Go here! No, there!

Have you learned nothing?

Do you know how you walk into a high-end store sometimes and get attitude from the salesperson? And you think: Aren’t I in essence paying your salary because if it weren’t for people like me you wouldn’t sell stuff? And you also might possibly entertain the notion that the salesperson lives with (a) their parents or (b) five other Top Ramen-eating roommates in a cramped downtown apartment? And if they were all that, maybe they wouldn’t be hawking shit in a high-end retail store? And God bless ‘em if they’re working their way through school or chose retail as a career, but then I’m thinking in that case, they’d be nice to their customers.

Being treated like I don’t matter really pisses me off. And trust me, I’m an insecure batnut, so saying that is really saying something. I often have to look in the mirror and tell myself I’m worth it. But to be dismissed? I hate it like nothing. Maybe because I’m so sensitive to feeling like I matter, but whatever the case, indifference is upsetting. Also, rather than get hurt, I get angry. (Anger by the way is supposed to stem from either fear or hurt.) (So there’s an existential nugget for you.)

Anyway, I have to say this because it’s really eating at me: There were rare times this past weekend when I was treated like I didn’t matter. And wow, did it bother me. NOT from the “my blog is great, why don’t you notice it” perspective, but from an “I’m a person too” point of view. It didn’t happen often, but once or twice, and still I have to tell you, it sucked. Because look, most of the people I ran into this weekend were women making a go out of being something other than a wife, a mother, a whatever they were before they were a blogger, and in that case, dammit, we’re all in it together. Also, support much? How about community? Why exclude? I completely don’t understand. Although I’ve come to see that it’s about the excluder, and not about the excludee, it still baffles me.

Also? I know from social anxiety. I KNOW my behavior has been misconstrued at times because I’ve been shy or scared to approach, so I’m sensitive to that. But? If someone directs a question or a comment to me? I RESPOND. Social awkwardness or not. Furthermore, if I’m frolicking and interacting with a group, and someone from “outside” my group makes an attempt at conversation, I include them. I just do. And why wouldn’t I? Redundant, I know. I’ve already said I don’t get it, right? (Sorry. I’m an overstater, as my husband will no doubt enthusiastically and somewhat defeatedly tell you.)

So here’s what happened. But first, it’s minor and so what and all that, but it’s on my mind because I want to understand and so I write about it. It’s a writerly rule I have: Write to understand myself and others.

Digression alert.

Right, so I was at a small event. There were several of us bloggers there. I didn’t know too many people, so as I’m wont to do, I felt uncomfortableish. (Here’s another thing: If I see anyone feeling uncomfortableish, I overlove on them. I HATE to see people feel uncomfortable.) I tried to make conversation with one or two people in my vicinity, and they had none of it. NONE. OF. IT. In summary, I did not exist to them. There were smiles on their faces for their “friends” and such, but I was 100% a non-entity to these people. I don’t know. Not enough readers? I’m not in the “circle” so must be insignificant? Still befuddled. Also, this “circle?” Isn’t it dependent on people coming in and out like air in a healthy lung? And I’m one of your fans! Why do you treat me so? I could argue I’m the oxygen that gives life to your blog.

So.

It happens.

Maybe an oversight. Could be, I suppose.

But now? There are pictures of this event around the blogosphere, and as the non-entity I felt like at the time, I’m not named. Not even referred to…although every one else in the photo is titled.

So.

I don’t care if my blog is linked. Or if my “San Diego Momma” pseudonym is used. I swear to you? I could care. But? I want to be a person.

I have to wonder what happened in this blogger’s mind when she posted the picture. Obviously, she had to go face by face to title each person. So what happened when it came to my face?

Apparently, I didn’t matter.

I hate to not matter.

I suppose that’s more about me, than about her.

So there. I’ve processed this by writing.

Thanks for listening.

(You were listening, right?)

P.S. Just one more thing (my husband is dying a small death right now): If you position yourself as authentic on your blog, but you’re not in person, and to everyone, I question you.

