Velveteen Mind

Internet Fame is for the Nerds: Post-BlogHer Identity

(edited below for clarification on 8/10/08)

As I was packing for San Francisco to attend the BlogHer 2008 blog conference, I was confident of two things about myself:  I write a decent blog with one hand and change dirty diapers with the other.  I know who I am and I know right where I belong.

If anything, attending BlogHer would have one of two results for me: 

1) I would discover that more people read this blog than I realize.

or

2) I would be put in my place as an anonymous face in a sea of anonymous faces.

I was pretty good with either of those outcomes because the real reason I was heading to BlogHer for the first time was to meet other bloggers, not promote my own blog.  I can talk about me any day, but I can only meet you on the very rare occasion.

What I discovered is that most of the friends I have made online are my friends in the flesh, as well.  I also discovered that I have far more friends than I realized.

The first time someone came up to me and asked, "Are you the Velveteen Mind?" I thought I was going to pass out from excitement.  How cool is that?  After sessions, during which I had to pipe up and hog the mic (being sure to say, "Hey, I'm Megan from Velveteen Mind" and hope someone would look me up on their laptop), there would sometimes be people lined up at my table to meet me.  Me.  How crazy is that?

It's bat-shit crazy, is what it is.

Then, somewhere around the 12th time someone approached me in the hall while I was talking to my elusive roommates and shared with me that they read my blog or follow me on twitter, it started to feel a little embarrassing.  It never embarrassed me if I was alone, but it kept happening in front of the same people and, honestly, I started to feel like a bit of a whore.

Like, "Gah, how much does she pimp herself on twitter, anyway?"  Yeah, pretty much just like that.  I could feel eyes rolling around me (not my roommates') and I felt like I should defend myself or explain away how these people knew me.

Because God forbid I have a popular blog or a heavily-followed twitter account.

Why does success feel so dirty in a platform like personal blogging?  It feels downright pornographic if you are a mom-blogger.

And before your eyes roll right out of your own head, let me clarify what I mean by "success."  On one floor, of one hotel, in one city, in one country, in all of the world, for one weekend...  a handful of people knew who I was and were excited to meet me.  Go up or down one level, step outside of our bubble, and it was all gone.

Internet celebrity is a farce.  It is meaningless.  It is fleeting.  And it is rampantly revered...  by people reading the Internet.

Ask your dad who Dooce is.  Then get back to me.

BlogHer was a schizophrenic's EEG.  Intoxicating high's (the recognition) and feet-to-ground lows (the blank stares in response to "I'm Megan from Velveteen Mind").  Trust me, my feet were solidly planted on the ground most of the time.  Half the time I wanted to say, "Yeah, I know, I totally made up that blog name.   I don't even own a computer." and the rest of the time I felt sure someone would ask for my autograph.

And that was all on that one floor of the hotel.  Step outside and I went right back to feeling foolish for admitting that I was at a blogging conference.  Surely someone would wonder where my Spock ears were.

The point of all of this is to reiterate that the deference given to big-name bloggers is laughable at best and damagingly naive at worst.  I thought I could let all of the post-BlogHer drama posts slide, but it finally came to a head for me today and I just have to beg you to stop.

These are real people.  They probably won't be "famous" next year.  Don't hesitate to reach out to them.  Don't hesitate to talk to them.  And don't be afraid to cross them if you disagree with something that they have said.

Engage them in a conversation.  Chances are, they are starving for real discussion.  No one respects a fangirl, but everyone loves knowing that their work is appreciated.  Get beyond that hurdle and you might be surprised at the human you find behind the blog.

I swear, I feel foolish even writing this because my in-real-life friends are going to be saying to themselves, "Is she serious?  These are just blogs."  Yeah, I am.  There were people who were too intimidated to approach me at BlogHer. 

That, my friends, is pterodactyl-shit crazy.

All of this is sort of ridiculous.  Yet, blogging has true value.  I learned that definitively at BlogHer.  And no matter your vitriol (I think it's a law that all bloggers use that word at least once), you can't change that for me.

By the way, I'm writing this on my couch, I haven't had a shower today, my sink is full of dishes, my boys may not have clean clothes for school tomorrow (working on that), and one of the highlights of my day is yet to come:  putting my sons down to bed, which includes reading a couple of books, rocking the two year old and singing "All You Need is Love," and then all three of us cuddling in bed for a minute while we talk about the stars projected on their ceiling.

I know right where I belong.

