It occurred to me recently that I’m a part of a blogging group I know next to nothing about. Meaning, I am a mom and I am a blogger. I sit alongside members of this group (sometimes) but rarely chime in. I’m a spectator. And I don’t have the ambition (or knowhow) to enter the mainstream. Not that I’d make it anyway! When it comes to sinking or swimming and the Internet, I usually tread water.

Toby Joe has told me time and time again, “You gotta play the game if you want to get ahead! You gotta play the game if you want to get noticed!” And I always shake my head at that, actually it frustrates me to no end. And he knows this. He’s not trying to upset me. He says it to remind me that playing the game just ain’t my thing. It’s always the same conversation, one that ends with me asking him, “What’s the fucking point?”

I’ve never played the game. l probably never will play the game. I will continue to sit on the sidelines. Sometimes I’ll cheer people on. Sometimes I’ll boo and hiss at people. But I’ll always do so silently.

I’ve never been very good at playing the game.

And I don’t write much about heated topics anymore, even topics I feel very strongly about. I’m not sure why (or when) that stopped. I just hate the idea of anonymous hate mail, anonymous comments, or Tweets from Below. But I am even more freaked out by the chorus of commenters who write things like, “Wow. Just. Wow. You are AWESOME! I totally agree! I love you!”

Doesn’t that make people feel uncomfortable? It does me. It makes me cringe as a spectator. Comments like that tend to freak me out more so than ones spewing hate.

So, I just avoid heated topics altogether.

But I always have an opinion. Always.

Last week I wrote a relatively scathing post about Babble’s “Top 50 BEST OF” lists and lists in general. I gave up midway through that post because I worried that I might offend someone. And I’m pretty sure I would have been accused of being a jealous twat and I don’t have the energy to fight back even though that’s not the case.

But ultimately? I just couldn’t shake the voice in the back of my head asking, “What’s the fucking point, Michele?”

And I didn’t have an answer to that. So I hit save and walked away.

Yesterday I wrote a post about the whole Amazon/pedophile book fiasco. I didn’t partake in the shitstorm that engulfed Twitter because I didn’t want to draw attention to a book that, up until yesterday, had sold one copy and is clearly the work of a very, very sick man. But the news spread like wildfire. People called for a boycott. People were outraged.

Good news for all those opposed? The book was removed by Amazon last night.

Bad news for all those opposed? The backlash helped it go from the 158,221st best-selling Kindle e-books all the way up to #65.

(Please note: I’m not discussing how I feel about the book or Amazon having listed it. I’m also not suggesting others should have ignored it. I’m not saying anything. See? That’s my point. When it comes to the Internet? I RARELY MAKE ONE.)

There are just so many half-written posts. They’re piling up. And instead of publishing any of them, I just give up and write about my cat, baking, or something silly that happened while spending time with my son. All of this probably makes me seem pretty damn boring. Hell, I bore myself on here anymore.

So, yeah. I think it’s pretty safe to say that I suck at playing the game. I don’t see that changing. And quite honestly, I’m not even sure I know how to play.

But here’s my hunch regarding the rules:

Playing the game means linking to other blogs a lot, blogs at the heart of it all; it means knowing what one’s peers are discussing at all times. Playing the game means finding out about the hot topic straight away and writing about said topic immediately. Playing the game often includes heated debate. (It also means having a strong backbone something of which I do not.) Playing the game sometimes means being a decent writer, but more often than not has nothing to do with actual talent and more to do with who’s on one’s team. Playing the game means feeling passionate about one side of an issue (or pretending to feel passionate about one side of an issue) and I often see many sides. (Unless we’re talking vaccinations, animal rights, littering, or guns. Now, you unvaccinated, littering, gun carriers who torture animals? YOU DESERVE TO DIE.)

Playing the game means going to conferences. Playing the game means NOT finding out about something days after it happens. Playing the game means NOT getting annoyed by those on your team.

I suck at playing the game.

I’m admittedly a bit emotional these days and I gotta be frank with you: I don’t know how much of what I’m feeling is legitimate Michele stuff and how much of it is hormonally induced reactionary stuff. So I feel crippled when it comes to making any changes.

I do know I’m not a very good blogger (anymore) and I have no idea how to change that or if I should. I’m even losing sight of my own voice while reading everyone else’s. And Twitter seems to be making it worse. You give people 140 characters and they use all 140 repeatedly and often. And then sometimes they re-tweet the same sentiment from others. Before you know it, you’re reading 140 characters a dozen times from a dozen different people and in a dozen different ways, but all of which are saying the same thing.

So, yeah. I feel a little lost out here, online. And I’m realizing I always have, which is probably why this blog is facing its 10-year anniversary and not many folks know about it. (Not that I’m complaining! I assure you. Making my family laugh has been worth it. And those who have reached out to me regarding their miscarriages or infertility have made the entire decade I’ve been blogging worthwhile. I mean that completely. Your loss is something I will always care about. That’s why I started this blog 10 years ago: I was hoping to make people feel less alone.)

But overall? I find myself wondering how and why everyone seems to care so damn much about seemingly pointless shit. And then I just get frustrated at myself that I don’t care enough. I don’t care enough to write about Babble’s lists. I don’t care enough to write about baby slings, attachment parenting or breastfeeding in public. I don’t care enough to write about who harassed who and how they went about admitting it. I don’t care enough to give some attention whore even more attention because she wrote an article about hating fat people in exchange for some ad revenue.

Yeah, I think it’s safe to say that I’m terrible at playing the game, and I’m frustrated by it too. And I think it’s safe to say that I’m too much of a pussy to actually say (or do) anything about it.

Related posts:

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I looked around the room and saw another woman was using an iPhone. I asked her if she had service. Her’s worked. I restarted. When it started up again, nothing worked. The ATT icon was gone as well as the 3G icon. It read “No Service”. I no longer had a working phone.

Toby’s iPhone died several weeks ago. So he’s been living without one since. And that’s been hard for us especially since we don’t have a landline and haven’t since November 2001. For weeks we’ve been using the DM service through Twitter to communicate. (Why not email, I’ve no idea. But it did keep our correspondence to the bare minimum and there’s something to be said for that sometimes. You get to the point when dealing with 140 characters!) So he needed a new phone. He went back and forth on what to get, whether or not he wanted to switch away from ATT altogether or sign another contract. (Toby hates contracts more so than most people.) But in the end, given his job an all, he decided to stick with Apple.

I didn’t really need a new phone. Mine works, albeit rather shoddily since Emory gave it a sponge bath. But it does work.

But here’s the skinny: I need a new camera for school. We were told on day one that we’d need a small, but decent digital camera to document our work. At the end of our time there, we’ll need a photographic resume of everything we bake. I don’t have a small digital camera. My camera is a massive Nikon D200. And since we already have so much to carry with us to and from class (knives, a bag of pastry supplies, towels, a scale) there’s no way I could include that in my repertoire. So, I would need a new camera at some point. And I told Toby this in passing one day. It was such a non-comment, I kind of forgot mentioning it all.

Well, Toby apparently had an idea and his idea traveled uptown and entered my head right as I restarted my iPhone for a second time: my husband was, right at that very moment, buying me an iPhone 4 as well.

(Thank you, lovely husband!)

