I am addicted to Deal or No Deal.
(Man, that is not the kind of secret that feels better to get out there.)
Not only am I addicted to Deal or No Deal, I YELL AT THE TELEVISION WHILE WATCHING IT.
If you have not watched this show, let me explain the premise. It's a game show, with luggage.
Today's Take: Holy fuck, I am such a loser.
And you should probably tell me so. In an email.