Velveteen Mind

Debunking, Defusing, and Demystifying the Big Name Blogger; Mommy or Otherwise. And Delurking You.

"I feel out of my depth."

"I know I'll feel overwhelmed."

"This is way out of my league."

"I am so intimidated by this group, but..."

These are just a handful of the emails I have received regarding RSVPing for The People's Party, a pre-BlogHer party I am co-hosting with a handful of bloggers the night before the BlogHer conference at the Westin St. Francis in San Francisco this year. 

Because we need to keep loose numbers on how many drinks and goodies our sponsors need to provide, we have asked you all to RSVP if you think you'll be able to come.  That's the customary purpose of an RSVP, but some of you seem to think that we have chosen to use it as a torture device and have been hesitant (popular word:  intimidated) to even leave a comment or email that says, "I'll be there."

Lord knows what you think the actual party is going to be like...  Spotlights at the ready to point out your every flaw...  Live rankings of everyone's blog stats projected on the wall over the bar...  Buckets of pig's blood dangling from the rafters a la Carrie...

Well, we will require you to log into FeedBurner to verify that you have at least 500 subscribers to your blog before you are allowed to enter, now that I think of it.  Sucks for you blogging losers.

Okay, that was a joke. 

The People's Party is just that:  a party for the people by the people, because that is all any of us are.  Seriously.  No one should feel left out or not cool enough or not popular enough or not enough enough.

Because, enough already.

You know The Bloggess?  She is hilarious, right?  Almost intimidatingly hilarious.  But you know what?  She's not buying the hype for a second.  She knows that at the end of the day, she's just a woman with a foul mouth, a decadent mind, and access to the Internet. 

She is a lot like you.  Only with less censoring.  And possibly less underwear.

She wants to meet you.  And, better yet, she is just as nervous about meeting you as you are about meeting her. 

Now swap "The Bloggess" with any other big-name blogger and you end up with the exact same scenario.  Possibly fewer references to "vaginas" and "ninjas" and "vagina ninjas" and "ninja vaginas," but you get the point.

If I have learned anything from planning this party it is that "Internet Celebrity" is all of the following :

1. Perception.
2. A fluke.
3. Fleeting.
4. Rampant.

None of the above are a reflection of my co-hosts, as this lesson is simply a result of the entire process as a whole.  Mostly a result of being exposed to more opinions and perceptions regarding "celebrity" than I have ever been exposed to before.

What makes a "Big Name Blogger" is not necessarily based on merit.  It is occasionally just the result of sticking it out and being at the right place at the right time.   It is sometimes based on hard work.  It is often not deserved.  Or if it once was, it is no longer.  It is the ultimate contradiction in terms.

Simply put:  It is meaningless and often holds little real value.

It is all perception.  And that is up to us.

However, being a successful and popular blogger is something in which I know we are all interested, which explains some of the "celebrity" fascination that extends to bloggers.  The most popular link on my Mommybloggers: The Resource page?  How to be a Popular Mommyblogger by A Mommy Story.

Wanting to grow your audience and expand your reach is healthy.  Boasting a large readership is a good thing because it opens you up to more opinions and feedback, which helps you grow your own voice.  However, when you begin to think of "popularity" in terms of the "cool kids table," you lose me.

We give the concept of cliques power that they do not deserve.  After BlogHer last year, the number one complaint I heard was that it felt like high school.  That the cool bloggers hung out with the cool bloggers and the newbies hung out with the newbies.  That "cuteness" came into play, whereas it doesn't usually factor online.  Friendships through blogs did not always translate in real life.

People you thought you would hang with shunned you from the "cool kids table."

Enough, already.

After we announced the party, I received a lot of comments along the lines of, "I had no idea you hung with the big girls" or "How did you get in with them?" 

First of all, I am a big girl.  Second of all, I let them in with me. 

And you are, too.  And you should, too.

It didn't occur to me that I might not be cool enough.  That my traffic statistics might not be high enough.  That I might not be popular enough.  So I just did it.