You’ve probably read all about the controversy surrounding the iPhone 4. And I’m sure by now you’ve heard that Consumer Reports basically said DO NOT BUY THIS PHONE. And they have to; it does have a problem. And Steve Jobs was less than accommodating when it came to responding to the backlash. He went from suggesting the user not hold the phone that way, to offering up free bumpers to fix the problem. Consumer Reports suggested duct tape. Another user suggested buying an Ove Glove. All those perpetually drinking the Apple Kool-Aid responded to the naysayers and critics by holding their hands over their ears and repeating, “LA LA LA LA! I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”  The whole mess was quite entertaining for those of us in the middle.

Straight up: I don’t use the phone part of the phone very much. If I were a heavy caller, I’d probably have taken my iPhone back. But I use it to browse the Internet, check email and Twitter, as well as text people. I’ve used the actual phone application maybe four times since Sunday and thus far I haven’t had any dropped calls. I know it will happen and probably at the most inopportune time, but for now I’m really pleased with my new phone.

A FEW THINGS TO NOTE:

The Screen

The screen is amazing. It’s just beautiful. Whenever the very first round of buyers got a hold of it and my Twitter stream lit up with tweets about the screen, I rolled my eyes. But you know something? They’re all right! It’s really wonderful. So much better than what I had been using.

The Speed and Ease

The applications run so much faster and smoother. I use the New York Times application every single night. I fall asleep reading. At least three times a week for over a year I have complained to Toby Joe about how buggy that application is. It takes forever to load, if it loads at all. It crashes. It crashes the phone itself. It spins and spins and often times you can’t scroll through the article. With any other application, I’d have trashed it on day one. But I like reading the NYT, so I put up with it.

That’s all in the past. It’s fixed. It runs supremely fast. Other applications run better as well. It’s just faster all across the board. No joke. And noticeable for even us laymen.

The Camera

But, guys, the camera. Holy shit! The camera. The camera is outstanding. It will definitely do the trick for class. And I’ve been inspired again! A phone has inspired me to take pictures again. I just want to snap everything I see, which is totally mihow.com circa 2002. For those who haven’t been around since the beginning, that’s how this blog began. I took pictures of my everyday life. I snapped hundreds a day—to an from work, during lunch—all over NYC and beyond. I loved doing that and often miss it. It was super easy to do because I had a Canon ELPH back then. I shot from the hip and most of the time my subjects didn’t even notice me.

Well, this phone has me doing that once again. I’ve taken dozens of shots in the past few days. I just can’t get enough of it. And with the added application Hipstamatic forget about it. I’m a photo-taking machine.

So, yeah. I’m really happy with this phone. No regrets at all. We’ll see how I feel with the first dropped call, but I super pleased with the phone’s camera ability. I haven’t even used the video yet!

That’ll be a post for next week.

For now, I’d love to share some more of the pictures I’ve taken in the last couple of days. I hope you enjoy!

I’m so enjoying this, my friends. And you know there’s going to be a whole lot more of this. It’s like I’ve met NYC and 2001 all over again.

Related posts:

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• My Costanza Moment
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All along, since the birth of this blog 9 years ago, I have tried to be as forthright as possible. I’ve never held back. When I go through something, my words reflect as much—the good, the bad, the ugly—I try and cover it all.

I just can’t do that right now and I’m not sure why that is.

I will say this much: I’ve changed a great deal over the last couple of years, more so than ever before. I’ve always been a relatively open person, willing to share almost anything with anyone. But recently that’s changed. I’ve become a lot more introspective. And while I’m still getting to know this new person, I think I kinda really like her. She actually seems pretty great. (Oh yes, Internet. I did just reflect upon myself in the third person.)

I’m embracing this transformation. This isn’t a bad thing. But it is a relatively new thing when it comes to everything I’ve ever known about myself.

I realize I just wrote a whole little about a whole lot. And that’s precisely what I’m trying to say. I’m having too much trouble writing these days. I’m paying too much attention. I’m in transition between who I was and who I’m becoming.

So: I’ll be back in a few weeks or maybe a month and I can only hope that at that time you’ll still be around.

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Lady are u insane? Speaking as a 12 year old, when I was 5 I didnt think about any thing like what you are talking about. except… this is SO funny and thats a cute monkey. No 5 year old EVER think’s about this kind of stuff and just for the record you are an over protective MOM!

P.S Crazy you should keep your opinion to your self!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

sincerely: not your friend Nathan. :(

For those feeling a little curious, it’s in response to a post I wrote about how Curious George is a bad role model for our children. Click here to read the EXTREMELY TRUE AND SERIOUS post.

(Nathan: I was just kidding. Please be my friend?)

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It’s called Sacrifice. It’s written by Andrew Womack about his wife’s triploidy pregnancy. For those of you that don’t know this already, I had a triploidy pregnancy. It was devastating. His story hits so close to home for me, I find it difficult to read. It’s so similar to what we went through, it sends chills up my spine.

It’s close to home physically as well; we live two blocks from the street he mentions walking down. Haunting.

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I have the Maclaren Techno XT. I’ve used this stroller every single last day the last 2 years. It’s been perfect for us. It’s lightweight and easy to use in the city. And it’s really durable. I haven’t once had to have anything replaced, not even a wheel. I’ve put this stroller though a great deal of work. No complaints here.

So, yesterday I’m combing through the articles that were sent to me, searching for the urgency. Some of the pages loaded, some did not due to too much traffic, but I eventually pieced together what I think this is about. My understanding is that it has something to do with a hinge. I read that 12 toddlers lost their fingers while mom or dad (or caregiver) was opening the stroller. And I looked; I looked long and hard at my stroller and I still have no clue what I’m supposed to be freaking out about.

So here’s my question: Is this a legitimate concern or is this another overhyped, hysterical reaction to 12 (albeit horrible) careless mistakes? Because in that case? I have seen a dozen kids get hit by swings on the playground. Better remove the swings too. And while you’re at it, recall all doors. Those pesky bastards are always catching a finger or two.

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Lionel Electric Trains has opened a pop-up retail store in Rockefeller Center for the first time ever! To help spread the word about the store, Lionel is inviting awesome NYC Mommy’s to a special event on Saturday, November 14th at 10 AM. The Party will let you and your kids look around the store, get a demonstration of the trains, a sneak preview of Lionel’s new CGI movie “LIONELVILLE Destination: Adventure!”, have refreshments and leave with a gift bag for your children. The only thing that Lionel asks is that if you have a good time, please spread the word via blogs, twitter or however you think is appropriate.

Space is limited so please RSVP now by emailing Emily_Saltzman [at] dkcnews.com

Lionel Electric Trains Party
Saturday, November 14th at 10 AM
The Lionel Store
30 Rockefeller Plaza
50th Street, near 6th Avenue (directly across from Radio City Music Hall)

I get the feeling my boy’s head is going to explode with awesome.

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For those of you who wrote me about Mom it Down: Yes, I DID have a recipe to put up yesterday. But never got a chance to do it. You see, Emory didn’t fair too well being away from home for so long. By the end of our trip he was literally begging us (in the saddest voice ever) for home. He sounded like ET. It was heartbreaking. All that said, since returning home, I’ve done nothing but make sure he’s doing exactly what he wants to do, which basically means visiting the PLAYGROUND! He missed his friends and his stomping ground, which is pretty freaking cute if you ask me. So, there’s the full-time motherhood excuse for my slackness. heh

I have some things that need to be addressed on the blog, like immediately—a few reviews for products that I was sent, an article for March Of Dimes, updates on our family life—I’m way, way behind. I have made it my duty to fix this! I hate falling behind. I promise to step it up. There is just so much to report and share, so many stories and pictures and reviews and…

In the meantime, here’s a picture of Murray who has moved away from the cardboard box, and the stroller and has decided that he belongs here now:

I think he wants to be taller. But the best part about whenever this takes place is that Emory suddenly decides he wants to sit in the highchair, which is pretty funny because Emory NEVER wants to sit in the highchair anymore, unless, of course, Murray is in the highchair. I will try and get video of that interaction; it’s awesome.

