Monthly Archives: July 2013

What I Wore: BlogHer ’13

9 Replies

Seriously, it is utterly unimportant what you wear to a BlogHer conference (unless it is). I get it now. There is no dress code. Whatever you wear, there will be people who are more stylishly dressed, more formally dressed, more dressily dressed, more quirky, more queer, more basic, more elaborate, or more schlumpy than you. But people tried to tell me this and I studiously ignored them, because planning my wardrobe for the conference was the one area I could have control over in this whole crazy unknown future.

So I feel a bit embarrassed to even share this post, but I’m doing it anyway, precisely because I’m not a fashion blogger or a style blogger or an arty crafty person or anyone with an agenda about what she wears. When I was searching for guidance on this area before I went, I wanted to know what the regular conference-goers wore, not what the style bloggers were showcasing. I’m not saying I’m particularly representative of anything, but I’d say I didn’t stand out as over or underdressed, if that’s what you are going for. And I was comfortable and happy about how I looked, which was the aim of the game.

My one caveat is that it really is COLD in conference centers, and my thin summer cardigans weren’t quite up to the job, for me. Next time, whenever, if-ever, I’ll bring something a little more substantial. A full-body fleece wouldn’t go amiss. Maybe a Snuggie.

************

So this was day one. Apologies for the badly lit bathroom selfie. I think my top looks like a sofa, but I hope in a good way. I usually shy away from prints, but this one is so delicate and pretty that I was happy in it. It’s a sleeveless top in a very light chiffony fabric, which would have been perfect in the July weather I was envisaging. In the event, we had an oddly cool few days and I don’t think I removed the cardigan at all. I forgot to wear earrings and thus had a short identity crisis during breakfast, but I got over it.

Top: Marshalls. Khakis: Old Navy. Cardigan: Gap, I think. Sandals: Naot.

On Friday night I got dressed up, but you don’t need to even do that, depending on what parties you might be attending. Again, some did, some didn’t. I didn’t feel overdressed but I was chilly waiting for Voices of the Year to get started. (That’s a polite understatement. Also, they kept turning up the music because Queen Latifah was stuck in traffic, so I couldn’t even chat to my friends without screaming.) The dress looks odd because you can’t see the length, but it’s just to my knee. Both knees, actually. If you were around for the belt discussion, I asked my roomie for her opinion and went without the belt at the last minute. In hindsight, still not sure about that.

Dress: Nine West from Macy’s. Cardigan: Gap, as before. Jewelry: Old Navy. Sandals (not visible, obvs, but I am wearing some): dull gold slingbacks from Softspots with a fairly low heel.

On Saturday morning I was a little hung-over and feeling I’d lived several lifetimes since I’d arrived in Chicago. I already understood about it not mattering what I wore, but I’d packed the clothes so I had to put them on. (See, I didn’t even bother with a selfie, so this is that picture of me and Stacey again.)

Saturday: Green cowl t-shirt, Marshall’s. Cropped stretch denim trousers, New York & Co. Cardigan: Old Navy. Shoes: Naots again, which are incredibly comfortable and well worth the investment.

These trousers (which you can’t see very well) were inexpensive, fit nicely, and are very comfortable thanks to the stretch. I wore this all day, from conference to airport to home at midnight, so I guess it was a good choice. The green and orchid were more vibrant together in real life than they look here, so it wasn’t a day for feeling like blending into the background. It’s good to wear something a little bright or otherwise distinctive, so that if you’re trying to meet up with a stranger you don’t have to tell them you’re the one on the jeans and the black top.

Now I look at it, I really did have the green and purple theme going throughout, which is only because apparently everything I own is either green or purple . When I got to the airport and realised my suitcase was purple and my carry-on backpack was green, it was not really a proud moment. More of a sigh, really.

See what I mean?

BlogHer ’13: The one with all the links

9 Replies

I don’t want to just name-check a bunch of people I met at BlogHer. I’d prefer to list them logically, both as a reminder for myself and also to help you find new blogs that interest you. So here we go: hold onto your hats for a whistle-stop tour.