The imaginary boundaries placed around cliques?  I figure, if my son can't see them, I shouldn't, either.

And now my blog name is on a gajillion badges on a spajillion blogs, right along with Oh, the Joys! and motherbumper and One Plus Two and IzzyMom and, yes, The Bloggess.  People at Parents Magazine's GoodyBlog know who I am.  People at Sprout® and PBS know who I am. 

People know who I am because I know who I am.

I'm a mom who writes her blog mostly in her underwear.  With a sink full of dirty dishes and piles of laundry staring at her from her peripheral vision.  I'm a blogger who puts on a good show, but whose numbers followed the fancy facade she put up for the world to ponder.  I'm a blogging mother that wanted and needed a way to reach out, get some things off my chest, and connect.

And I'm just like you.

Robin from Pensieve left a comment on my post about being interviewed by NBC Nightly News for msnbc.com (and my subsequent decision that I should be on the Today Show kissing with Matt Lauer) that said, "If 1/10 of Megan-the-blogger translates to Megan-live-and-in-person? The ratings would soar off the charts."

Megan-live-and-in-person is exactly like Megan-the-blogger.  Except with more pants and poorer spelling.

Want to meet me?  Come to The People's Party the night before BlogHer in San Francisco.  We are right below the newbie party that BlogHer is throwing, so you can float back and forth.  We'll have drinks and goodies and lots of compliments and questions and interest in meeting you.

And we'd love for you to RSVP so we can be sure to have enough of all that goodness, all for you.  Because you?  You are our people.

And me?  Well, I like to think that I'm your people.  Regardless of whether or not you are going to BlogHer.  Regardless of whether or not you are a mom.  Regardless.

Now, how about you stop lurking (reading a blog and never commenting) and take this second to connect with me. 

You.  Delurk.  Now.  Leave a comment.  Connect with a not-so-Big-Name-Blogger that may or may not be wearing pants right now.

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Hierarchy of Suffering. Who wins?

Suburban Oblivion recently complained that her two year old had been replaced by demon spawn.  She welcomed any interest in buying him on eBay. 

As luck would have it, someone took her up on the offer.  Someone that apparently can not have children.  Sara responded with an exercise in gratitude, expressing that it sometimes takes getting bitch-slapped in the comments to remember how good you have it. 

What followed was a discussion in Suburban Oblivion's comments that touched on a topic that I take very personally.  The topic of gratitude and our right to be ungrateful some days.  This is something that I've been meaning to write about for some time, but always back down.  Sara is a great fire-starter, so here goes.

In response to Sara's post on gratitude, CharmingBitch said that "some days off-handed comments about selling children hurt worse than other days. Just like most days with your kids are great but some suck..."  I'm paraphrasing.  Apparently, some of Sara's readers took part of CharmingBitch's comment to suggest that she wanted Sara to be a man and stop complaining.  Again, paraphrasing.  Actually, that's conjecture.  Nevertheless, CharmingBitch was inundated with emails telling her that Sara has a right to complain about a bad day and to back off.

You've got to be kidding me.

To paraphrase my own comment left on Suburban Oblivion:  of all people, CharmingBitch knows that playing the "who has the worse life?" game is pointless.  More specifically, the “I have no right to complain because your life is worse than mine” game is ridiculous.

Bad days are bad days. 
The hierarchy of bad is irrelevant.

CharmingBitch further responded (this was before my comment, by the way): 

"I never said Sara (or anyone else for that matter) doesn’t have the right to complain or vent about a bad day. I know that one life cannot compare to another and that we all have our own crosses to bear; I get that, honestly."

Amen.  I have a right to complain about my house washing away.  I also have a right to complain about my car looking like a ghetto-fabulous poop heap.  It's all relevant because it is all me.   

My problems can not compare to yours, but they are mine.

Do you read CharmingBitch?  Let me tell you, my problems could never compare to hers, and yet I don't hesitate to share my problems with her.  Why not?  She never tries to "one up" me in the problems game.  She could always win, but homey don't play dat.