Ahhhh, brothers.

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Take a look at the screenshot from my (mihow) account. (Specifically the area outlined in yellow.)

Now, take a look at Murray’s. 

Notice the difference? Murray has a search field, which is pretty insane since he doesn’t even have thumbs. (Not at all insane, however, is that he has a Twitter account.)

Now, before you leave a comment or send an anonymous email letting me know how stupid it is that I even care, I’m not losing sleep over this. But up until recently, I had no idea what these # signs were all about. I’m still not sure how they work. And I don’t use them because I rarely see the end result. (Murray doesn’t log in very often.)

Similarly, I had NO CLUE what “Trending Topics” meant until last weekend whenever Toby Joe showed it me. He checked my account on his computer and still nothing showed up. We checked my settings, still nothing.

But it’s free. I can’t complain.

It is curious, though.

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If you have kids, go play with them right now! If you don’t, but you have friends with kids, go spend an hour helping those families go about their days. Bring them lunch, help them clean the house, or suggest a trip to the park. Spread as much positivity today as possible.

Remember Maddie.

Edited to add: Several of us are getting together on April 26th in New York City to walk for Madeline Alice Spohr and the March of Dimes. Please Join us!

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From the article:

“The data is a really compelling reminder that a lot of our target consumers are not the people who are sitting on Twitter freaking out over a packaging design that they don’t like,” said Diane Hessan

So, I find I’m asking a number of questions. For starters, why is this happening? What compels a group of people (in the case of the Motrin ad—Mommy Bloggers) to get so worked about something relatively meaningless?

The internet has made it easier than ever for consumers to get their opinions heard — and for marketers to listen. But it also creates real challenges: Do marketers know who they’re listening to? And at what point does the echo chamber of social media drown out the real opinions of the people who buy your brand?

Lastly, why are brands so completely afraid of these (relatively few) vocal people, so much so, that they’re willing to yank ads for them? 

(Thanks to reader Jonathan for the link!)

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Please let us know if there are any bugs. More changes are going to come over the weekend (including adding in some color), and if there’s anything strange going on, we’d like to make those edits at that time.

Thanks! I do hope this proves to be rejuvenating for everyone!

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There are several bloggers upset about a post over at Mom Logic written by a guest blogger named “Gina”. (I have chosen not to link to the post in question because I feel that by doing so I’d be perpetuating their obvious quest for traffic. If you wish to find it, by all means knock on Google’s door.) She equates miscarriages with abortions and basically states that if you’re prochoice, you shouldn’t start whining whenever you have a miscarriage. She wrote something like, “Sure, it’s a baby when you want it, a fetus when you don’t.”

Now, I could state how I feel about what she wrote. It may even come as a surprise to some people. But I’m choosing to not add any more fuel to that fire because it’s a waste of time and energy and precisely what Mom Logic wants.

So, instead of ranting about “Gina” and what she wrote, I’m going to rant about something I read over the weekend that had me in tears.

Did you get wind of the story out of Florida? The one where an abortion doctor is having his license revoked (justifiably so) because of a live birth abortion? No? Yes? Maybe? Well, here it is. (CNN article).

“According to the suit, Williams, then 18, discovered while being treated for a fall that she was 23 weeks pregnant. She went to a clinic to get an abortion on the morning of July 20, 2006, after receiving medication and instructions the previous day.“

For those of you who don’t want to read the whole sordid (highly disturbing) story, let me break it down for you:

1). 18-year-old girl gets pregnant.

2). Girl doesn’t realize it for 23-weeks.

3). Girl finds out. Schedules an abortion.

4). Abortion goes horribly, horribly wrong.

5). Girl (awake) gives birth to living, breathing creature.

6). Staff freaks out. Screams.

7). Baby (fetus) gasps for air for 5 minutes.

8). Fetus (baby) is put in biohazard bag and disposed of.

9). Girl sues everyone in the name of her dead baby daughter.

“Williams filed the suit individually and “as personal representative of the estate of Shanice Denise Osbourne, deceased,” the suit said.“

It was her choice to have sex. It was her choice to have an abortion. And now it’s her choice to sue the doctor and his clinic in the name of her baby daughter—the same fetus she chose to abort.

And now it’s my choice to judge her for her choice, specifically that last one.

Sure, it’s a fetus when you don’t want it, and a baby when you see some dollar signs. Because that’s precisely the message she seems to be sending.

So, I write this to all of you who fall on the pro-choice side of the Internet: Get mad about this not about what some woman named “Gina” wrote on a Web site whose advertisers are currently thanking for the spike traffic.

Get mad about this.

Isn’t it possible that this story could very well become the pro-life movement’s dream come true? Couldn’t we have a real life Citizen Ruth on our hands? What if someone gets a hold of this woman and turns her into the poster child for just how ugly abortion really is? Even if you don’t think so—even if you don’t think it’s a life until that baby is born and breathing on its own—many, many people disagree with you.

A few months ago, Sarah Palin was shown on TV in front of a live turkey slaughter and people completely freaked out. But isn’t that the way it is? And if you’re a poultry eater (like myself), shouldn’t you be able to watch that without uttering one word of disgust? Dare I suggest that what we saw take place on that video was actually less gruesome than what goes on at many other slaughter houses across the country?

Couldn’t it be said then that what happened to this woman during her abortion is precisely why pro-lifers wish to put an end to it? Could this story open up a HUGE floodgate into the gritty truth behind abortion, at least when it comes to the pro-life message?

I ask a lot of questions here, and I think that you should as well. If you’re pro-choice, then try and see how this might look to an opponent. That’s all I’m asking. It’s probably pretty clear to you that an abortion isn’t supposed to go this way, but how is it supposed to go? I reckon that to a pro-life person—a person who believes a baby is a baby the moment its conceived—this is precisely what an abortion looks like and that this story exposes the brutal truth.

What I’m suggesting is this: no matter what side of your bread you butter, there should be at least one facet to this story that deserves your anger and attention. There must be something you would like to change about it.

So, don’t get mad at “Gina” or Mom Logic for chumming at a little traffic, get mad about this.

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That said, I think I need a break. Hell, I think even YOU might need a break. I am not sure how long of a break I’ll take—it could be a week, it could be two, it could be a couple of minutes—but I’ll be back. And, I know, it’s annoying when a blogger announces that he or she is planning on taking a break, but I feel that I owe it to all the Murray lovers out there. (Who, by the way, is on his way to Florida for some wet t-shirt contests.)

I’ll be back. Maybe with a vengeance, or at least with more purpose. (In the meantime, feel free to send me email because I will most likely miss you.)

Naturally, I’ll probably continue polluting Twitter.

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I realize I’ve brought somethig like this up before, but this is for a different purpose and I’d love to hear what you have to say. If you dislike leaving comments, please feel free to email me. Also, feel free to do so anonymously. (Anything goes, my friends. Don’t hold back.)

Thank you in advance!

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I think about you all the time, not necessarily you personally, because I haven’t ever met you. I don’t even know what you look like. The only role you had in my life was leaving a comment on my blog.

It read:

July 25th, 2007 at 02:21 PM

You only go through this a few times in your life. This time with your unborn baby and your husband are precious – don’t wish it away.

