iPod Identity
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There is no bathroom in this studio. What it does seem to have is some kind of magnet that pulls pee out of toddlers.
"Q, I'm going to the bathroom next door while it's still light out and we can see. Do you need to go?"
"No. And I'm sure."
"Are you sure? Because you know there's no power over there right now, so once it gets dark, you won't be able to go."
"Mom." (insert ferocious look of a four-year-old exasperated at the denseness of his own mother.)
"Fine. I'm just saying."
... an hour later, moments after the sun has set:
"Mom, I seriously have to go pee RIGHT NOW."
(insert ferocious look of a psychic mother who does not have a flashlight on her.)
"Fine. But you know I..."
"Mom!"
~~~
I swore that I would not write about writing and blog about blogging while I was getting settled into this studio, but the last few days have had me thinking an awful lot about our culture, so you'll have to deal. Ahem.
Voting for the Weblog Awards is going on right now and both of my babies are up for inspection criticism the finals. Velveteen Mind is up for Best Diarist and Blog Nosh Magazine is up for Best New Blog.
Unfortunately, I am not absolutely hammering the competition.
The competition has managed to absolutely hammer my sense of self, though. At least, for a passing moment. No moaning, people; it was passing.
That moment was brought on by my browsing the blogs of the competition and seeing everything that I am not: brief, flashy, controversial, incendiary...
I found myself thinking, "I am far too earnest. Too insightful. Too wordy. And when did I get so old? I need to be punchy and snarling and in-your-face! I clearly need to swear more. Um, damn it."
Yeah, it was one of those moments.
That's not who I am or where I am any longer. I'd love to write about parties and dates and where I went to eat. Impress you with the cutting-edge emo playlists on my iPod and casually mention that I caught such-and-such eyeliner-and-irony-clad band at a hole in the wall bar the other night.
At this point in my life, those stories would include a lot of Hot Wheels, mad dashes to the early movie, and tales of Ruby Tuesdays. My iPod playlists are full of songs to keep toddlers quiet while I'm on conference calls in the car.
Sweet, right? Snore.
Reconnecting with old friends on Facebook planted me onto this same rollercoaster of "Was it an option to keep partying?" I didn't think the seatbelts worked on that ride, either.
The grass is always greener, and based on the vote totals for the other Weblog Awards contenders, I was beginning to think that all I have over here is a big messy sandbox.
Do blog readers really want bite-size pieces of profanity and controversy and that's it? Is the realm of the long-attention-span really... hello? you still with me?
Damn skimmers.
Sigh.
Everything in me is screaming right now, "Don't go cliché! Don't say that then you look at your kids and you know that this is the life you want. Don't tell a cute offspring story and say that those little grunts make you happier than any night at a club or new Indie band find. Don't be trite!"
Mother.
Humper.
~~~
"Mom, it's really dark in here. I can't see anything. I have to pee NOW."
"I know. I know. Here..."
"Mom. Is that your iPod?"
"You can see the toilet, can't you? Now hurry because I have to keep scrolling to keep the light on."
"Thanks, Mom. I have to poop."
"Of course you do... Of course you do."
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