After Hurricane Katrina, there developed something of a hierarchy of suffering along the Gulf Coast:

• You lost the bottom floor of your house?  I lost my whole house.
  
• You lost your whole house?  I lost my house and my job. 
• You lost your house and your job?  I lost my sister. 
• You lost your sister?  I lost my whole family. 
• You lost your whole family?  I am dead.

That's right, the ghosts of the dead walk the streets of the Gulf Coast.  Their presence is always there, reminding us that it could be worse.  We could be dead.

Bullshit.

Your life could always be worse.  Someone will always have it worse than you.  Seriously.  But does that mean that we have no right to complain about the mundane?  Hell no.

I'll complain about our Bar exam woes and the fact that I haven't had a manicure in forever...  all within the same breath.  Because they are my problems.  They are important to me.  Screw you if you don't think I am grateful enough to keep them in perspective.  Your insinuating that I am not keeping my problems in perspective is an insult.  Your suggesting that I am not grateful is an outrage.

I got gratitude for you right here.  Bend over, let me show you.

The next time someone tells you, "Well, it could be worse..."  just slap them for me.  What they are saying is that they have no idea what to tell you, you are making them uncomfortable, and they would like to deflect the conversation and preferably end it right there.

"Our bills are killing me.  I don't know where I expect to get the money this month." 

"Really?  Well, it could be worse.  Your child could have an incurable flesh-eating disease and be deathly allergic to painkillers."

Wha-what?  Um, yeah, you're right...  I don't know...  I mean, I just...  Uh, okay, I, uh, well...  Okay.

Conversation killed.  Now let's talk about how your mother-in-law insulted your housekeeping, because that is important.

Look, our problems are our problems.  We own them.  They are ours.  I'm not trying to beat you in the competition for who has the worse life.  In the end, if you win, what have you won, anyway?  Hey, I'll just give you that one.  Congratulations.  Your life sucks. 

Now I'm still going to talk about how my diamond shoes are too tight.  Because they are and I don't like blisters.  So sue me.

I am grateful for everything and everyone that I have in my life.  I know how good I have it.  But damn it if I have to couch every single fookin' thing that irks me with "I know it could be worse but..."  Hell.  No. 

The other day, I guest posted over at moosh in indy and dared to complain about how being the wife of a young lawyer sucks.  Ass.  A big hairy ass.  I said that I'm sick of my life being about my husband and had the balls to ask, "When is it going to be about me?" 

I then demanded a Volvo wagon, an annual spa vacation, and a housekeeper.

Oh yes I did.

And you know what?  I'm going to complain freely when my Volvo breaks down.  I'm going to whine when my massages aren't deep enough.  And I'm going to bitch when my housekeeper doesn't scrub my toilets the way I like it. 

I don't expect you to care.  But I do expect you to listen.  Because if you love me, you know me.  You know that I am grateful and you know that I am not a raving idiot that has no perspective.  You know that I know what is important. 

And yet you will still let me vent about the small stuff.

Because if you don't let me vent about the small stuff, I will utterly blow my lid when it comes time to deal with the big stuff.

Get it?

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I Am a Have but I Happen to Have Not

My husband considers himself lucky because I am not into spending money on clothing, makeup, shoes, or other material possessions.  Particularly after Katrina, I am in no hurry to put our money into anything that can go *poof* and simply disappear. 

Rather, I research interest rates of money market accounts online, study the bios of companies whose stock I'm interested in buying, and listen to Clark Howard on talk radio with an avid interest I used to reserve for BOP articles about Corey Haim.  As much as I might like, deep down, to spend a huge chunk of cash on a new wardrobe from Saks Fifth Avenue, I just can't get all fired up about it.  I can get all fired up about earning a 10% return on the cash that would buy that wardrobe, though.

This is an easy, responsible financial approach to take for me because, well, I don't really have any money.   Therefore, I don't really have any temptations.  Not right now, anyway.