You were right.

I didn’t want to admit it then. Hell, I was about to meet my first child for the first time. I was sick of being pregnant. I wanted him out of me. I vowed to friends and family, “There’s no way I’ll sleep less when he’s born than I do now.”

(What a naive and silly person.)

But that’s not what this is about. This isn’t about losing sleep or having to pee a lot. It’s not about any of that. This is about what you said and how often I think about it.

I guess I never realized how true your comment was until friends of mine started getting pregnant—close friends, acquaintances, internet friends—just friends. And I promised myself a long time ago I would not become that person, ready to give suggestions without being asked. And I’m not accusing you of that; I can’t begin to thank you enough for what you wrote. But I continue to bite my tongue even though sometimes it’s unbearable.

What I wanted to say to you then was this: OH MY GOD, WHO ARE YOU TO TELL ME TO ENJOY THIS! I HATE YOU!

That’s a little harsh. I know. It was true at the time, but that’s because you weren’t really a person to me. You were just someone taunting me, pointing out something I refused to see.

Perhaps my hatred was due to the fact that a part of me (the instinctual mother part every woman is born with) knew you were right. I don’t know. I never will. But I hated what you wrote. I spit at your words. I told my husband, “HOW CAN SOMEONE TELL ANOTHER PERSON TO ENJOY THIS!” And, well, come on! I was having trouble sleeping. I peed myself several times. I had trouble doing “other things”. I could not be intimate with my husband. I couldn’t eat because of the heartburn, my ankles swelled up to triple their size. I had high blood pressure. I was seeing white or black spots every time I stood up. I wanted that baby out of me! I felt awful.

I was mad at you.

Well, Rae Rae, I’m no longer angry. In fact, I want to thank you for having had such a huge impact on my life and in such a small way.

I mentioned earlier that I don’t like giving people advice unless they ask for it, specifically when it comes to motherhood. I had so many ideas when I was pregnant and then my son was born and I could barely keep up with any of them. I had delusions of how it would (and should) be. I made plans. And even though I knew that things were going to be hard, I never knew exactly how hard. How could I have known? (They offer classes about how to give birth and how to breastfeed these little people, but no one really helps you out with the remaining 50 years.)

Anyway, I did something out of character the other night in honor of you. I wrote this on a friend’s Facebook page:

You know, I said the same thing and meant it. And one day someone emailed me and said “enjoy this time!” and I wanted to punch them and I hated them. you know what’s funny? I think about it all the time now because they were so right!

So I am going to be that asshole now: enjoy this time. Sleep. Have morning sex. Cook. Take walks together. Go out! Go out! Go out! Have a romantic meal.

He will be here soon enough, so enjoy this time you have alone.

I have never left a truer comment.

But don’t hate me for it!

Have you ever experienced that moment right before a fresh snowfall where the world becomes eerily quiet, cars distance themselves from one another, the sky turns orange or burnt sienna, everything seems at peace in the world and we’re greeted with a smashingly fine silence?

Do you know that moment?

Or, how about that moment during a kickoff where opposing teams stand guarded on an untouched field. The crowd roars, the whistle is blown, feet stomp, the rising sound is spectacular. The ball is kicked! And as soon as it leaves the kicker’s foot, the moment the ball departs his toe, a silence blankets the crowd as if guided by a maestro.

How about that one? Do you know that moment?

I look forward to moments like those. They give me goosebumps fueled by anticipation. Those undeniable rests that punctuate great big, audacious sounds are pretty outstanding.

Rae Rae, you were right.

I should have known to enjoy that time more. I should not have wished it away. That time was just like the moments I described above. I just didn’t realize it until after the game was in session, the cake was cut, and the blanket of snow had already fallen.

Sincerely yours (a year or so late),

Michele

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Happy New Year, my friends! I am grateful that you visit, read, comment, chat, suggest, smooch on Murray—just grateful.

Thanks again for everything.

Related posts:

• Tuesdays With Murray: Chapter 144 (A Photo)
• Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 143) Micro-TransCations!
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• NaBloPoMo: Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 142). His Feline Friends.
• Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 141)

So why do I do it?

On the one hand, many of you saved my butt when I was going through postpartum depression (which up until fairly recently I wasn’t able to admit that that’s precisely what I was experiencing). My goal since “getting through all of that” has been to write about motherhood and reach out to others in hopes of paying it forward.

On the other hand, I’m putting my family on display without the consent of my child.

Again, why do I do it?

As silly as it may sound, it really does take a village to raise a child and in our culture that village (or lack thereof) consists of people with full time jobs, people who pay other people to watch their children (whether they want to or not) and then send spies to the playground to make sure they’re “doing it right.” (True story!) For those of us who suddenly lose our village—who can’t take their kids to the playground in winter because it’s too cold and are met with dirty looks from restaurant owners and patrons because we’re seen as a potential nuisance—the communities we discover online are (in some cases) all we have.

I choose to keep doing this—for now—because it makes me feel a little less secluded. I go days and days without using the creative part of my brain—the part I have exercised since before I can remember. I’m not complaining about my new career; I love raising my son. But transitioning from “full time creative person” to “full time mother” has taken a great deal work, work I could not have done alone.

As mothers, we are scrutinized for ignoring our children. As mothers, we are scrutinized for how they behave. We’re scrutinized if we let them watch TV. We’re scrutinized if we don’t breastfeed. We’re scrutinized if we do. We’re scrutinized if they cry in public. We’re scrutinized if they move too slowly. We’re scrutinized if we dote on them. We’re scrutinized if we stay at home. We’re scrutinized if we hire someone to care for them. We’re scrutinized if we homeschool. We’re scrutinized if we send them to private school. We’re scrutinized if we take too long lugging a stroller up the subway steps. We’re scrutinized if we write about them.

What I have come to realize is that there’s always going to be at least one person who is annoyed with how we how we perform each facet of the job.

I once compared becoming a mother with being on house arrest. It’s a drastic statement, indeed. And some people have responded by looking at me like I’m a terrible person for saying as much. But there’s a certain degree of truth to it. And my son has nothing to do with it. (Make sure you read and digest the last line.) The sentiment has everything to do with our culture, the people around me, and my inability to let the nasty looks and disparaging comments roll off my shoulders.

Is writing about our jobs online selfish? Sure. And if you suggest otherwise, I think you should sit down and give it a little more thought. But! I think it’s born out of selflessness, seclusion and frustration. We seek out community wherever we can find it. We look for comfort from other mothers, whether it be right here in our own neighborhood or online. So if you find that you have a problem with mothers writing online—and many people do—how about using that energy to come up with solutions? At the very least, the next time you see a mother dealing with her screaming child, offer her a warm smile.

Do I think writing online is the best way to handle the problem? No, I don’t. (And, yes, I do feel that we as a society have a growing problem.) Is throwing Wellbutrin, Prozac, or Zoloft at a new mother the solution to dealing with her being thrust into alienation? I really, really don’t think so. Becoming a mother shouldn’t be treated as one might treat depression or mental illness (unless, of course, it’s chemistry we’re talking about) and that seems to be the growing trend as of late.

I would much rather live in a society that’s more tolerant of its mothers (especially since we all have one) and easier on its families. And until that happens, I probably won’t be able to shut up about it.

^{(Murray lovers: TWM will be back either later today or next week, probably later today.)}

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• “Pay to Opt-Out” Advertising
• The Night Terrors Continue
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Nope.