BlogHer. For years, YEARS, I’ve heard people speak of it. I remember reading recaps — albeit less of them than this year — from 2001 on, when it seemed like only Dooce and her friends attended the conference. I’ve long been fascinated by what actually went on at BlogHer. It seemed more like a giant group hug than educational sessions, but I’m into that and so always wanted to go. Given that this year the conference was in New York AND my brother and sister-in-law live there, it seemed as good a time as any to check the whole thing out. And except for my flying terror and the million-dollar-drain on the bank account, I have to say the trip was worth it, although for reasons* I didn’t expect.

Let me break it down for ya.

The Flight There

It was much as I thought it’d be. Blind panic. Too many drinks. Sweaty handholding with my seatmate as the plane rose into the air. For five — FIVE — hours, I knocked my knees together and prayed for my salvation. Of course, I’d met the pilots beforehand because otherwise I’d wonder about the monkeys Sugar said can fly planes (She said that. She said even monkeys could fly planes. Well-trained monkeys. But monkeys nonetheless. And so there I sat, hoping the pilots’ opposable thumbs worked if we suddenly started plunging toward the unforgiving ground.) Not soon enough, our red-eye flight landed and I lurched off the plane, ate something yellowish with toast, and was thrown into a cab. By 9AM, I was in bed while my crazy traveler friends took off for the Today Show and a stroll around the city.

Natalie and I. What’s that you say? You’ve seen this photo 29,000 times already? Yes. Yes. You see, that’s because I only took ONE picture the whole time I was in New York. Like an un-recording-of-life’s-great-moments dipshit.

Day One

At about noon, I emerged from my tranquilized, post traumatic stress-induced sleep to a desire to walk around town. Luckily, Natalie joined me and we visited Central Park, a pizza place (broccoli pizza on whole wheat crust! be still heart, be still), the Apple store, Duane Reade, and some sweet-smelling place that washed our hands for us (a lotion boutique of some sort). Then it was time for a shower and texting all the San Diegites for a meeting place. We retired to the Warwick hotel lounge to be served by an insanely rude server lady and chattered each other up for an hour or two.

Soon enough, it was time for the parties. Let’s see. There was the party where I introduced myself to my idol, who I am not even going to link here because I don’t want her to put two and two together and figure out who the blubbering huggy dumb ass was who very nearly smushed her itty bits to death, unbidden and with robustness. Let’s just say she is awesome and wrote the kind of book I would like to write one day. Also, she was delightful and did not say a thing (to me) about the smushing.

After that, there were more parties. And my brother and sister-in-law came to see me at the hotel bar, wherein they both proceeded to wonder what the hell it is these bloggers do at conferences when all it appeared we were doing was smushing people and drinking martinis.

Day Two

This was the first official day of the conference. There were writing panels (my favorite) and geek labs and all manner of sessions designed to make you a better blogger, photographer, person. Here, I must say? I didn’t find the panels I attended as much informative, as entertaining, As a writer, like I said, I enjoyed the panels dedicated to the art, but the branding/monetizing stuff made me a bit uncomfortable. I suppose I’m more a people person than a business person, much to the befuddled chagrin of my significant other. Still? I must say it and emblazon it on my blog like graffiti on a bridge: MORE CONTENT, LESS PANDERING! Please.

I managed to also make it to the Expo Hall and the sponsored suites. In both places, the swag was plentiful and flowing like a mighty river. I picked up books, and Play-Doh, and make-up and etc., etc., until I felt gross and wasteful. At one point, after I complimented an exhibitor on her necklace, she offered to give one to me, and I had to leave. It felt wrong. And I don’t have the necklace. I’m still not used to the idea of advertisers pitching products to me like I’m some kind of authority. It feels uncomfortable (Look for my review of a personal microdermabrasion device soon! Not kidding. I’m still navigating these waters. And I have shitty skin.)

One of the best suites of all time? The Align suite, where I learned about my poop and healthy intestinal bugs. Also, there was reflexology. And although my feet stunk to the highest heavens imaginable, I couldn’t pass this treatment up. My reflexologist was a lovely, zen, moony woman who told me to breathe deep and lose myself behind my lavender-scented eye mask. Despite the yoga-esque “Does that feel goooooodddddd?s” I DID lose myself.

