Velveteen Mind

Tattle-Tale

"I have a need for everyone to follow the rules and admit when they are wrong.  I guess it's a 'tattle-tale' issue."

That was the line I just delivered to my dad during his impromptu visit to our house so that he could say hey to the boys.  While here, he brought up my recent post-edit about comment deletion and my strong stance against it.  His response to my revelation about needing to impose order in an unruly world was little more than a blank stare, a roll of the eyes, and a look that said, "Hi, have we just met?  This is not news."

I have been fighting a losing battle to make the world bend to my opinions my entire life.  The "rules" I want people to follow are mostly rules I have made up in my head.  If I could pass them into law, I would, but that requires a lot of organization and probably at least a few business suits. 

"Your expectations are too high" is something I've heard so often that I would like to announce that from now on, all you have to say is "Code Flying Pigs" and I'll know what you mean.  Yet I keep plowing right along, acting surprised and disappointed when people make decisions that I disagree with, or at the very least would not have made myself.  You know, wrong decisions.

(that was a joke-- are the trolls still sticking around?)

Needless to say, it should come as no surprise that I was fascinated by all of the different takes on how I could have handled finding a three year old boy alone in Hellboy II the other night.  You were all refreshingly honest about how you would have handled it and that is what made it so interesting. 

If you haven't read it already, the brief rundown is that while poking my head into Hellboy II on my way out of the local movie multiplex, I found a three year old boy sitting alone in the passageway into the screening room, wrapped in a blanket, watching the movie alone at midnight.  After a bit of hesitation and disbelief, I pulled up a little piece of dimly illuminated hallway with him and kept him company for the duration of the movie, trying to distract him during scary parts, and then accompanied him to the exterior hallway after the movie was over.  After some lost-in-translation Spanglish, a handful of siblings appeared out of the other theatres to claim him and I went about my business, a little more disillusioned than when I had entered the theatre over three hours earlier.

But I couldn't help wondering if I made the right choice.  The right choice of multiple choices available, all which raced through my mind while I made "ew" and "yuck" faces at him during the movie.  Here is what you said:   

• 9 of you would have done the same thing I did, which is sit with him until someone claimed him but not report it to management
• 2 of you said you would have left him alone and minded your own business
• 13 of you would have taken him to management
• 3 of you would have left him where you found him and went for management yourself
• 4 of you would have called the police

So why did I choose to do what I did?

Leaving him alone was certainly a thought that crossed my mind.  More specifically, "What are you getting yourself into?" is what crossed my mind, but I was already sitting down, so there was no turning back.  I never could have stopped wondering what happened to him.

Likewise, leaving him alone while I went for management was not a viable option for me because had he been gone when I returned, I would have tortured myself with doubt.  Pretty much, I claimed responsibility for him from the moment I saw him and wasn't going to relinquish it until the responsibility was handed over.

That leaves us with taking him to management and/ or calling the police.

I mentioned that I am a tattle-tale, right?  I not only want people to be called out for their mistakes, but to admit the mistake and make amends for them, as well.  "An eye for an eye" just makes us even in my book; the punishment begins after we are even.

And no, the irony is not lost on me that I was in effect "stealing" the last 15 minutes of a movie.  I went in that room with that intention, so the boy was no excuse.  In fact, I routinely "steal" up to 30 minutes of movies before and after the film for which I have bought a ticket.  In my defense, I never watch more than 30 minutes, because that would just be wrong. (insert the equivalent of a wink here.)  I think of it as an extended preview; if 30 minutes is good, I definitely buy a ticket the next time around.

I never said that my rules are necessarily based on law.  They are also subject to change without notice.  I will admit that being a subject in my queendom would be challenging, at best.

Nevertheless...

Something about how comfortable this little boy appeared (in the situation, not as an audience member of Hellboy II) told me that this was not the first time he had watched a movie in this theatre at midnight by himself.  He had a blanket, which just said "I came prepared" to me.  Then, when his siblings appeared, everything about their relaxed demeanor told me that this was routine for them.

For the record, had no one showed up to claim him after the movie, I would have delivered him to management and stuck around until the situation was resolved.    However, my initial suspicion that one of their parents must work at the theatre was confirmed when the oldest girl nodded in response to my question, "Does your mom work here?"

As far as I could tell, their mother worked the late shift at the theatre and used the movies as babysitters.  This was more or less confirmed when the oldest girl said, motioning to the double sign indicating either Hellboy II or WALL-E as the movie showing on that screen, "Yeah, he always thinks that movie is WALL-E."