Due to a combination of factors that came simultaneously crashing down on our heads after the storm, we find ourselves in the position of living, more or less, month to month.  This is remarkable, given that we still don't have a home again, yet.  Fortunately, due to a combination of factors that have simultaneously lifted burdens from our shoulders, we are currently sitting on the precipice of hopefully never living month to month again.  It has taken two years, but we are seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

And it has been a long tunnel.

For superstition's sake, let me now say, "Knock on wood," for this entire post.

People comment to me all the time that our family will be stronger, and is stronger, for the obstacles we have overcome together.  I have been told that marriages dissolve over less frustrating circumstances than we have survived.  Quite frequently I hear, "I don't think I could have made it through what you have and you seem so fine."  This isn't talk about Katrina, but rather about money, career, and sacrifices.

My response to speculations about our financial situation is always the same.  I am not my money.

I don't define myself by how much money I have in the bank or how stylish my clothes are.  I don't see myself in how impressive my house is or by the model of my car. 

This is fortunate, because my bank account is anorexic, my clothes are from the outlet mall, my house is my parents' guest house, and my car is my dad's old Lincoln Town Car, a magnificent shade of Pimp's Suit Emerald Green, right down to the Florida Retiree's Emerald Green leather interior.

But these things are not me, they are just my circumstances.  And my circumstances don't begin to scratch my surface.

Despite my circumstances that suggest that my life is a bit in shambles, I am confident.  I am confident in who I am and in who I will be.  I am confident in my past decisions and my future plans.  I have faith and I have hope.

I am a have in this world, but I just so happen to have not. 

More than anything else, I hope I am teaching this perspective to my family.  We are not our money.  We have no reason to be ashamed or embarrassed when I have to pick Pants up in my bright green land yacht of a car.  We don't need to hesitate when we have to tell people that we live in my parents' guest house.  We are not here because of something we did wrong.  We are making the most of the cards we have been dealt and we will be stronger for it.  We have been given opportunities that the catastrophe-less around us may never glimpse.

And yet, it sure is easy to make these grand, noble, sweeping statements when I have no temptations before me.  I couldn't be a GAP mom right now if I wanted to, let alone if I tried.  Sure, I can be a GAP Outlet mom, but that still doesn't include the great car.  No, when you are broke, you decide to make the most of what you have.  You just deal. 

But then what happens when your circumstances change from mental fortitude toward financial strength?  The temptations of the GAP mom will rear their ugly heads and what keeps you from folding?  What keeps you from succumbing to the power of the Volvo wagon and the day spa?

I fully intend to succumb to the powers of the Volvo wagon and the day spa.

The difference is that when I have money again, when my circumstances change and I can breathe again, I want and plan to remember one thing:  I am not my money.

As much as I don't define myself by my circumstances now, I do not want to define myself by my circumstances later, no matter how glossy and glittery. 

If I do anything right as a mother, I want to raise children who view the world from the same financial perspective.  We are not what we have materially.

The guest post by Nell from meanwhile... reminded me of this objective.  While reflecting on how her daughter Matilda has become friends with Taylor, the daughter of a materially-focused, perfection-minded mother, she wrote:

Matilda and Taylor have become friends. I like to imagine them hanging out when they're older, like when they're fifteen. I imagine Matilda being jealous of how perfect Taylor's family seems, like a TV family. And I imagine Taylor being jealous of Matilda, of how wild and crazy her family is, of how she can make her own choices and be whoever she wants to be. And I know Matilda is getting the better end of that deal.

When Pants and Goose are older, I would love nothing more than for them to be able to seamlessly blend into groups of both the privileged and the struggling.   While hanging out with a kid whose home is a trailer, it would be great if that kid wondered, "Which trailer park is Goose's?"  While hanging out with a kid whose home is a beach mansion, it would be wonderful if that kid wondered, "Which manse belongs to Pants?" 

I had friends like that and I was usually more impressed by the ability of the kid in the mansion to conceal his wealth than by the kid in the trailer.  Perhaps this is because I think it is sometimes easier to cope with our circumstances when they are difficult or challenging than to defend ourselves against complacency when our circumstances are auspicious.