**********

My BlogHer family came ready-made for me by my wonderful and open-hearted roommates, who – like the best of parents – gave me both a safe space to come back to and the freedom to roam and have my own crazy BlogHer experience. I am more grateful to them than I can say. They just happen to be a thematic group as well, as they came together a long time ago and bonded over infertility, pregnancy loss, and adoption. They blog the hard topics with more courage, grace, and good humor than I could ever hope to have.

ALI bloggers
Justine of A Half-Baked Life
Kathy of Bereaved and Blessed
Erin of Will Carry On
Mel of Stirrup Queens
Amy of Life According to Johnny
Jamie of Sticky Feet

My crazy-night-out accomplices , who let me crash their gang at the Voices of the Year reception and sit on the floor with them; and if nobody sang karaoke, never let it be said that it was for want of my encouragement or enabling. They just happen to all be autism parenting bloggers.

Autism bloggers
Jean at Stimeyland
JennyAlice at Into the Woods, Living Deliberately
Kim at Autism Twins
Mir at Woulda Shoulda

(That night I also met a barman from Galway who’s been in Chicago twenty years. But I don’t think he blogs.)

People I sat beside at lunch, or on the bus, or even on my flight home. They don’t really fall into a single handy category.

Parenting
Cheryl of Busy Since Birth
Kimberly from Red Shutters
Jolawn from Spelhouse Love
Gina from Mom Psych
Ruby of Growing Up Blaxican
Louise of Single With
Allison of SilverSpiral
Melissa Langsam Braunstein , who I was standing right beside on the first morning, but didn’t end up introducing myself to until we turned out to be sitting beside each other on the flight home to DC.

Personal
Emily at Zweber Farms , who has the moo-est Moo cards ever.
Kailynn of Ginger Sass
Sarah of Bluegrass Redhead

Food
Stephie of Eat Your Heart Out
Stephanie of Sarcastic Cooking
Mary Fran of Franny Cakes , who filled me in on the vital difference between a macaron and a macaroon.

Style/fashion
Alice of Practically Stylish

Useful stuff
Sarah from USA Love List
Stephanie of SuperMom Tested
Kim and Lisa of Bliss-Chicks
Shannon of Social Moms
Kyle of ShopGab (Hey! You’re a guy!)

Everyone else
Joyce of The Voice of Joyce
Margaret of Nestache
Jenny of Jenny on the Spot
Jo of Media Mum
Kim of Save My Sunshine
Javacia of See Jane Write
Julie Danis
Blondie of Tales from Clark Street

Very important speaker-type people. I went to some really great conference sessions, but my favourites were the writing round-tables. Inspiration and entertainment in one great package. These gals are the pros, and I look forward to learning from their writing.

Turning a blogpost into an essay
Rita Arens at Surrender, Dorothy

The UnMarketing Manifesto
Veronica Arreola of Viva la Feminista
Jenna Hatfield of Stop Drop and Blog
Dresden of Creating Motherhood
Michelle of Burgh Baby

Humor bloggers
Pat Dunnigan of Suburban Kamikaze
Georgia Getz of Bossy
Krista of Effing Dykes
Elizabeth of Flourish in Progress

Anatomy of a story
Vikki of Up Popped A Fox
Jenny Chiu of Mommy Nani Booboo
Nicole Blades of Ms. Mary Mack
Tanis Miller

Finally, I did manage to meet up with one blog crush. I was thrilled and delighted to meet Stacey of Is there Any Mommy Out There? , who was gracious and sweet and instead of running away when I twitter-stalked her, arranged to meet me in the lobby and let me yammer on at her for far too long. If you don’t already read Stacey’s beautiful, hilarious, eviscerating blog, please proceed directly there. She’s a writer who inspires me. Thank you, Stacey.

I never know what to do with my hands, and it shows.

Expectations and exhortations: the BlogHer advice post

6 Replies

Blogging has suddenly gone from something I do on my own to a serious group activity. Blogging isn’t writing at my kitchen table any more, it’s going to roundtable discussions where great writers and hilarious women talk about what they do; it’s eating breakfast with a thousand other women; it’s hugging someone I just met and meeting people I’ve only ever read about (and hugging them too). It’s like work, when work is fun and you get to meet your co-workers from all the other offices and finally put names to faces.

I expected to make connections and I hoped to grow my readership. I thought I would meet like-minded people and learn more about the technologies and techniques of blogging. I didn’t expect to make friends. I thought you couldn’t make friends instantly like that; friends take time and serendipity and are not just the people you sat at lunch with.