It appears that some folks were upset because they felt that Motrin was belittling the act of wearing a baby. The whole fiasco was like something Dr. Suess would write about, only without all the rhyming and butter.

I think I was more offended that Motrin took the ad down in response to the backlash. It’s my opinion (and it won’t be a popular one) that what they said about wraps and baby-wearing has truth to it. Sure, they made some generalizations, but every advertiser does that. It’s their job to annoy us that way. I guess the difference this time is that they stepped on the toes of mommybloggers. (Do not mess with mommybloggers. Sometimes they lash out at you and bring their friends along. They have been known to kick below the belt and under the bra. I actually fear some mommybloggers, to be perfectly honest.)

To further alienate myself, I think that many mothers do buy wraps to look like a certain type of mother. I honestly believe that many mothers (especially women who research the hell out of their pregnancy and their baby-rearing days) treat buying a wrap like any other adornment. I’m not suggesting that means wearing your baby is something people do without any benefits. I don’t think Motrin was suggesting that either. But I think it is trendy right now. Buying a wrap is like purchasing a car; moms want the one that most represents their personality and lifestyle, without losing the security, safety and functionality. And if you don’t think people think this way, you’re being naive. Furthermore, if what I’ve written offends you, ask yourself why. (And then count to ten before sending me any hate mail. Also read this.)

I’m sick of this apparent readiness to lash out at other mothers who don’t function under the same belief system as a majority. I grew tired of this crowd mentality back when I was still pregnant and it just keeps getting worse and worse. If it’s not about breast feeding, it’s about vaccines. If it’s not about organic vs. not organic, it’s about whether or not you turned your car seat around too early. If it’s not about soy vs. whole milk, it’s about feeding babies meat or raising them vegetarian. If it’s not about that, it’s about whether or not some advertiser was “belittling mothers” by suggesting babywearing is trendy. I don’t know what’s going to be next, but I do know with this group there’s always going to be a next.

I was given three wraps and bought two of my own more before realizing that the utilitarian Bjorn was more my style (and my baby’s as well. He was always a face-out baby, no way he would have liked the wrap). That doesn’t mean I didn’t secretly wish that I could use one of those kangaroo type slings. Wrap-wearing mothers always make me think yoga instructor, hippie, or crunchy mom and I love a little crunch to my ladies. Plus, a wrap would have done a much better job at keeping Emory warm, but he just wasn’t having it.

I think that many mothers really do think a lot about the type of wrap they’re going to wear and what it says about them. The function of it is obvious—it’s meant to carry your baby. But that doesn’t mean its form and design needs to be an afterthought. Even the companies who make (and sell) these wraps are well aware of our thought process that goes into purchasing one and our desire to look and feel a certain way.

One woman donated a wrap to me and said, “This is what all the celebrities are seen wearing in all the magazines, but I couldn’t ever figure it out.” (I never did either.)

Is wearing your baby trendy? You betcha. Is wearing your baby in something trendy a bad thing? I personally don’t think so. Is stating as much? Apparently so.

Related posts:

• Driving and Puking
• New York City Bans Smoking in Parks, Beaches.
• “Pay to Opt-Out” Advertising
• The Night Terrors Continue
• On Not Playing The Game. (About Blogging)

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It’s the people that actually send the message that confuse me. What brings them to press send? What type of response are they hoping to invoke? What type of person opens a new window, composes a lengthy, hateful message and then sends the message to someone they haven’t met before?

This person remains a mystery to me, so I do not claim expertise in this area. But I have been on the receiving end. So pretend I’m like a male gynecologist; I may not have the parts firsthand, but I’ve seen enough to make some sense of it.

Today’s post will hopefully act as a basic tutorial regarding the dos and donts of writing decent hate mail.

Statement: OH MY GOD! I HATE THIS PERSON! I HATE WHAT THEY WRITE! I HATE THEIR VOICE!

OK, that’s cool. So, you hate this person. Believe me, there have been a few people I haven’t been too fond of over the years. I have grown so annoyed, sometimes I’ve stopped reading a person’s Web site all together. Crazy, right? Actually looking away from someone or something that fills you with hate isn’t easy. I mean, who in their right mind wants to avoid someone that makes them angry? Who in their right mind wants to avoid something that makes them feel like hitting caps lock?

Sometimes, whenever I feel angered by something I read online, I go for a jog or a walk. If I am unable to do that, I’ll put everything down and read to my son or sit with my cats, because no matter how badly I feel, they always make me smile.

If none of that works, I vent to my husband and he usually shakes his head and makes me feel silly for caring at all, which in turn makes me stop caring so much.

Try and find some other way to calm yourself down even if it requires the use of an illegal substance.

Statement: OH MY GOD, I CAN’T LET IT GO! I AM JUST SO ANGRY! I NEED TO TELL THIS IDIOT BLOGGER JUST HOW ANGRY I AM!

You’re mad. I get it. And all the bubble baths and yoga breaths in the world aren’t going to calm you down. You simply must write that email! Before running off to some anonymous email client, I really think that you should use your own email client and name. Why? Because it makes what you’re saying matter. Otherwise, you sound like a coward.

I really think you owe it to yourself (and the object of your enmity) to give a name. I speak from experience when I say that those who write anonymously are seen as cowards. After the initial “Wow! They did NOT just write that!” wears off, it becomes downright amusing. Your mail is shared with friends and spouses and everyone gets a chuckle out of it. Your mail is then filed away in a folder called “Cowardly Douchebags”.

Statement: I REFUSE TO USE MY OWN CLIENT! I WILL TELL THIS PERSON HOW MUCH I HATE THEM AND WHY THEY SUCK SO BAD USING AN ANONYMOUS MAIL SERVICE!

Alright, so, you’re not one to leave the light on during sex. You have no desire to share your name with the person you hate. You hate them so much, you wish to anonymously let them know. Let me at least help you pick the right anonymous email client.

I have received email from both Anonymous Speech and Send Anonymous Email. I have also gotten hate mail from impromptu email accounts like Janehatesmihow666@hotmail.com. To each their own. If you want sign up for a new Hotmail or Gmail account, by all means, do so. That’s what people have been doing for years. But there are sites designed specifically for this purpose.

I went to Anonymous Speech today and discovered that they are currently moving to Malaysia and their site is down.

If you wish to anonymously write them letting them know how angry you are, I might suggest using Send Anonymous Email instead.

Any site whose number one selling point is “catch a cheating spouse husband or wife” is a surefire winner in my book. Who needs wedding vows, communication and trust when you have this passive aggressive, highly retardable way of finding out if your husband is sticking it to another woman?

You might as well pick the most passive aggressive site you can find. That way you’re in like-minded company.

STATEMENT: I CAN’T WAIT TO FILL THIS EMPTY WINDOW WITH MY AWESOME AND HATEFUL WORDS THAT WILL MAKE THIS PERSON WISH HE OR SHE WERE DEAD!

Now you’re ready. But before you write your hate mail, I would like to suggest following a couple of rules first.

1). Do not use the caps lock.

It’s weird. I don’t know what else to say about it. It’s just weird. You’re weird if you write in all caps and you already have two strikes against you (you’re sending hate mail and you’re sending hate mail using an anonymous client.) If you turn on the caps lock, you’re out entirely.

2). If you wish to belittle someone, show some validity.

I once had someone write telling me that I SHOULD JUST GO TO NEW JERSEY ALREADY!

I was baffled by this. It was by far the most bizarre email I have ever received. It went on for pages and pages about how I was pathetic and that New York hates me and that I just don’t have what it takes to live here. Finally, she just started yelling at me and told me to move to the suburbs. She ended her rant by voting me off the island and sending me to NEW JERSEY ALREADY!!