High point for sure.

After that? More parties, I’m not even kidding you. There was the HP party and the Savvy Sassy party and BarHer and holy crap, I forget.

Day Three

This day brought the best yet. First, a pizza lunch organized by the inimitable Suzanne, which brought together many of my favorite bloggers I’ve been reading for years and hadn’t met yet. Also! I made two new best friends there. (Would you not say anything? They don’t know yet and I’d like to be the one to tell them.) They wrote a book. I don’t have it yet. But I know it’s brilliant. And touching. And enormously funny. (Like them.) In addition, I managed to share a cab with well, my two new best friends, AND this lady and THIS lady, who I’ve long admired and adored from way afar. In related news, my admiree did not make me feel silly for my crush. This possibly may be because I did my best to not collapse her internal organs with my strangely muscular hugs.

Finally. The best part of the whole thing? The humor panel partially moderated by my favorite person in the funny world. THIS session closed the conference and it was jam-packed, hysterical, and touchy-feely. How they managed that, I don’t know. Fortunately, they did and it ruled hard core. If you can, Google the transcript for this panel. I can’t find it yet or I’d put it here. But trust me, it’s worth it. (If you’re funny.) (If you’re Amish, drive your horse cart on by.)

In no time, the night rolled in, bringing a warm, intimate dinner with a lovely gaggle of ladies and a noble cause. But this? Deserves a post all its own. So please stay tuned.

The Flight Home

Dudes. All I can say? Is thank GOD that the next BlogHer is in San Diego.

Cuz up in the air at 36,000 feet?

Homey don’t play that.

*Reasons include but are not limited to: getting real, putting flesh and blood on online personas, getting to know people I thought I knew better, becoming inspired, and general hijinkery.

P.S. I almost forgot the best part! I finally met this lady, who I’ve loved so long, I can’t even count the years. Also, I stole this picture from her. Because I’m pretty sure we’re best friends now too and she won’t mind sharing. I only wish I could also borrow her clothes like best friends do, but first I’d have to become an adorable size 0. Maybe she’ll give me her earrings instead.

Sometimes I neglect to do what I like to do. i.e. Read a book cover to cover. Other times, I do too much of what I like to do. e.g. Write everywhere else but in my manuscript. Many times, I choose one thing I like to do over the other thing I like to do. Such as and for instance, sleep instead of watch another 30 Rock episode on Hulu.

But the ONE constant? The single thing that keeps me breathing and pulsating?

Words.

In a song, in a poem, in a joke, in a whisper, in a look.

I love these lines:

Although, I admit, I desire,

Leap incandescent

And the lyrics of this song.

And the dialogue in this show.

Not the mention, the prose made poetry in this book.

Plus a million other words from a million other places.

Good God.

Words rattle my foundation.

They’re my sinew and muscle.

My vast unknowable.

Made known.

What is your passion? Get detailed if you can. If it’s reading, tell me a book that ignites your fire. If it’s people, then who? If it’s a thing…what?

Please post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments.

First time to PROMPTuesday? Read a bit about it here.
Want to see what’s been written in the past? Catch up on the PROMPTuesdays archive here.

It was Friday when I lost my mind.

I couldn’t keep up, plain couldn’t keep up with the faces, the cameras, the tweeting, the shucking, the jiving, the talking, the branding, the sponsoring, the expo-ing, the walking, the waiting, the schlepping, the nodding.

I misplaced the ability to speak in complete sentences. To move. To do anything other than vastly and completely feel the experience. Just let it wash over me.

So I did.

I have this thing. When I’m in the midst of a moment, it’s hard for me to freeze it. To make it stop and capture the laugh, the cry, the talk…with a photograph, or a word. Because, it’s a moment, right? You want to be IN it, not outside of it…broadcasting how you feel…when you could you know, just feel it.

I suppose that’s a blogger fail because I don’t have photos and summaries to nutshell this past weekend.

But I felt it all. Every moment.

Sure some are fuzzed over with late nights and robust drinks and bright lights, big city, but what a beautiful mosaic.