They’re not, but actually, it turns out they are. What did I do at BlogHer? I made new friends.

——-

But if you’re looking for actual useful information because perhaps you’re going next year, and perhaps it already is next year, or perhaps you’re me in the future and I’ve forgotten all the things I think right now I couldn’t possibly forget, here are some weighty words of wisdom for you.

Conference centers are cold. People said “Bring a scarf or a wrap or a light cardigan,” but they forgot to say “Bring a full-body fleece”.
Don’t get 500 business cards even if they are only a couple of dollars more than 250. At least, not if you think you might want to change the design in the next couple of years. But do get business cards, and it’s a good idea to have your photo on them if you can bear it. Definitely put your Twitter handle on them as well as your blog URL.
If you can, have a family. I mean, a friend family, a safe space to return to, and people who will save you a seat even as they set you free to go a little crazy having your own experience.
Obsess over what to wear if it helps you feel prepared, but know that you don’t have to. You can wear jeans every day. There is no dress code. I didn’t see anyone in sweats, but I wouldn’t call it “business casual” or “dressy” or anything at all. If I go again I don’t think I’ll feel the need to put so much thought or preparation into my wardrobe.
A smartphone is pretty handy for keeping in touch with people. My phone is not very smart and decided not to work for Twitter or Facebook even though the wi-fi at the conference was just fine. So I was reduced to old-school texting, which only works if you have had the forethought to get actual phone numbers from the people you intended to twitter-stalk, or taking out my laptop to communicate, which was not so handy if I wanted to find out where my friends were sitting while on my way from the buffet to the tables. Still, it sufficed. Don’t feel you can’t go because you don’t have the technology.
While I’m on the subject, do use Twitter at the conference. I’ve only been on it since earlier this year, but I found it invaluable for following people as soon as I’d got their card or sat in the session they were chairing, and becoming part of the conversation instantly. I only realised towards the end that every session has its own hashtag, so if you follow that you can see what everyone’s saying about it while you’re in the room . Which is quite cool.
Comfortable shoes. You know that, right?

And do be prepared to have your entire view of what blogging is turned upside down. Because that will probably happen.

Notes on re-entry

7 Replies

O’Hare airport, Saturday afternoon.

I feel as if when I get back to my kids, they might have aged ten years in my absence. I can’t be sure time was passing at the same rate where they were. It probably wasn’t.

Talking to the kids on the phone is a disembodied experience. Their voices don’t even sound the same, and they don’t know what to say to me and they nod or shrug and forget that I can’t tell. Talking to them on Skype is even odder because I can see them, but only in two dimensions. My children are a 360-degree experience, a full-body contact sport, an assault on all the senses. Being at a remove changes them and I don’t know who they are, those flat noisy beings who flit in and out of view.

On our first Skype call, on Thursday, Mabel looked at me and said, “I’m thirsty.” She clearly expected me to do something about it.

I am a woman with children, almost always. Can’t you tell by looking at me? Isn’t it obvious? Don’t I have it tattooed on my face (in lines) and streaked through my hair (in grey) and written in braille all over my body? Apparently not; I couldn’t tell whether anyone else at BlogHer was a mother just by looking at her (unless she had a baby with her, as some did). We were all singular.

I am at a remove from them, not just physically, but mentally too. Not simply that I’m not thinking about them, but that I’m some other version of myself who leads a parallel life without children. How can they exist if I’m not there with them? It’s a little lonely, but I don’t feel a void. If I think about them a lot, if I tried to, or if I see other children the right age, I could miss them plenty bad. But mostly they are existing in their universe and I in mine. Our universes will align again and return to their rightful place soon. I’m not ready for more time in this one yet, but it was interesting to visit.

Of course, nothing exists if when I’m not there in it, observing it, with it. It all leaps into being from its flat-pack life as I walk into the room, as my train approaches the station, or my plane flies over the pop-up trees and houses, as we slowly round the curve of the globe. Isn’t that true for you too? Isn’t that how life works?

I trusted, and my trust has not been misplaced. I had faith that they would be returned to me in the condition I left them, plus or minus a few meals, a few ice creams, a few squabbles and scraps and scrapes; and they will be. I believe it. I believe in them. I didn’t invent them; though I did conjure them into being, once upon a time.