While some folks think having to go to New Jersey is like the worst thing ever, there are about 8,685,920 who disagree.

Make it count, people! If this is the type of argument you have prepared, you may want to sit down and ask why you’re so upset. Ask yourself if it’s really about that person at all.

3). Your mother’s ugly and she dresses you funny. FACE!

Empty insults should be removed. YOU’RE A RACIST! or YOU’RE A NAZI! are both overused. It’s right up there with calling someone fat or retarded or fat and retarded. Unless this person is actually a member of the KKK or they were seen at one of the recent Midwestern GOP political rallies, don’t call them a racist.

(Also along these lines: telling someone they are going to Hell, New Jersey, or that they are an anti-American, liberal terrorist.)

4). Unless you’re perfect AND you’re a parent, do not tell someone that they are a terrible mother.

This is a no-brainer. I don’t need to explain this one. Just don’t do it. We all know there are some people out there who are abusive toward children. If you are out to save the children, I might suggest donating some of your extra time—the time it takes you to send hate mail, for example—to a local children’s charity.

5). Don’t make caveats.

Letting the person know that you don’t really read their site, but you stopped by just for today, is unnecessary. Leave things like, “I don’t usually read your site and I regret it now…” out of your hate mail. It says stalker. It reminds me of some dialogue from Howard Stern’s Private Parts.

Researcher: The average radio listener listens for eighteen minutes. The average Howard Stern fan listens for – are you ready for this? – an hour and twenty minutes.

Pig Vomit: How can that be?

Researcher: Answer most commonly given? “I want to see what he’ll say next.”

Pig Vomit: Okay, fine. But what about the people who hate Stern?

Researcher: Good point. The average Stern hater listens for two and a half hours a day.

Pig Vomit: But… if they hate him, why do they listen?

Researcher: Most common answer? “I want to see what he’ll say next.”

You know you read their site, they know you read their site, you don’t need to tell them how often you don’t read their site or how embarrassed you are that you don’t read their site. About 75% of the hate mail I receive includes a declaration about how the sender doesn’t normally read my Web site. There’s no need for it. You’re right up there with the folks who say things like, “I don’t hate gays, but I really can’t stand seeing two guys hold hands.”

6). Don’t call someone what they are in an attempt to hurt their feelings.

Things like “YOU STUPID VEGAN!” or “YOU BLEEDING HEART LIBERAL!” beckon a “Yeah, so what?” response. If this is all your hate mail is going to say, I highly suggest avoiding it entirely.

7). Use hard returns.

This falls in line with caps lock. Some people write long hateful posts without giving the reader a break. This is tiring and you look insane. Hit return. It helps get your point across and the recipient doesn’t pass out.

Combining caps lock and refusing to use paragraph breaks is hateful all its own. So I might suggest just copying and pasting a continuous stream of UPPERCASE Lorem Ipsum into an email.

8). Read it out loud.

This may be the most important rule. Before you send that hate mail, read it out loud. Because if you can read your email out loud and not feel like a giant loser, then it’s either OK to send (and will therefore help said recipient) or you need to get your head examined.

But in the end, the choice is yours.

Related posts:

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• “Pay to Opt-Out” Advertising
• On Not Playing The Game. (About Blogging)
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Naturally, “Clique Here” didn’t make the final cut.

Regarding BlogHer 08: no, I’m not going. I know. I know. Tears are going to be shed in my absence. Goodness knows, everyone notices whenever I’m not around, right?

In all seriousness, I haven’t ever been to a Blog_Her_ or blogger event. I feel like a terrible gal blogger for this, but I do not enjoy being in large groups. Having me as a guest at a large gathering is like witnessing a live Cat Power show (before she gave up the hardcore drugs) only I’m a lot less hot, a lot less talented, and a lot more boring.

OK, so, maybe it’s not like that at all. But I totally would end up facing the back of the auditorium.

I do hope everyone has a good time. I wish it were possible for me to.

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If my last post came off as racist, it wasn’t intentional. Of course it wasn’t intentional. There were several races and nationalities present on the playground that day. There were several different classes present as well. At no point did I suggest that the fight was between a certain race, at least I don’t think so.

I live in between Greenpoint and Williamsburg, Brooklyn. This area is made up of every single race, religion, and nationality you can think of. It’s also home to several different classes, there are a lot of lower income people and then there are a lot of people who have moved in over the last couple of years that are (for lack of a better term) filthy stinking rich. Even more recently, there have been a lot more Western Europeans moving into the neighborhood. (Eastern Europeans make up a large group and have since long before I arrived back in 2000.) I liken the influx of Western Europeans to the solid Euro. But this is admittedly not my ground of familiarity.

Because of the huge and constant influx of people heading to Greenpoint and Williamsburg, the high schools become more and more diverse. At least that’s the way it appears from an outsider’s point of view. (And by outsider, I mean one without kids of high school going age.)

When I compared us moms to guppies, I meant we’re breeders. (Aren’t guppies breeders? Don’t they tend to take over fish tanks whether you like it or not?) When I compared the high school kids to attack fish, I meant that sometimes (especially when they’re in large groups, which is usually the case whenever school lets out around here) then can become really nasty and sometimes violent. There was one occasion where another driver and I had our cars surrounded by kids who had just gotten out of the Automative high school (the group was made up of several different races, mind you).

It was really scary, to be honest. And if Emory had been the car, I probably would have called 911. Instead, I looked straight ahead, as did the driver in front of me, and waited for them to get bored. (Thankfully, there are usually cops around that area because of the amount of fights and problems that break out whenever school lets out.)

The whole experience, the way they surrounded our cars, reminded me of piranha. Perhaps I irresponsibly failed to bring that up. Perhaps it came off as racist. If it did, it was unconscious to me.

So, I’m sorry if any of you thought my last post was racist. Perhaps it was a little classist. The groups represented on the playground last week may hold animosity toward one another because of classism, but I don’t think anyone could stay in this neighborhood for too long if they were in fact racists. They would go completely insane with hate. There are just too many different walks of life. Maybe my naivety is showing. But I have seen more acts of hatred due to class differences while living here than I have acts of racism. (Not that racism doesn’t exist.)

We live in a culture that promises its people that the harder you work the richer and more prosperous you’ll be, which is a load of crap. We’re not all given equal opportunities. Life is highly unfair for a lot of people living in the U.S. I see it here each and every day. Sometimes the folks who work the absolute hardest make the smallest fortune. I fall into the bitterness from time to time—hating on the really rich people buying up the waterfront real estate without a care in the world, without a care about the history of this place. Yet, I am that person to people who have lived here for decades. I took over at one point as well. Perhaps we need to redefine fortune to mean more than just money. Maybe then people will be less resentful toward others.

I’m not sure why I’m writing about this today. Perhaps the comment bugged me more than it should have. And perhaps that is exactly what the person was going for. (You win, anonymous coward.) But it always does. Every time I get a hateful email or comment it bugs me more than you can possibly know.

I’m also not really 100% today. I seem to have come down with one killer of a sickness. I woke up covered in hives this morning, big white welts. I feel worse than I have in a long, long time.

So, if you want to discuss race and class and how insensitive my previous post was to you, I invite you to do so. I would have left the anonymous comment had it held any redeeming points. Instead, the person insulted me and then walked away. I really do learn from the people who visit and post on here. I cherish each and every voice I have read. Feel free to say whatever you want, just be kind in making your points, and make valid ones.