Because in two little hearts, in one home, on one street, in one city, I am the most famous person in all the world.  And there is infinite value in that.

~~~

(edited to add:  I was going to have a bunch of fun photos, but before I could upload them, I was flooded with emails telling me that a gracious yet very pointed comment I left on a big-name blogger's recent post was deleted.  I have never been censored in my life, so I'm sort of floored.  You know me.  Can you imagine what I would have had to write to get deleted?

Ah, the irony.  This post suddenly looks very naive to me.

That being said, unless the natives settle down considerably, my post on Monday will be called either "Inciting the Queen & King" or "Utah is the new China.")

***Final edit added 10:30pm 8/10/08: The comment deleted was my final comment made on a blog written by a Utah blogger named Jon Armstrong.  He is dooce's husband.  I do not care that Jon deleted my comment (one of 4 that I left as the conversation progressed), but rather that Jon evidently deleted the vast majority of all dissenting comments submitted to his post, none of which appear to have been hateful or malicious, but rather just disagreeing with his presentation of a story that had long since been settled.  His call, our opinions, his censorship.

Ultimately, his blog.  Again, he has the right to hide my opinion from you, as well as dozens of others.

Silencing dissenting opinions has never been a good thing.  As you will see in the comments of this post, I refuse to silence dissenting opinions as long as they do not attack my readers.  Regardless.  Transparency and humility are integral to this platform. 

Here are the facts, for your consideration:

1. Jon and Heather Armstrong live in Utah. 
2. China is infamous for viciously censoring all dissenting opinions.

Here is my opinion, for your entertainment:

Utah is the new China.

But it doesn't have to be.

Side note:  If you are here looking for drama, you might want to move along (after leaving your requisite hateful comment) because I rarely enter these frays.  If what you take away from the above post is that I actually think I am famous, then you probably won't "get" this blog.  You'll be disappointed when I start writing about "community" and "morals" and my kids again.  Good Lord, half the time I talk about the Discovery channel and Matt Lauer.  Move along.  Or don't.  That's your call.  You might want to consult my "comment policy" at the bottom of the page, though.

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When Batman and Hellboy are no help, call on Dora and Diego. Ayuda me!

(disclaimer:  No children were adopted in the making of this story.  I did not become the Angelina Jolie of our local movie theatre, though I did come this close to donning my Tomb Raider outfit and kicking some ass.)

Last night I ditched out and went to a movie.  Just about as frequently as I ditch out on the readers of this blog, I ditch out on my family.  I may be a 31 year old mother of two in Mississippi, but I still have a pulse and sometimes I need that pulse to not be matched by the beating pulses of so many that share my DNA.

I should develop some kind of code to indicate that I am heading out, will be back later, and not to come looking for me unless you see the bat signal.

Yeah, I went to see The Dark Knight.

Now for the trite:  Christian Bale was stellar.  The entire time I was watching him appear out of nowhere to save the day and the girl and the city, I totally had "I Need a Hero" playing in my head.  Who doesn't love to be saved?

Heath Ledger.   I am such a sucker.   Count me in for all of the glowing reviews of his performance.  He was breathtaking and, sure, I felt an impulse to perform the sign of the cross when he first took the screen.  My ability to suspend my disbelief and be consumed by a performance is second to none. 

I don't write movie reviews so much as I write obsessive stalker notes. 

The Dark Knight was amazing, engaging, engrossing, and inspiring.  Yep, I just fell all over myself and gushed "inspiring."  The message in this film was precise and clear:  You sometimes have to be the fall-guy in order to be the truest hero.  The Dark Knight was an exercise in altruism and it was fascinating.

Go see it.  The end.

The showtime I caught was the last showing of the night, so it was after midnight as I made it out of the theatre.  I took the side exit directly into the parking lot, one of those exits that is at the end of a corridor of theatres.  As I was pushing through the exit, I stopped to listen to the movie still playing in the last theatre by the door.  It was incredibly loud and sounded painfully violent, so naturally I had to poke my head in. 

A trip to the movies would not be complete for me unless I stole at least 15 minutes of another movie.  Because screw you, Ben Affleck.

The signs above the entrance doors indicated that the movie was either WALL-E or Hellboy II:  The Golden Army.  By the sound of the screaming, I put my money on Hellboy.  Or technically, not my money.

It was one of those smaller screening rooms where you walk up a long straight passage bordered on one side by a high wall blocking the view of the stadium seats.  A 31 year old mother on the run could stand in that passage and watch a movie without being seen by the people in the seats.

So could a small child huddled under a blanket on the floor.

In the soft red light of the floor runners in the dark passage, a young boy sat, knees drawn up in front of him, fleece Spider-Man blanket wrapped around his small body and over his head so that only his face peeked out, with eyes wide and fixed on the screen ahead of us.