Too old

4 Replies

Lately, I’ve found myself saying to people that I’m too old for that.

It’s a good thing.

I’m not telling them I’m too old to dye my hair pink (should I so desire) or bungee jump off the Sydney Harbour Bridge (sure!) or wear a short skirt or exercise or eat dessert or read teen fiction or have lilac toenails. Quite the opposite, in fact.

I’m too old to spend time worrying about what other people think, because I trust my own judgement.

I’m too old to care about what other people are wearing, because I’ll wear what I feel good in.

I’m too old to bother with fake tan, because I’m finally learning to love my fair skin.

I’m too old to worry about what the bitchy girls are saying.

I’m too old to even take the time to figure out who the bitchy girls are.

You don’t have to wait till you reach the illustrious age of 40 to embrace this liberating mantra. You can be too old for all that at 20, or 30, or even 16, if you’re really ahead of the game. But I have to say it seems to come more easily as the years go on.

Inter-

5 Replies

We went to the theatre a while ago, my husband and I. Say it the posh way, thee- ate -er. We left the children in the capable hands of a babysitter and took our cue to pretentiously discuss Beckett and Joyce on the metro into town. We even had a drink before the show. We’d never have had the audacity to book ourselves tickets for something like that – a real play, at night, in the city, no less – but we’d won the tickets so we had to go.

It’s been so long since I’ve been to a live production of anything other than a tantrum being thrown that I’d forgotten all the things that make theatre such a different experience from a movie, even though on the face of it you might think they’re much the same. This was a great example, though: a very intimate production, in the round, so that watching the audience opposite us react was as much part of the play as watching the actors. And being so close to the protagonists that you could reach out and touch them as they went by (if you wanted to; of course, I would never do such a thing) and admiring the grace and speed with which the actors moved the sets and props around between scenes, like a dance.

I love those moments when they’re between selves; they’re not quite in character yet, but they’re about to be. The curtain call is the same, of course: it’s the actors, not the characters, who are bowing to our applause. I strained to see if I could hear them speak as they went by, because the play was done with British accents and I’m sure the actors were American – but I didn’t catch any hint of their real selves’ voices to lift the veil a little further. I think this is why I love the blooper reels on a DVD so much: it’s not just because they’re funny, but because we see the actors being themselves just for a moment.

—————

I am between selves at the moment, I think. With the kids in camp for six hours a day, parenting is not the immersive experience it has been and will be for the rest of the summer, but I’m not quite sure what else it is I do; other than rush around getting last-minute things I might need for BlogHer. Once I’m there, I’ll be a new self, or an old self – a new old self, perhaps. A professional amateur blogger, doing whatever it is such people do, in the company of many many others. A writer among writers, or a mommy-on-vacation. A woman among women (and some men, but not many, I’d say), without children.

Just me, Sheryl Sandberg, the Pioneer Woman , thousands of other women, and Queen Latifah too.

The hustler

5 Replies

What you might call our first date was, I believe, an arrangement to meet up at our university (in the last week of Easter break) and play some pool. With a friend, probably. To the uninformed viewer it might have seemed casual in the utmost. We might have had lunch in the totally unromantic UCD canteen first. Or maybe we pushed the boat out and got one of those little pizzas on the second floor. I should remember, but I don’t.

What I remember is the pool table. We went down to “The Trap”, which is what everyone called the pool tables and juke box in the basement of the Arts building, beside all the lockers, and put some coins in a table. I think we found our mutual friend (through whom we had first met two weeks earlier) down there; we certainly weren’t alone. It being the holidays, the place wasn’t thronged with students avidly avoiding lectures, but it wasn’t deserted either. Some people could reliably be found in The Trap no matter what the season or semester.

Now, don’t be imagining I’m some sort of pool shark. Tom Cruise and Paul Newman would wipe the floor with me in half a second flat. But ever since my friend and I used to push the white ball around the empty table in the Dunlaoghaire Motor Yacht Club with our hands, or watch the coloured balls lining up with those lovely clicks through the little window to the table’s innards, or even when my late lamented Uncle Brian tried to show me how to hold a cue at the age of about seven, I’ve had a sort of affinity for the game.