Given this, I could have marched them all to management, or at least to their mother, and lectured everyone involved about how wrong it is for kids their age to be out at midnight, let alone watching a horror movie.  But I didn't, for the same reason I did not call the police.

What if management didn't know their mother was doing this and she was therefore fired?  She would have to find another job, which around here might mean working at a casino, and then what would she do about child care?  Who knows what shift she would have to take and there are far worse places for kids to be at midnight than in a movie theatre, in the same building as their mother, who can probably check in on them occasionally, should she so choose.

Look, I know this is a lot of conjecture on my part, but this was my thought process in a dark theatre, watching a scary movie, in the middle of the night with a tiny little boy I did not know.  I wanted to do right by him, but doing right by him in the short term and the long were two different things.  My need to make everything "right" by my book might not be "right" for his life.

By the same reasoning, had I called the police, I may have been doing more than punishing the mother for making a bad decision.  If she was, in fact, an illegal immigrant, I can't imagine the consequences.

So I stayed with him until I could turn him over to someone that could claim him as their own.  I didn't take him out of there because even touching him seemed like crossing a line.  I didn't turn anyone in because the repercussions were more than I could reasonably predict.  Instead, I tried to help him out and distract him for a short period of time during which I could reasonably predict the repercussions.  Hellboy II is not a movie for toddlers, in case you were wondering.

I still don't know if what I did was right, but I thank you for your opinions.  You all felt so strongly about it and it was seriously fascinating.  Can you imagine what that scene would have been like had we all been there?  Mad chaos, to say the least.

I still don't know if what I did was right.  It felt right, but sometimes beating people over the head until they cry "Uncle!" feels right.  Figuratively, not literally. 

When you open yourself up to what is happening around you, it is amazing what you will find.  If you just scratch the surface, you might stumble into a world of underground theatre children, for whom spending their nights at the movies may become just footnotes in the story of what their mother did to provide for them.  Or for whom you may be provided a single opportunity to help and you blow it because you don't want to make things worse. 

I still don't know if what I did was right.

...........................

New Here? Sign up for free delivery of new posts via RSS or email.

Follow me on Twitter! and

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.

...........................

New Here? Sign up for free delivery of new posts via RSS or email.

Follow me on Twitter! and

Because I'm a Joyful Girl

I see pressure mounting online.  Pressure to be popular.  Pressure to be seen.  Pressure to get published.  Pressure to be cool.  Pressure to be known.  Pressure to prioritize.  Pressure to understand.

Pressure to answer the question:  Why do I do it?

I've made no secret of the fact that I am busy right now.  I am spread thin.  But I am addressing these pressures and I am watching you as you do the same.

I have so much to say about this and want to say it all right now right now right now.  But until BlogHer becomes just one more thing in the distant past of 2008 and the distant future of 2009, I still have things to take care of first.

And yet...

I can answer these pressures just a little bit right here and right now.  I can tell you why I do it.  And you may choose to believe me or not. 

Listen to this song.  Read the lyrics.  And believe me when I say that I do it for the joy it brings.  I do it because I'm a joyful girl.

Joyful Girl - Ani DiFranco
  i do it for the joy it brings
because i'm a joyful girl
because the world owes me nothing
and we owe each other the world
i do it because it's the least i can do
i do it because i learned it from you
and i do it just because i want to
because i want to
everything i do is judged
and they mostly get it wrong
but oh well
'cuz the bathroom mirror has not budged
and the woman who lives there can tell
the truth from the stuff that they say
and she looks me in the eye
and says would you prefer the easy way
no, well o.k. then
don't cry
i wonder if everything i do
i do instead
of something i want to do more
the question fills my head
i know there's no grand plan here
this is just the way it goes
when everything else seems unclear
i guess at least i know
i do it for the joy it brings
because i'm a joyful girl
because the world owes me nothing
and we owe each other the world
i do it because it's the least i can do
i do it because i learned it from you
and i do it just because i want to
because i want to

© 1996 ani difranco / righteous babe music

Joyful Girl from Canon and Living in Clip

*Feed readers and email people, you are missing out because I've got your song right here!  Must come visit and listen.

...........................

New Here? Sign up for free delivery of new posts via RSS or email.

Please share on or Twitter with the Tiny URL for this post: http://tinyurl.com/5j9u6d

Follow me on Twitter! and

 

I Am Your Very Own Dichotomy.