And maybe today you could put one kid glove on, I really feel very ill.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• HOLY SHIT. Pictures.

My use of the Internet borders on an addiction. I can’t help but wonder what purpose, if any, it serves. I can’t help but wonder about the potentially negative side-effects.

I hate the phone. I have a cell because we have no landline. I have lived without my cell phone for periods in the past and didn’t miss it one bit. I washed one and tried to dry it out using silicone and the freezer. It worked, but only halfway: I could hear callers, but couldn’t speak. Eventually, after 4 long weeks, I gave up and purchased a replacement. I lost that one within a week to the back seat of a cab. Never saw that again. The cabby probably gave it to his niece or girlfriend since it was hot pink. Living without my phone was kind of awesome, to be honest. I made plans the old fashion way. No one called during inopportune times. I received phone calls at work. My nights were free from ringing. I enjoyed it. I barely answer the phone to begin with. I am not sure why we pay for it. It’s actually a huge waste of money.

But the Internet – ahhhh, the Internet. I noticed today that it’s slammed. Sites are slow as molasses if they are running at all. It took me 2 hours to post to MamaPop today. (TypePad was down.) Flickr’s been iffy at best and Twitter is stumbling like it normally does. Even my site was down for most of the morning. After nearly 2 weeks away, it seems the entire world is catching up on their long lost lover: the Internet. I am guessing by the slowness of things, there aren’t many people out there whose New Year’s resolutions included giving up the Internet. God forbid anyone live without the Internet. And that got me thinking: could I quit the Internet?

I gave up smoking. Probably the hardest thing I’ve ever given up. Ever. I hate it now. I hate that people do it. I hate the smell. I actually think it’s one of the dumbest things anyone could ever do to themselves. I kicked it good and hard. That habit is gone forever. I realize that smoking would have killed me had I not quit, which is why it became urgent that I do so. But how about incessant surfing? How about refreshing the same old Web sites over and over again? What does that do to a person? What does all this refreshing, button mashing, blog posting, comment leaving, site reading do to us? Does it fuel anxiety? Does it make us lazy, less likely to get out of the house? Go to Yoga, the gym? Does it keep us from taking our kids for a walk?

Does the Internet attract people who already have anxiety or does it create it for people who may feel perfectly OK otherwise? Does the Internet attract the depressed or create the depression? When will there be psychiatrists who suggest people spend less time on the Internet; groups for people who need support; doctors who ask how much time one sends on line? When will this catch up to us?

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

I’m probably not going to get a chance to write much before Wednesday or Thursday. I had plans to write a “year in review” type of post, but it’s just not going to happen. There’s just too much going on right now. I do want to take a few minutes to thank everyone for sticking around (you poor souls). Thank you so much for being there for me this year. 2007 held some of the greatest moments of my life. It also held some of the most painful and life-altering. During the dark times, many of your voices helped me more than I can possibly say. I can’t thank you all enough. I wish I knew the words to let you know just how grateful I am. Thank you. I love you, man! (And I ain’t even been drinking.)

I will write more after the holiday, I promise. In the meantime, check out some of TobyJoe’s new pictures. He’s shooting film again and I couldn’t be more proud. Here’s a shot he took of me on vacation last year. I don’t even hate it! And here’s an absolute favorite of mine featuring my dad and my Pumpkin Pie.

Thank you all so very much. Here’s to you and yours.

xoxxo

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• The iPhone 4 and Its Camera
• Consumed By the BP Oil Spill. How Can I Help?
• It’s Not You. It’s Me.
• Not My Friend Nathan.

Late Friday I put up a graphic on Flickr letting people know that something was wrong. I didn’t really give any details and I’m regretting that now. Because the email I received in response have been filled with some pretty creative assumptions. No, we are not being stalked by an actual person. No, I am not in any physical danger. It’s creepy stuff, but we’re not in any harm. It’s just very disturbing, receiving a phone call like that. I’m sorry I wasn’t more specific. I didn’t want to cook up any Internet drama so I tried to keep it simple. In doing so, I think I created more. And I am sorry about that.

TobyJoe and I have discussed this. For now, we’ve turned off hotlinking, which means people can no longer link directly to my images making it harder for people to feature them on messageboards (which happens all the time but never for something this disturbing) and on personal Web sites. That fix works for now. It doesn’t stop people from taking screen caps of each image and hosting it themselves, but it works for the time being.

We also discussed password protecting this Web site. I’m not sure I want to do that. I have my reasons for keeping it public but I won’t go into it here. (Perhaps I will in the comments section.)

TobyJoe spent Friday night digging through our logs to find out when the picture had been linked. The photo went up on that board on September 20th, 2007. (As an aside, the crime agency really is doing its job. It didn’t take them long to let our ISP know about it. One must wonder what they’re cooking up. Either way, I feel a little better knowing they’re out there.) It took us a while because the image was a bit older but we found it and promptly removed it. It has been replaced with a great big “F*CK YOU, PERVERTS. YOU’RE SO PATHETIC.” (Not that the messageboard will see it since hotlinking is disabled, but if they visit google again and search for a specific string that’s what they’ll see now. And let me tell you, that image turned up for all sorts of sick search variations. I am disgusted with Google. For example, say you have a picture of your dinner with the caption “Nice Roast Beef”. A person may find your image by searching “Naked Rape Beef” not that I know what that means. Basically, you don’t even have to have the word “rape” on that page and Google will find it because, hell, it’s close enough!)

So we ordered a pizza pie and ran a couple of Ruby scripts and we extracted every single IP address (all 585 of them) that hit that particular messageboard thread. And for about 30 seconds today, I posted each and every one of them here. And then we realized that in doing so we were potentially putting ourselves at an even greater risk especially since said pedo board is important enough to be watched by an international crime organization. And the last thing I want to do is piss off a bunch of pedophiles. So, I took all the IPs down. (I have half a mind to send the unedited version of this post to NBC. They seem to enjoy outing pedophiles. We have no idea what to do with all these IPs if anything at all. And some of them are from the U.S. Remember, this is a private messageboard run by pedophiles for pedophiles. If someone’s a member, that someone is the real deal. They’re not just there for the “articles”.)

From now on many of my Flickr pictures are going to be marked as “For Friends and Family.” If you want to see the photos, please let me know. If I know you personally or trust you because I’ve seen you around these parts enough, then I’d be happy to add you to my contact list. It sucks that it has to be this way but I’m not willing to take the risk especially since I/we can’t control hotlinking over there.

And in regard to mihow.com? I’m still not sure about its future. I feel a little less insane about the whole thing today but I’m still not sure the blog is worth it and posting pictures of anyone scares me. I’m responsible for another life, a life I would give my own for. Do I kill the blog? Do I only write? Do I turn it into something else entirely? Do I sell the domain to the highest bidder? (heh) Do I take a break and figure it out? Or do I just realize that this is the way the world works and hope the US government (and NBC) is taking care of us at least with regard to online predators.

I guess this is an explanation as to why I acted the way I did on Friday. It’s also an obvious reminder to those who post photographs of children and believe they are being viewed innocently online. In the wrong hands, the pictures of your children may be used as fodder for something dark and disgusting. And at the rate things are going, the only people who’re going to feel safe online in a few years are going to be the pedophiles, a couple of MySpace users, and the Kool-Aid drinking, tinfoil hat wearing religious zealots.

Update: Tuesdays with Murray will be back next week!

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• The Comfort Of Strangers. (I’m Her Ghost.)