(My granny used to watch the snooker on TV. That took some concentration, before she got the color set.)

So B was the one who showed me how to play. (I won’t say “taught me” becuase that would imply that I have learned and am now able to do it.) I know the rules and can slide the cue towards the white ball and almost always make it hit one of the others. Something usually goes in a pocket eventually. I don’t really care. I love watching the skill of others, the ones who do know what they’re doing. I love the almost-frictionless roll of ball towards pocket, watching an engineer calculate the angles, or pretend to, hearing the satisflying click (or the rumble when the white goes down and you wait for the table to send it back to you).

So there we were on our date, having a nice game of pool, not exactly knowing where this was going or how to move things forward. I leaned on the table. I put my hand a little too close to where his hand was also leaning on the side of the table as we waited for our friend to take a shot. The sides of our little fingers touched, and a tiny electric shock went through me. That was enough. The direction was set. Fate was on notice.

Wednesday will be our ninth wedding anniversary, by the way.

We used to play a game of pool now and then, whenever we were in a bar with a pool table, with a couple of friends or just the two of us. I didn’t get any better, but I still enjoyed it. Last week on our vacation we had an early dinner one night in a not-very-Italian restaurant attached to a very American bar. We passed the pool table as we walked through the bar to our booth seats. I made a mental note of it. When dinner was over and ice-creams had been screamed for and ordered (politely) and said thank-you for (politely) I suggested we might just see if the pool table was still unused on our way out.

It was. Probably we should not have stopped for a quick game of pool in a bar with our seven year old and our four year old, but we did, and nobody cared, and it was fun. It was fun to impress the kids with this thing they had no idea we would ever do. It was fun to let them chalk our cues and retrieve the white ball and suggest what we might aim for next. They were just about old enough to keep their hands off the balls and the other cues for long enough for B to wipe the floor with my pathetic effort (it takes me most of a game to get my eye in, and it had been a few years) and clear the table, clonk clonk clonk, like a pro.

Or maybe I’m still just easily impressed by some people.

Not to scale

Chubby

8 Replies

I would like to excise the words “fat” and “thin” from the English language.

Flashback: As we drove home with my tiny newborn daughter pinkly in the back seat, I allowed myself a few moments of fear about raising a girl: body image and self esteem were right there at the top of the list. But then I got over it and enjoyed my beautiful tiny snuggly baby.

Last night, my daughter – my four-and-a-half-year-old daughter – pulled me close to her and asked me in the whisper she uses when she’s being very serious, if she was a little bit too thin. She wanted to know if thin was good or fat was good.

My heart broke a tiny bit. Maybe more than a tiny bit.

“You are exactly perfect and beautiful,” I told her, perhaps a bit too fiercely. “Remember that always. Exactly perfect.”

And I told her that thin and fat are not bad and good things. Good is fresh air and exercise and being strong and healthy. Bad is, well, nothing, so long as you don’t overdo it. At least, I tried to tell her, but she probably went off at a tangent about something else entirely before I’d said even a quarter of all the important things I have to say – that it’s my duty as her mother and a woman who was a girl – to tell her.

I just have to keep telling her, don’t I?

Legitimately a little chubby, perhaps.

*She learned the word “chubby” from the movie Tangled . I wish she hadn’t.

I think I’m going with the pale lilac toenails

2 Replies

So far so good with summer camp , though Mabel objects to having to stay quiet for rest time after lunch, and I didn’t send any money with Dash on his field trip so he was subjected to the huge injustice of not being able to buy anything in the gift shop at the Baltimore aquarium yesterday. As for me, I’m having a lovely time.

Yesterday I went to the mall and spent more than an hour shopping, unhurriedly and in a focused manner, alone. I don’t think I’ve done that since I had children, and it was excellent. First I bought a bra from the proper place to buy bras, so that everything else I tried on would look better. Then I found exactly the trousers I was looking for in the first place I looked for them, and on sale too. (Making up for the bra. When you breastfeed for seven years, your double-Ds turn into something more like double-Fs, and there are no cheap bras.)

I bought some posh moisturizer and had some good lunch and tried on some dresses that were almost but not quite what I wanted. I resisted the Nordstrom lady’s hard sell on the blue dress (which was really cute but would clash with my shoes and need alterations and was a little dressier than I wanted) and at the last minute found the perfect thing in Macy’s, on clearance, no alterations needed, just dressy enough, and works with the shoes I already have. Score.