And although I’m philosophizing now…(oh sweet exhaustion how you rob me of my vocabulary)…there are so many hard and fast details to share. Central Park walks with a lovely friend. 2AM in the hotel bar. A humor panel that kicked the weekend’s ass. But so much of the time I moved in an alternate universe where my “fake” life was the “real” one and how hard it can be to flip flop the two when you’re home with your husband and children and life…your blood, sweat and tears existence. Your 3D in technicolor reality. The one that exists without the tweets and the posts and the status updates.

That’s where I am now.

So? More later.

I am re-posting this for three reasons. One and most trivially, because I’m exhausted and lazy. Two, and more relevantly, because I just returned from BlogHer and met many women from my quirk tribe; and THREE, and most inspirationally, it is due to this post that I realized why I blog: because I love to write.

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I love quirkers. Truly. I adore weird people of every stripe and nonsense word they utter. I’d so much rather lunch with people who are strange and creatively unkempt than bland genericsons. In fact, I do seem to be one of those people who off-the-beaten-path types befriend. In college in Milwaukee, I lived down the street from a mental institution and a rescue mission (also, a few short blocks from Jeffrey Dahmer. And I’m convinced that if he ran into me at the corner grocer, he’d have confessed all, because I have that effect on people.) and I routinely came across the talk-to-themselfer, the screaming-into-the-air paranoid and the craggy, barefoot-in-snow garden variety crazy. And I loved them. And they loved me.

And at this time, I do not care to speculate on why that is. But thank you for your insight.

One of my favorite things to do in my early days was to frequent dive bars in the afternoon (also, not wanting to speculate on this habit right now, but again, thanks), because the map of humanity in there was too absorbing, too colorful for me to resist. I could think of nothing better than to engage in a conversation with Louby-Bird, the bespectacled, leathery guy to my left who could tell me a thing or two about life. And? I’m getting all excited now just remembering how he told me to “worry less, eat more beans.” From the mouths of quirks. I’m telling you: pure unexpected gold. I have yet to take his advice.

In my college photojournalism class, I chose “Bus People” as my thesis, because Bus People! What is more exciting than that? Who are these individuals? Why are they on a bus? The possibilities were endless (ah! college). So for weeks, I’d jump in front of Milwaukee’s city buses and snap photos of the behemoths two seconds away from flattening me AND my standard-issue Nikon. Then, I’d hop on the bus and take pictures of the down and out, the hopeful, the aimless, the defeated, the vibrant. And? They were all quirkers. There’s just something about buses…

Or maybe there’s something about people wherever you find them waiting, watching, being. I’ve often wondered at my fascination with quirkeys. And I know it has to do with my fondness for authenticity. Quirks are themselves — fully and without apology. Plus, it’s unexpected. How many times have you suffered through a phony small-talk conversation. And how long does it take to get real? And don’t you love that moment? Also, the myriad characters I met in the dive bars, at the bus stops, in grocery lines (see below) are flesh and blood flawed and beautiful. All is laid bare and you get to brass tacks right off. I mean, we all are flawed and beautiful, but we don’t show it much, do we? I like it when people show it. Finally, quirks reflect you back to yourself. They know you, oh you bet they do. And it’s nice to be known. (Let me also just say that maybe “quirks” and its ilk is not the right word. But I maintain that mainstream America considers anyone outside the norm (whatever THAT is), a “quirk.”)

Anyway, it’d been a long time for me and my quirkers. I just don’t run into the characters like I used to. But yesterday, my ears perked when at Trader Joe’s, the cashier said without pretense, “Hi. What do you do for a living?” Momentarily taken aback, I scanned my grocery items for what might have prompted the question. Seeing only bread, 18 bags of Pirate’s Booty and a sponge, I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. But something about the way he asked. As if he really wanted to know. I looked up at him and a glance passed between us. A-ha! I said to myself. A fellow quirkerson.

So I told him I about my freelance writing and editing, which led to what I wrote and edited, and when I answered, “restaurant promotional copy and IT reports,” his glazed look told me he considered me not quirky enough.

“Also,” I said, “I have a mom’s blog.”

His ears perked. “Ah?” he countered. “How many kids?”

“Two girls, aged two and four.”

“Are they crazy?”