Occasionally, I just walk out of the house and leave the family to fend for themselves.  I grab my purse, my phone, and my keys, yell something like, "Good luck, suckers!" over my shoulder, and hit the road.

I am a road person.

The other night, I did just that.  It had not been a particularly difficult day, but it had been a long couple of weeks.  Maguire came home from work and my heart unexpectedly slipped out the door behind him as he entered.  I had no choice but to follow.

I haven't mentioned this, but I have a new car.  A "new to me" car.  Guess what it is?  You'll never guess.  Moosh?  You might know.

It's a white Volvo V70 wagon.  My dream car. 

Of course, it is not new.  I bought it for very close to an even trade for the land yacht that was my Dad's old emerald green Lincoln Towncar.  I suspect there is a hamster in the engine running around frantically taping everything together, laughing in a bewildered way about how I could be so blinded by the boxy loveliness so as to not notice that I was being taken...  but it is mine.  I finally have my own car again.

And I work it hard.  In particular, I work the CD player.  Haven't had one of those in years.

The soundtrack for my solo escape road trip along the Mississippi Gulf Coast beaches the other evening was Ani DiFranco's Canon, a 2-disc compilation of some of her best songs.  My husband introduced me to Ani DiFranco in college and I was sold immediately and ever since.  One of the only performers I never tire of, and I get tired of music shamefully fast.

Fueled on by Ani's voice berating government, penises, and Righteous Babes who have their panties on a little too tight, I made my way along the scenic beach highway.  One thing I love about the Mississippi Gulf Coast is that from Gulfport to Bay St. Louis, there are almost no structures built on the beach-side of the highway.  Drivers are afforded unobstructed views of the water for miles.

This makes for a fine brainstorming environment.  I busy part of my mind with driving, just enough to keep the random, distracting noise at bay, and leave the rest of my mind to solve solve solve.

On this particular evening, I was unaware of any unresolved issues for which I was setting out to solve.  However, an hour into the drive, just as I was making it across the Bay St. Louis bridge from Pass Christian, the tears began to fall.

They were those hot tears, those silent tears, the ones that just drop drop drop.

The ones that surprise you.  The ones that have been waiting, silently, patiently, and of which you were too busy to be aware.  Until they find the break.

I would love to be able to tell you why I was crying.  I do not know.  It was our internal release valve, I think.   No one thing in particular, it was just time to relieve some pressure.

So I drove.  And I cried.  And I listened to Ani DiFranco.

I thought about how I never listen to music anymore.  Since living in New Orleans, I have become an avid talk radio listener.  It started with the New Orleans station WRBH, Radio for the  Blind and Print Handicap.  They would read books on air, as well as magazine articles, but my favorite was the show on which they read the drugstore ads.  Literally.  It was hilarious.

The best show was on a day when a little old lady was reading the Rite Aid ads and said, "Let's see, you can get 300 count Vitamin C for...  let me see...  oh, shoot, I can't read that small print.  Just go in and tell them you want the Vitamin C deal."  The irony was so sweet, I can't even tell you.  I just wanted to kiss her.

Nevertheless, it hooked me on talk radio.  Now I listen to shows like Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh.  They are on when I am in the car during the day, so they are my guys.  I don't always agree with their politics, but I am never disappointed in the discussion.  I welcome the questions they force me to consider.

Ani DiFranco is a master at that.  She does not disguise her politics and pleads for you to open your eyes.  She makes me face social problems I might otherwise not consider.  She invites me to question my beliefs.

Glenn Beck and Rush Limbaugh might be two of the most conservative voices in the media today.

Ani DiFranco might be one of the most liberal voices in the greater media today.

They share my ear equally.

They propel my voice equally.

And their opinions could not be more disparate.

“The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.” 
F. Scott Fitzgerald

I see the discussions in my comments sections regarding politics.  You ask each other, "Is it possible to be socially liberal and fiscally conservative?"  "Are not conservativism and liberalism mutually exclusive?"  "How can you straddle this fence?"

These questions can easily apply well beyond the political boundaries.

When I posted the photo of my shoes in Summer Shoe Choices:  I Am a Punk Rock Florida Retiree, I wasn't really asking you what shoes I should wear to San Francisco.  I was sharing with you the dichotomy that is me.  That is all of us.

We are so much more than labels.  We are so much more than conservatives and liberals, Rebublicans and Democrats, mothers and wives, bloggers and writers, consumers and marketers.