If I can raise my boys to define themselves with perspective and to see beyond the material, whether that be an excess or a dearth, I will have done a fine job.  If they can recognize what truly matters in this world and that recognition not include a glimpse of the latest fill in the blank trendy toy, then I can exhale.

When it comes to the things that matter, we do "have."  We are the greatest of haves in this world full of bitter have nots. 

We have tread the waters of the deep sucking divide between the haves and have nots and we have come out on the other side stronger.  I'll be damned if we are sucked back to the other shore, as all that we have experienced would have been for naught.

Related posts:

Victor Vito

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Bill Maher meets Suburban Oblivion. Masturbation vs. Breastfeeding. Let's whip 'em out.

Bill Maher likened breastfeeding in public to masturbating in public.

Then Sara at Suburban Oblivion ate his head.  But not before she kicked him in the balls.

This was supposed to be a simple post to redirect you to Sara's post of Bill Maher- Applebee'€™s Nurse-in and Lactivism Are a Waste of Time, Breastfeed in Private.  I wanted to add a funny picture of a giant woman eating a cowering man.  Somewhere along the line in my Google searches, I became a lot more interested in the story, though. 

As I mentioned in Sara's comments, if someone as intelligent as Bill Maher could display such verbal diarrhea of ignorance, imagine what the Lowest Common Denominator out there must think of breastfeeding in public.  I'm at a loss for words.

But I'll get over that.

I couldn't put this (I'll be gracious here) lapse in judgment on Bill Maher's part into words better than Sara, so I'll stick to my original plan of redirecting you to her brilliant post.  Spread it along, won't you?  It's worth it.  So worth it that she was picked up by The Lactivist (one of the absolute best sources for all things breastfeeding related) and the Queen of Spain's Erin Kotecki Vest at The Huffington Post.  The Huffington Post, people.   It was that good.

Breastfeeding in public is not a new controversy.  I have not, however, heard it compared to masturbating in public before.  Nice.

Then there's the whole Facebook banning images of mothers breastfeeding their own infants because it violates their "obscene content" policy.  I can't even begin to...  I mean...  seriously?

I am a breastfeeding mother.  I breastfed Pants until he was 15 months old and I am still breastfeeding Goose at 14 months now. 

When I first began breastfeeding, we lived in New Orleans and even there, in the city of "Show Your Tits," I was a little hesitant to breastfeed in public.  I mean, between the image of a man grabbing my breast on Bourbon Street and a baby attached to one in the park, I was pretty sure I'd be more likely to be offered praise, if not beads, by the sight of the man getting his grope on there.

So I covered up.  In the dead heat of the Louisiana summer in Audubon Park.  I tried to "plan ahead" and feed the baby while cramped in the car in a parking lot before going in anywhere.  I hid out in dressing rooms and, yes, bathrooms at the mall.  I was immensely relieved and grateful if an establishment offered a "nursing room."

Often, I would schedule my errands around where I could nurse my baby.  One of my favorite stops was Babies R Us because they had a "Nursing Mothers Room."  I would strategically plan my errands so that Babies R Us fell in the middle so that I could get some comfortable nursing in at some point. 

One day, after nursing Pants at Babies R Us, I noticed a mother nursing her baby in one of the rocking chairs for sale right outside of the nursing room.  I greeted her warmly and mentioned that they had a nice nursing room if she wanted to use it.  She graciously smiled and said, "No, but thank you.  I think it's important for people to see me nurse my baby right out here in public.  We shouldn't have to hide if we don't want to.  Good for you for being a breastfeeding mother, though.  It's the best thing you can do." 

I was speechless.  I felt like I had offended her and I also felt embarrassed that I had allowed myself to feel like I should hide myself and my baby when nursing.  Granted, when given the option of a dedicated nursing room versus nursing in public, I might have still chosen the nursing room, but still.  My feelings of embarrassment and (possibly) indecent exposure were not my own.