He couldn't have been more than four.

Welcome to hell, boy...  you should not be here.

I walked slowly toward him, stopping in view of the screen but perhaps four feet from where he sat.  He looked up and I smiled and shrugged, indicating that "Yeah, I'm sneaking a movie, too."  He quickly averted his eyes and leaned away from me a little.

But then he looked back.  And then again.  And again.  Until he lowered his blanket behind his head just a little.

I gently sat down on the slanting floor beside him, close enough to be able to whisper to him if I leaned in but not so close that I could intimidate him with my presence or even appear as though I was with him to a certainly soon-to-check-in mother rounding the wall.

Minutes passed and no mother checked in on him.  Was his guardian sitting on the other side of that wall?  Why weren't they checking on him?  Were they that selfish about their movie viewing habits that they didn't care that he was clearly scared?  Not to mention that it was now close to 12:30 at night.

Judging whoever had allowed him to be here was not going to get me anywhere and I couldn't exactly take him out of there, so I just watched the movie.  With him.  Stealing glances at him every now and then to gauge how frightened he was by the epic battle playing out on the screen above us.

He was indeed small.  Delicate frame and fine black hair.  Dark skin and dark eyes.  Surely Mexican.  Ever since Hurricane Katrina, the Mexican population along the Gulf Coast has exploded.  He would poke his feet out from under his blanket every once in a while and reveal his little plastic sandals, but nothing more.

He stole a glance at me and smiled.  I leaned over and whispered, "Wow, this is a scary movie, but she is really pretty, huh?"  He smiled but said nothing.

"Hey, is your mom here?"

Nothing.

"Wow, he's really a crazy guy!"

Small nod.

"Ew, that's gross.  Yuck, huh?"

Smile.  Roll of the eyes.

We watch the movie.   We watch Hellboy.

I moved my wallet near the wall, my drink beside me, and stretched my legs out in front of me.  Indicating that I was in this for the long haul, too.

When he would look at me, I would try to give him a reassuring smile and sort of shrug in a "this is crazy, right?" kind of way, but I could never tell if what felt like reassuring on my face was actually coming off as creepy Stranger Danger in his eyes. 

And then he laid down on the floor and rolled around.  Shooting me smiles and giggling.

The puppy had revealed his belly.

So there we sat, in a dark passage with frightening images of demon spawn towering over us, and we finished watching the movie.

The lights came up, a few people straggled out, and I gave each and every one of them a look that screamed, "I'm just keeping your kid company, you bastard.  No wait, your kid.  No.  Oh.  Okay, your kid."

I am Bruce Wayne about to turn into Batman.  Someone is going answer to this.

And then I ran out of bastards.

I looked at my little friend and smiled.  He hadn't said a word.  Finally, he stood up, draped his blanket over his head and face, and went barreling down the passage with me pulling up the rear, without a clue what to do next.  I expected him to keep barreling toward the concession stand or some room where his theatre-employee parent was surely waiting, but instead he flopped on the floor outside of the theatre doors.

Okay, so, um, huh.

In the light of the hallway, our situation began to feel ridiculous. 

"So, is your mom here?"

Mumble.

"Ah, do you speak English?"

Mumble.  Smile.

Grasping at my high school Spanish, "Habla Español?"

"Sí."

"Hmmm, is your mami aquí?  Aquí?  (insert hand motion indicating the floor)  Aquí?"

Good Lord, I was now pulling from old episodes of The Bob Newhart Show.

Giggling.

"Are you three?  Tres?"  I hold up three fingers.  I'm thinking Dora the Explorer now.  Keep it simple.

Nods.  Laughs.  Says something that I'm pretty sure means "crazy white lady" in Spanish.

By the twinkle in his eye as he says it, I'm almost sure this is not something I would have learned on Diego.

Maybe five minutes have passed and not a soul has walked by and my friend is still rolling around on the floor.

Do I turn him in to the lost and found?  Do I bust whoever it is that must be working here and using these movies as babysitters?  It is well after midnight and this movie was not, in fact, WALL-E.

And then, like a bizarre scene from a movie that I did not audition for, small Mexican children begin simultaneously exiting the theatres around us.  Three of them from three different theatres and they are all headed our way.

Ayuda me!  Please tell me one of them speaks English.

They all smile and lift their eyebrows.  I am on a stage and my audience awaits my first line.

"So, um, I found him in Hellboy.  I couldn't just leave him there because, well...  so I just watched it with him."

The oldest girl speaks.  "Yep, he always thinks that movie is WALL-E.  (motioning to my friend in the Spider-Man blanket on the floor) Tell the lady thank you."

Mumbles something that again sounds suspiciously like Spanish for "crazy white lady."

An embarrassed look passes his apparent sister's face and she nudges him with her foot and shushes him quickly.  Ah, I knew it! 

"Sorry, he's, uh, saying ugly words."

Yes, I know. 

So much for my stint as the Dora-educated Hellboy-watching Dark Knight of the movie theatre.  With great power comes great responsibility.  And almost uniformly no great respect or gratitude from the citizens of Gotham.

 

Dios mio.