Yes, a lot of this shopping is inspired by the upcoming blogging conference . No, you don’t have to go and buy new things or take up an exercise regime to go to a conference. But I like motivators, and inspiration, and finding excuses to do things I might not otherwise do.

Let me put it like this:

How would I like people to look at a blogging conference?

a) Fat
b) Thin
c) Friendly

How do I think people should dress at a blogging conference?

a) Preppy
b) Sloppy
c) In something comfortable that makes you feel like your (best) self

Option c) all the way. That’s all.

Personally, however, I do have a few other requirements: not being too hot or too cold, not feeling like I have to stand up straight and suck my gut in all the time, not worrying about sweat stains if I’ve been shuttling between conference venues in Chicago summer heat, and not clashing with my orange bag. And, vitally, wearing shoes I can walk in. All of the above will help me feel like myself and meet new people with a genuine smile.

I’m not going to pretend that BlogHer isn’t a big deal for me. It is. I’ve never left my children overnight before, I’ve been out of the professional workplace for seven years, and I’m only just starting to call myself a blogger out loud. Sometimes. So while dressing for a fairly casual conference and hopping on a plane without emergency diapers and goldfish crackers might be a regular occurence for many attendees there, for me it’s a giant leap out of my everyday life and back (or forwards) into another.

As far as I know, there’s only going to be one other person there who I’ve actually met (though she knows several others). Quite a few of the bloggers I love to read regularly, and who I know have gone in the past, don’t seem to be going this year. I’m fairly interested in some of the sessions and of course I want to see the keynote speakers and the Voices of the Year presentations, but mostly I’m going for the Experience. I want to meet people who are dorks like me.

Are you going to be there? Leave me a comment, and maybe we could try to meet up.

The other vacation

2 Replies

This is what I wrote last night:

Tomorrow, my vacation begins.

I mean, the one where the kids both go to camp from 8:45 to 3:30 every day for two weeks, and culminating in my three days away at the BlogHer conference in Chicago.

I’m still feeling a little I’ll-believe-it-when-I-see-it about the whole thing, really. Mabel has never been away from me for full days like that, and she’s not the lover of organized activities her brother is, as well as being fairly clingy at the moment, what with the Four And A Half Thing. Camp is meant to be fun, so if she’s really not having fun I’ll see if they can refund me the difference and go with the half day instead. Eight forty-five to noon is still 45 minutes longer than her school day has been all year. It wouldn’t be quite as intoxicatingly freedom-y as no kids all day, but I’d still take it.

———————

This morning began with a moan from D’s bedroom. Since he’s a happy cheery morning person (didn’t get that from me), a moan is never exactly a harbinger of good.

“My tummy hurts. And my forehead feels funny.”

Of course. Of course it does. What else would it do? Sigh. I know he’s not faking because he’s the one who really wants to go to camp. His sister, on the other hand, was fine until about ten minutes before we had to leave the house, when she started telling me how maybe she didn’t really want to go to camp after all and maybe she’d much rather stay at home and how it wasn’t fair that Dash got to be sick so he didn’t have to go.

Oh, the injustice.

———————-

I brought Mabel to camp and made it out the door again alone. She was happy to see a friend from school and – more importantly – a large pink doll house WITH PONIES. She looked a bit wobbly when I left but was holding it together.

Dash is now perfectly fine, after three pieces of toast. He’s been making things out of duct tape and making movies of himself fighting/dancing with my old camera. I am going to bring him down for lunch and the afternoon half of today’s camp, because if I don’t he’ll drive me demented and use up all my computer space with uploaded crap.

Luckily for you, I couldn’t get the movie to upload, so you just get a photo

————————

I brought him to camp. He was immediately hailed by at least two kids in the room, and slotted right in to his group with a grin. I dropped by Mabel’s building without seeing her and inquired of a counsellor how she was doing. She’s fine. Totes fine. (They’re not in the same camp, but are based about a minute away from each other.) I went to Old Navy and Safeway and did some shopping.

It’s awfully quiet around here. I wonder what I’ll do next. When’s pickup time again?

Awfully Chipper

Optimists think they have more fun