“Totally demented,” I say confidently.

“Funny.” He pulled out his iPhone. “I work part-time in an urgent care trauma clinic…”

And we’re off!

The next 10 minutes passed in an iPhone photo blur of jagged gashes, amputated fingers and chest x-rays showing the most unorthodox and disturbing swallowed items. I loved every minute of it. We were just about to get into a series of unsettling body art photos, when the line of people behind us threatened to draw us from quarter to quarter.

I left that Trader Joe’s refreshed and rejuvenated. And oh so very slightly, repelled.

I hadn’t felt so quirkified since the day The Rock came home with a note a man passed him at breakfast with a friend. Seemed the man bonded with The Rock’s friend’s dog and as he left the restaurant, he left these words scrawled on a paper napkin:

“It has nothing to do with the bark. We are telepathic.”

What delicious enigma.

Forever in peace may the freak flag wave.

Feet.

When I was 18, my family up and moved from Chicago to San Diego. Fresh out of high school, I thought I’d die leaving my friends and summer plans. My heart stayed broken throughout most of 1986. I no longer had things to do on the weekends and no one knew my name. And for a teenager? That’s hell. Also, at a time when my pals were preparing to go off to university in fabulous East Coast towns, I was registering for community college because the move disrupted my plans to attend Creighton. It would be one entire long, lonely year before I made it back to the Midwest. Meanwhile, I spent a lot of time by myself. One burning recollection is eating alone between classes at McDonald’s while other classmates frolicked and played a few tables over. I very nearly cried right there in my Big Mac with no pickles.

Life goes on. All this seems so silly now because you know, I cut my person chops during that tumultuous time. I learned how to be alone, and even better, to enjoy it. I built character, relied on myself, and emerged a better phoenix from the ashes of teen angst.

Buuuuttttt…I still harbor fear of sitting alone at a table in a crowded room.

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When I was 25, I visited a Chicago street fair with my best girlfriends. We boozed and schmoozed and bambaloozed for hours and had a grand old time. In the late afternoon, we ran into some guys we’d known in college who now lived just down the street from us. I didn’t know the boys well, or at all, really, other than by cute guy reputation, so I stayed on the fringes of a very long conversation. Also, my two good friends were — are — HOT. Like Girls of Summer calendar hot. Like if Jessica Rabbit weren’t a rabbit hot…so I understood when the guys wanted to keep talking to them. I kinda just tapped my foot and pet dogs and smiled occasionally, secreting wishing we could just GO already. Finally, my friend announced she was going to run to the bathroom and then we’d go. I went with her and she pulled me aside to say, “Do you know why we’re still here?”

Of course I knew. Cute boys and hot girls. I got it.

“No,” she said. “Because Todd likes you.”

I swear you could have knocked me over with this most unexpected pronouncement. What? Someone noticed me? With the two hotties by my side? And truthfully? God bless her, she seemed surprised too.

I blushed, stammered, and walked back outside with a measure of new confidence. Of course, nothing came of it, but I realized in that moment that you don’t always know what people are thinking.

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When it was Monday night, I met up with my longtime blog crush, Bejewell. She was awesome, natch. As the conversation turned to BlogHer as it is wont to do every late July-early August, Beej said, “You know I love you guys, but if I have extra money to spend, I’m going to spend it on a vacation with my family.”

Despite the excitement for my first blogging conference and the anticipation of hanging for four days with like minds, I nodded. Her comment cut through the ether and made me realize, “My head sure is in the online space a lot. When’s the last time I hung out with my kids after dinner instead of jumping on the computer?”

Beej is good like that. She makes you think. And laugh. Often at the same time.

I’ve got a lot to think about.

Hopefully, while laughing…

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When it was today, I hyperventilated my way through the morning. This evening, I’ll be winging to New York and I’ve got that flying phobia thing. I often think when I’m in the throes of another anxiety attack: “Stop. Enjoy where you are. Don’t let your crazy worry mind hijack your moments.”

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Which brings me to right now.

UPDATED: As Laurie Ann points out, Jessica Rabbit wasn’t a rabbit. Which changes the whole focus of this post, dammit.