~~~

To you, I ask:  From the moment you saw him to the moment you left him, what would you have done?

~~~

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A Garage to Grow Men In

Two weekends ago, we fulfilled every man's dream at our house:  We cleaned out our garage.  Our lives will never be the same.

Okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but not by much.  When we moved into this house, we did it very quickly, more or less just bringing into the house the essentials and stacking the rest in the garage to unpack at a later date.

For instance, maybe next year.

Fortunately for us, my dad knows me better than I know myself, so he called us up and said that the garage was getting cleaned come hell or high water, so get on our wading boots.  No one can focus with half of their life piled up on the other side of the wall.

I agreed to this Mississippi-heat-endurance-test because he also mentioned the two most beautiful words in the English language:  pressure washer.   Aaaah, he would be bringing over his pressure washer, which meant I could blow the old-lady stink in the garage to high heaven and enjoy the endless satisfaction of blasting years of ground-in muck off of our driveway, one slice of the water wand at a time.

Five paragraphs later, I have now told you that we cleaned out our garage.  Look, when you bring gas-powered water blasters into the picture, my prose gets a little flowery, so bear with me.

An unexpected result of cleaning out our garage, other than eliminating the constant noise in the back of my mind, was that we started spending more time outside.  Much more time.  As a family.

It started when the boys realized that they could ride their bikes on their own again, alternating the heat of the driveway and the cool of the garage.  This clearly meant I would benefit from two exhausted boys ready to crash at naptime, so I grabbed the book I am currently reading, an Adirondack chair from the yard, a glass of ice cold Coke with crushed ice (dear God, I love having an ice maker again), and set up a little space of my own in our blindingly clean garage so that I could keep an eye on the boys.

Because no matter how many times you say, "Do not drive beyond the car in the driveway, boys!" all they hear is, "Feel free to ride your bikes in the street because you are magic and no cars will splatter you on the road."

This is how I want our summer to be:  all of us outside, sweating, enjoying the fruits of our labor, me reading books, enjoying our sons beat the tar out of each other, and my scaring the daylights out of them with threats of Blood on the Highway.

I'm trying to raise men here.  As far as I can tell, that begins by raising boys.  Boys who play outside, dig in the dirt, climb trees, hit balls over fences, destroy the grass with sprinkler-produced mud puddles, and fight off the mosquitoes until the light has finally failed for the day.  Boys who get cuts and scrapes  and bruises, but are too busy playing to report them to their mother, let alone whine over them.

The book I am reading right now is Boys Should Be Boys by Meg Meeker, MD.  This will, quite frankly, be the theme of our summer.  Walking away from anything that requires electricity and embracing everything that eventually requires bandages.

I want to raise men.  Real men.  True men.  Strong men.  It starts now.  It starts in this garage, extends to the make-shift ball diamond in our backyard, drifts to the creek full of crawfish behind our house, and hopefully takes root in the core of our sons.

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Sprout Saves Father's Day for us Slacker Moms

Come to find out, Father's Day is tomorrow.  As in this Sunday.  As in, "When did that happen?"

Need last minute ideas?  I have a great one for you and it is free!  Did you catch that last part?  It's FREE!

The best part is that it will also give ole dad exactly what every man really wants:  an ego stroke, a shot of pride, and a little coveted spotlight attention!

Sprout, one of the awesome sponsors of The People's Party (a pre-BlogHer party I am co-hosting along with some much hipper bloggers), is celebrating dads this weekend with a special Father's Day event taking place on The Sprout Sharing Show being broadcast LIVE from 3pm - 6pm ET on Saturday, June 14 and Sunday, June 15.

This is your chance to make Dad feel famous!  You know, just like you.  ;) 

Children, with help from an adult, can submit a Father's Day greeting to their dad, grandfather, uncle, or male dad-like person and have it appear live during the show.  Viewers can also call-in during the live show and share their wishes and fun stories about dad by calling 877-242-DADS. 

To submit a text greeting or find out more visit:
http://www.sproutonline.com/sprout/stunt/fathersday.aspx 

If you don't have Sprout, you can call 866-9-SPROUT to request it.  Which is what I'll be doing just as soon as I sign up for cable again.

Seriously, I want to be on TV.  So you know your husband wants to be, too!  Make it happen with Sprout!

<This ends my desperate attempt to make up for the fact that I could have sworn that Father's Day was later this month...  or maybe in the winter?  Happy Father's Day, Maguire!  If we had Sprout, you would so be on TV, along with pictures of your massive muscles and hot mug!>

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Happy Mother's Day, ya'll!

Boats and Birds
Gregory and the Hawk
video with lyrics, in case you want to learn it for a tearjerker lullaby...

I'd love to know...  What do you sing to your babies?

 

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