Of course I found the nest really amusing. I made mental notes how it changed from one day to the next. One day it’d be empty, the next it’d have a red blanket and the next day a bunch of empty vodka bottles and big black trash bag. I even wrote a song about the hobo nest and sang it to Emory. I showed Emory the nest and told him that as long as his father or I was alive he’d never find himself in that position.

The nest by itself was really quite funny. Even when the owner of the nest showed up late one night and began yelling, it was funny. At that point he was nothing more and an irate, drunken voice. We pictured one of Greenpoint’s many, many drunks. There are just so many of them living here. (Seriously, if you were to walk down Manhattan Avenue or through Mcgolrick Park on any given day, at any given hour, you’d see at least a dozen of these men and women. There are more of them living here than anywhere else I have ever been. And for the life of me I cannot figure out why. Greenpoint even puts Washington, DC to shame.)

Last Friday night he passed out and was rudely awoken by the jubilant sounds of the bachelorette party next door. He began screaming obscenities at the girls. They were skinny dipping in the aboveground pool out back. His ranting completely cancelled out the squeals coming from the women. Toby watched from our window and when he told me about it the following morning the both of us cracked up laughing. He said, “You have to be really down and out to tell a bunch of naked polish girls to keep it down so you can sleep in a nest of sticks.” And I found that statement brutally funny.

But then Monday morning came and I was finally able to put a face to the nest and all the drunken belligerence.

I watched him clean up the trash that lay around his nest. He deliberately picked up each and every piece of garbage and put every last morsel into a black trash bag.

I called Toby.

“The hobo is here.”

“Yeah. Have you checked your camera? I took some shots this morning while he was sleeping. I thought you might be interested to see who’s been living there.”

“Yeah, I am looking at him right now. He’s cleaning up. And it’s not all that funny anymore.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

We sat there in silence and I watched him pick up more trash from the parameter of his nest. He had done more for the environment in those five minutes than most New Yorkers do in an entire year.

“Is there someone I can call?”

“Not the cops. They won’t do anything. Even if they do show up, they’ll just throw him out.”

“How about 311?”

“You could try that.”

I hung up the phone and watched him finish cleaning. He put the trash in the bag and the cans and bottles in a small shopping bag. And then he walked toward the street and stopped a couple passing by. They were collectors – the folks who wheel carts around brooklyn and collect (steal?) recycling from our trash cans to make a couple of bucks. He handed the couple the recycling he had collected. And under different circumstances I would have found the exchange heartwarming.

Yesterday the guy had a friend over. And then proceeded to drink until the point of absolute oblivion. I have no idea where the alcohol came from or how they managed to buy it, but they had at least two bottles of booze. They were visibly drunk and screaming at one another. (The sound of stray, feral cats and drunk hobos has become my daily soundtrack.) When I told Tobyjoe about the friend and all the yelling he said, “Maybe someone got too close to his hobo eggs.” And I laughed.

But it wasn’t really funny.

Like the time we watched an alcoholic collapse in the street during a seizure, face down into a gutter at 9 AM on Bedford Avenue and a couple of people watching nervously chuckled.

That wasn’t particularly funny either.

And the time another local drunk decided that if his mother wouldn’t turn on the AC he’d cool off another way. He stole the keys to her minivan, got into the parked car, and passed out beneath the cool air. And when the van finally ran out of gas and the AC inevitably died, the drunk cooked himself to death. It was the hottest week of 2006. His mother thought he was on another drinking binge. But by the time she realized he was missing, the smell had already permeated the street. And as the story excitedly spread throughout the neighborhood and people covered their truly horrified smiles with their hands re-realizing that their very worst days were far better than his very best, well, that wasn’t really all that funny either.

I’m not going to get all PC and write about all the things I’d like to do in order to help this man and the countless others just like him. I’m not going to write about how much I care or how this sort of thing keeps me up at night. Because it really doesn’t anymore. I’m not going to write about how every day that I continue to live here my threshold for tolerating human suffering changes. I’m not going to talk about how numb I’ve become or how tired I am. And if there are any other New Yorkers reading this, perhaps you can relate. There’s not much that can be done for this man. Like myself, you’ve probably had delusions of grandeur before, maybe even made a call or two. It doesn’t take long to realize that our local law enforcement – even those whose job it is to help people like him – feel as hopeless as we do. Sure, you can give these people some cash for food and they’ll spend it on a bottle of vodka or a bag of crack. You can give them your leftovers from dinner and sometimes they throw it back at you because that’s not what they wanted. You can make a phone call and deal with a bunch of bureaucratic red tape and then no one comes out anyway.
Eventually those bubbles of grandeur get popped. It may take months. It may take years, but eventually you stop making the call.

And for those of you reading this who live somewhere less urban, I probably seem pretty callous right about now, cruel even, heartless. I’m not going to try and convince you otherwise, even if I had the energy you probably wouldn’t believe me. It all sounds so damn trite when I hear it written in my head. I have read it on blogs a thousand times before – ways we’re going to change the world, point fingers at where everything went wrong and whodunit – and nothing changes. (Armchair politics? Isn’t that what it’s called? Guilty as charged.) It reads like pure regurgitated bullshit and I’m sick of regurgitating bullshit.

So, you won’t find any of that here. Not today. I’m not going to pretend. Instead, I’ll just tell it like it is, like it has been since the day I moved to Greenpoint.

We have a man living in our backyard. He’s built a nest out of sticks and bushes. He’s sick with alcohol (or lack thereof) and will most likely die sometime in the next couple of years. And if he’s lucky someone will notice he’s gone before he starts to smell. But if it’s the smell that leads someone to him, I do hope that they care more about the fact that a man is dead and less about how they’re going to deal with getting rid of the smell.

Nope. None of this particularly funny at all.

Related posts:

• What I Learned From Rolling Paper.
• The First Board.
• The Penn State Thing
• The Seven Year Itch
• HOLY SHIT. Pictures.

“k. cnt type mch. 1 hand. b crful. c u soon. sry abt the wrk load. get sum wine.”

One day I received a response back from Toby. It read:

“I really have no clue what that could even mean.”

I usually bring Emory into the bedroom around 9:30 PM every night, which leaves me with all the evening programs the following morning. And so I’ve been watching a lot of television because it’s easy to do with one hand. (Please note, judgmental parents of the Internet, I read to him every day as well. I sing to him too. I don’t just sit around blogging, watching TV, and eating chocolate. Well, that last part is sort of true. Producing breast milk takes a whole lot of chocolate. But I digress.)

No matter how much planning goes into my couch camping organization skills, I still manage to forget one key item in order to survive. I’ll have Emory in one arm, a beverage at my feet, a pacifier on my right, the next bottle within reach, pillows propped up and ready to go for my sore back, maybe a snack or two, snacks that can be eaten with one hand. I’m ready to camp out for however long Emory wishes. But! Where’s the remote? The remote is out of arm’s reach. And I’m left thinking about one of my favorite books from childhood. I could probably learn a thing or two from this kid:

The other day was not unlike the rest. Only this time the remote was on the chair with Murray.

Of course, I had to put the baby down for a minute, leave my campsite, and take a picture.

Now, if only I could get him to work it for me.

Related posts:

• Tuesdays With Murray: Chapter 144 (A Photo)
• Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 143) Micro-TransCations!
• The Night Terrors Continue
• On Not Playing The Game. (About Blogging)
• NaBloPoMo: Tuesdays With Murray (Chapter 142). His Feline Friends.