Yet this feeling of needing to be as inoffensive as possible ran deep.  Even when visiting family and friends, I would excuse myself and go nurse my baby in a bedroom, out of sight of any potentially offended eyes.

Then one day while at my husband's grandmother's home, I excused myself to go nurse Pants in her bedroom.  His grandmother, Mema, offered to show me where I could sit in the rocker in her bedroom.  Now, Mema was pretty damn old at this point and took about half an hour to walk down the hall, which was about 18 feet long to her bedroom.  I knew quite well where her bedroom rocking chair was, but I allowed her to show me the way anyway.

As we made the slow walk down the hallway, I couldn't figure out for the life of me why she wanted to go with me.  Once in the rocker, she hesitated at the doorway, smiling patiently and not saying anything.  I had no idea what she was waiting for, so I just smiled back while Pants squirmed and tried to fumble his four-month-old chubby hands around my still-unexposed breasts.  What was the hold-up, lady?

Finally, I knew Pants could wait no longer so I unhooked my nursing bra and helped Pants to latch onto my breast.  Mema watched every motion closely.  This was what she had been waiting for.  She smiled so gently it made my heart ache.  She wanted to see me breastfeed my baby.  She wanted to see a young mother breastfeed an infant.  Not to be sappy, but it was as though a little bit of the glow of youth shown across the room and softened her features as she watched.  There is no other way for me to explain it.

My self-consciousness almost kept me from sharing that moment with a beautiful older mother.  A mother who wanted to remember.  A mother who still had lessons to teach to this new generation of hardly-more-enlightened breeders.

Now, even in Mississippi, I whip it out whenever the milk is demanded.  I don't hide the fact that I breastfeed.  I want to do my small part to de-stigmatize breastfeeding in public.  I don't let my whole boob hang out, but I don't smother us under a blanket, either.  Besides, I don't know about you, but I don't seem to make babies who take kindly to being hidden under blankets.  What we end up with is a repeatedly thrown blanket, a howling baby, and a fully exposed breast.  Is that what you wanted, Bill Maher?

Go read Bill Maher- Applebee’s Nurse-in and Lactivism Are a Waste of Time, Breastfeed in Private over at Suburban Oblivion.  Join the conversation.  Spread the word.  Breastfeeding is an intimate act, yes, but it is not indecent and it is certainly not in any way comparable to masturbation.

 

Yeah, I have a sense of humor, but I don't take kindly to the propagation of ignorance.  Who is the Oblivious One, anyway?

 

Click on any of the pictures for links to great sites about breastfeeding, more information about the International Breastfeeding Symbol, as well as articles about public breastfeeding debates.

A special note:  Visit Hathor the CowGoddess and the Evolution Revolution for absolutely hilarious cartoons about breastfeeding and satisfyingly intelligent conversation about breastfeeding rights and debates.

First and foremost, visit Suburban Oblivion and give Bill Maher hell for me.  Yeah, how'd I do with that quick link to Sara's post?  Just get in and get out and nobody gets hurt.  That's what I tell myself every time I sit down at this computer.

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A simple redirect to Suburban Oblivion (I know, I know, I missed the target there) has turned into a full blown firestorm.  Nice work, Sara.  Follow along, share your links, keep the discussion going.  Let me know if you have a post you want to share because I've clearly already blown my "short redirect" goal, so let's bring it on!  Updates to follow as the new links continue to come in:

• Boycott Bill Maher! by VDog and Little Man
• Annual "Boob against Boobs" rant by Triple Venti
• Bill Maher is a BOOB by Domestic Psychology
• My two breasts, I mean, cents by Poot and Cubby
• Boob Juice by A Whole Lot of Nothing
• Blogs Abuzz when Bill Maher Slams Lactivism on Strollerderby by Kelly Mills
• How I became one of THOSE women by Problem Girl
• Bill Maher Talks Breasts and Other Nursing Notes from the Blogosphere by Working Dad:  An Unauthorized Guide to Parenting
• OK, Facebook, Let Me Get This Straight by A Mommy Story
• Az the Husband has a Message for Bill Maher by Toddled Dredge
• Bill Maher Makes this Lactivist Want to Breastfeed on his Front Porch and Bring My Friends by Suburban Oblivion
• Dear Bill Maher, Let's Talk Breasts.  And Feeding. by A Mommy Story
• A Radical Act (or Suck It, Bill Maher!) by Lawyer Mama
• Breastfeeding In Public (Warning- Offensive Content) by Mojo of a Mama (easily one of my favorite posts so far, and she has lots of pictures, just like me, but even better)
• Beer, breastmilk--  Whatever gets you through the night by Mayberry Mom
• I deserve a medal from needs new batteries
• Dear Facebook and Bill Maher:  You're Idiots by A Mom, A Blog, and the Life In-Between
• Breast Practices??? by PunditMom
• First MySpace, Then Facebook, Now Harvard? by IzzyMom
• Bill Maher is a Misogynistic Anti-Breastfeeding Pig by Tennessee Guerilla Women
• Society!  You Need to Grow Up! by Blooming Marvelous
• Wordless Wednesday:  An Ode to Bill Maher by Get in the Car!

The best way to keep the conversation going is to Stumble and SK*RT everyone's posts.  Submit it wherever you see fit.  Just click the appropriate buttons and viola!  Spread the word.  Disagree?  Then rally your own troops the same way.  We can take it.  Just play fair and you can keep your (literal or figurative) balls. 

Now bring him hell.

Watch the video for yourself of Bill Maher's comments.

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Edited to add: 

Tune in to the live BOOB podcast Wednesday, Sept. 19, at 8pm Central on BlogTalkRadio.  My fellow BOOBs and I will be talking about, you guessed it, Bill Maher and all things masturbatory public breastfeeding.  Call in and give it to us, baby!  Yeah, even you anti-public breastfeeding folks.  We'd love to hear from you!  If you miss it, check out the archives anytime.

Evidence File for The Betty

In honor of my debut piece over at BlogRhet, Lifting the Veil of the Inner Blogologue, I thought I would do the other BlogRhet contributors proud by sharing what I was doing yesterday while all of their thoughtful commenters were adding their wisdom to my think piece:

I was directing a sexed up liquor ad.

Yep, you read that right.  GingaJoy and Her Bad Mother will be so proud that they allowed me onto their wicked smaht blog.

The Queen of Shake-Shake and I were invited over to Suburban Oblivion's home for a little playgroup yesterday.  Naturally, someone smuggled some alky-hol into the joint (before 5 o'clock, can you imagine?!) and well, we somehow ended up filming what easily equates to more evidence for our being admitted to the Betty Ford Clinic.  Or committed.

Our favorite Playgroupie was supposed to be in attendance but pulled the sick-kid-card on us, so we had to send her something to rub her nose in all of the fun she was missing.  That meant the camera.  And once you put the Queen in front of the camera...  no holds barred, folks. 

In our defense, this is the deep South, where cocktails are as common as sweet tea at a church picnic and the stifling heat can cloud even the most conservative of judgments.

That being said, enjoy!  I present to you the short but potent premier of...

Evidence for the Betty.

Starring The Queen of Shake-Shake.

Videography by Suburban Oblivion.

Directed by Velveteen Mind.

Inspired by the absence of Playgroups Are No Place For Children.

She takes direction so well, don't you think?  Seriously, who wants to come down and play with us at a Southern Bloggers Conference of our own?  All of the strawberry margaritas in a bucket that you can handle! I didn't even know they made cocktails available in bucket form.

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Ya'll please come over and visit me at BlogRhet.  I need to prove to them that I'm more than break o' noon buckets of booze.   I need comments, people, more comments!  Let's fool them into thinking that I'm an audience magnet.  That is, after you comment on how cute Heather is in this video.  Don't you love her? BTW, my title is taken from one of her post tags.