So I listen to Glenn Beck with ears wide open.  And I savor the moments when I listen to Ani DiFranco, as I feel her words physically enter my heart.

"I use my dress to wipe up my drink.  I care less and less what people think." 

Ani DiFranco, Dilate

I drove along the beach as evening turned to night, and I watched the wind blow thin streams of sand across the road.  My headlights illuminated the sand as though it was fog.  I was driving through time itself. 

I drove along the waterline of Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, and I experienced all that is splendor and desolation.  Two years after Hurricane Katrina and one lot will be filled to the property lines with a magnificent reproduction of a Southern plantation home while the next lot will hold a FEMA trailer with a spray-painted plywood sign near the road that reads, "AllState and State Farm:  The Axis of Evil."

This is not my political statement.  This is not about that. 

This is about the complex labyrinth that is us.

And sometimes it makes me feel as though I am split down the middle.

Sometimes it makes me cry.

Sometimes it makes me rejoice.

Today it makes me reach out.  For no reason other than because I can.

*********

Related Posts:
Glenn Beck's Responsibility Bead-Down.  I'm In.
Who's Afraid of the Queen of Spain?
Camille Was a Lady.  Katrina Was a Bitch.

...........................

New Here?  Subscribe to Velveteen Mind or have it delivered via email.

Please share this post on or so others can find us, too.

Want to share on Twitter?  Here's the Tiny URL for this post:  http://tinyurl.com/5yb3f5

Follow me on Twitter! and

What do you have on *your* plate?

I received no less than three emails today from unrelated people saying more or less the same thing:

"You know the [fill in the name of project here] we discussed?  We need to move forward on that soon.  Hello?"

Look people, in case you haven't caught on, yet, I will say "yes" to anything.  Want me to write for your site?  Sure, send me the access code!  Want me to help you redesign your blog even though I have no design skills?  Absolutely, let's brainstorm!  Want me to give birth to your baby?  No problem, I shoot 'em out like a bazooka.

Okay, I'm actually a little more picky than that, but you get the idea.

Inevitably, however, some things slip through the cracks.  Conference calls, for instance.  Um, could you all just call me?  Yeah, the entire conference.  You call me as a group.  No?  That's not the way it works?  Humpf.

Wait, you wanted that contract signed?  I still haven't unpacked my printer.  Could you just sort of forge my signature?  This email can serve as my permission for you to do so.  What?  Legal who?  Grrrrr.

Who is supposed to pay taxes again?  I think I paid those last year.  What?  Every year?  Um, let me get back to you on that one.

What do you mean you haven't eaten lunch today?  Didn't your 20 month old brother prepare a nutritious meal for you from the one cabinet he can reach?  What?  It only had an empty box of cereal in it and an old cereal bar wrapper?  Didn't you go grocery shopping, my dear sweet 3 year old?  What exactly do you think that tricycle is for, kid?

Maybe I am exaggerating a bit.  But that's how it feels sometimes.

...Good God... (rereading this post so far...)

I think I've just written a textbook mommyblog post.

I am Mommyblogger.  Hear me snore!

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

A post about overextending myself.  Huh.  That's original.

Did I mention I've only been sleeping three hours a night?  Not for lack of trying, either.  And I was actually entertaining the idea of having a third child.  I am one cah-ray-zee lady.

So, consider this my open letter to all of you to whom I have made promises since signing back online in March.  I have received your emails.  I have received your calls.  I have received your contracts.  I have received your psychic messages wishing me focus and drive and the ability to follow-through.  I hear you.

I'm on it.  And I really do mean that.  I meant it when I said I wanted to [fill in whatever it is that I said I wanted to do].  I've just gotten a little distracted. 

But now?  I'm on it.

Right after I take a nap.
Love,
Megan

PS-- This whole over-extending ourselves thing?  That is precisely why I have begun the launch of Blog Nosh Magazine.  I want to reward all of us for keeping something of value on our own blogs.   Even if that means writing something brilliant that only your audience of 20 will read.

That's where Blog Nosh Magazine will come in.  Make it good.  Make it solid.  Make it for yourself.  We'll help you find the audience.  Just do it for you, first and foremost.

That's why I overextend myself.  At the end of the day, I get something of great value out of every single project to which I commit, even if that something is helping others. 

It is just that today was one of those really long days.

And I could have sworn it was Friday.

...........................

Please share this post on or so others can find us, too.

New Here?  Subscribe to Velveteen Mind or have it delivered via email.

Follow me on Twitter! and