My eyes were on the tiny feet of the 15-month-old as she toddled up the gigantic steps to the even bigger slide. Her long bangs were done up and stuck right on top of her head like a real life Pebbles and I was just as terrified as she was to face the play equipment. It’s been a long time since I was in charge of someone this tiny. So long that I sometimes think I’ll forget what I’m doing. Will she choke on this piece of bread? No, of course not! It’s the size of a pea. But will she really?

She didn’t.

I knew my ten-year-old and a five-year-old were at the playground too, but my back was to them. And just like being the middle child in a family, I turned around to find the five-year-old howling and running at me with a deep gash and bloody finger. She wanted to go faster on the bouncy thing and after my daughter obliged, they both figured out that she was too little and the other one should have known better and now we were hurrying back to the house with a Casualty of the Playground.

As we walked and tried to figure out how a tooth goes into a finger, my daughter began to cry.

“Why are you crying?”

That’s what I told my friend about the question I asked my own daughter. She wasn’t the one in pain, terrified of blood, and a good five minutes away from a Band-Aid.

“She’s always been like that; feeling other people’s pain. It’s a great quality to have if you think about it.”

This is why I keep the bestie around: perspective.

Empathy makes us vulnerable because in order to get there we must place ourselves deep within our own emotions of despair and joy, experience and distance. Empathy is a gift if you have it and I believe most of us do, but it’s not loud and brash like righteousness which turns the worst of us into a mistaken majority.

Today I read about the mass shooting of 19 people (including two children) during a Mother’s Day parade in New Orleans. Packed inside that story is the one about 10-year-old Ka’Nard Allen. Yes, Ka’Nard’s cheek was grazed by a bullet during the parade, but he’s also experienced a tremendous amount of loss — violent loss — within the past year: his 5-year-old cousin was shot and killed at his birthday party and his father was stabbed to death by his stepmother.

Where is the outrage?

Not because there is a gun or children or multiple victims. Sadly that is also outrageous, but we have accepted that mass shootings like the one in New Orleans don’t shut down cities or get the label “domestic terrorism” or have Brian Williams breaking in to update us during The Price is Right. It’s morally corrupt that folks are not given the opportunity for empathy with poor, brown folks because they are not, in fact, well-off white folks because the media chooses who and what type of victims deserve what type of coverage.

That is a simple, surface assessment of race and class relations, and while I’m at it, violence, but I don’t have the depth to continue unpacking and theorizing why so much of what we read and view is only surface deep and rarely includes talk of urban violence. Words matter, stories matter and poor folks matter just like well-off folks who talk a certain way, but don’t get auto-tuned into a caricature of the hilarious black neighbor (who also happens to, I dunno, be right).

I cared deeply about the people who suffered through Hurricane Katrina: the fifth anniversary was one of the first posts I wrote here. I put myself in the shoes of the women I saw with babies on their hips, tears mixing with sweat, as they pleaded for help despite my suburban location, white skin and college degree. At the time, I had a two-year-old and I would have had no place to go and no money to get out if a hurricane was projected over Philadelphia. I have read, viewed and sought out information about why this country reacted so cruelly over the years and the answers are a clusterfuck of painful truths about “isms” and ineptitude and the collision of our secrets. Everything that’s wrong with this country — with us — can find a place, a meaning, a story in Katrina – essentially in New Orleans.

And in the way we cry when people we don’t know hurt.

[Times-Picayune]

To be honest, I am not thrilled at all that my blog could quite possibly be known for two things: douche and vibrators. And to be even more honest, I’m tired as holy hell of looking at that douchey picture. I have other things going on and far more important issues to write about.

But I did care enough to write about it and this is why.

Here’s the thing about me: how I am here is exactly how I am in really, real life. Which is to say I stand up to and for things. I take unpopular positions if I want to because I can. I’m not interested in popularity or pageviews or likes or follows or branding or, my god, whatever I’m supposed to care about, but really don’t. And that scares the shit out of people because I really do mean it.

Is it frustrating when you believe in something you write and a few people read it? Of course. But then you try again because the ultimate goal is that your writing connects and makes someone feel something: empathy, anger, joy, pain, love. But the goal is a feeling, not a follow. And hopefully I am consistent enough that a reader comes back and I am grateful every time they do.

If I’m writing the way I want for a certain post or piece, you’ll forget I’m even involved because your own experience will be front and center.

But for Disney that wasn’t the case. I wrote about the picture because I have no connection to Disney, but the person who sent me the link sure did: a job with the brand.  Calling attention to the picture by sharing or writing about it would have been, judging by the crazy that ensued, insane. I wrote about it because I agreed it was in bad taste and offensive. Plus, I didn’t have anything to lose.

And it was a good thing that I didn’t because the first question I was asked on the phone with a rep from Disney was: “Have you ever worked with Disney?” Which I can only imagine was probably going somewhere threatening if I answered in the affirmative. Nice try, though. Good thing we had that one covered. 

But the ultimate truth is I do not write about polite things. If someone came here for unicorns, rainbows and fairy tales, well, that’s not my bag. Mainly because only one of them exists. I like Disney — especially when Steve Jobs saved them from being irrelevant — and one day I’ll take my kid there, but I’m not going corporate or getting on my knees or playing nice to get there. Being nice is overrated and speaking up isn’t being mean. It’s unpopular.

There is a difference.

And for more on what happens when women speak up for things they believe in, you can read this.

photo credit: Express Monorail

Well I didn’t see that coming. Here are 10 Things to Do During an Internet Shitstorm that may or may not help you in the future and how I handled it.

Sleep
Preferably for as long as possible and far away from your phone because you can’t figure out how the hell to turn off Pitchfork Mob Notifications.

Text Incessantly and Only Through Group Message
Get in trouble for group texting. Decide everything is pretty much exactly like high school. Find yearbook with a conveniently placed noose next to it.

When in Doubt, Fuck it Out
Self explanatory.

Remember When Limp Bizkit Ruled TRL and the Douchiness of Fred Durst
Contemplate why anyone would grab a cookie in that moment.

Based off of Shitiness of Bizkit, Create Equally Shitty DJ Names for the Whole Family

• DJ Direct Deposit
• DJ Cheeseboig
• DJ Snack Time

Laugh Ass Off Over Panic Attacks

And punching a nun.

Find Cool Shit on the Internet

Like The Walking Dead looks exactly like Toy Story.

Visit GOMI for strength
After Internet Shitstorm, it looks like Elmo compared to Pennywise. And, shockingly, a voice of reason.

Realize There’s Only One Rule for How to Avoid an Internet Crisis

Basically: don’t put dumb shit online or someone will make your life hell.

Find Tit Zit

By far, way worse than Internet Shitstorm.

It’s been a hard week for women that blog.

Earlier this week, The Wall Street Journal took it upon themselves to not only lump in all women that write online as mom bloggers (they all have a uterus right?), but to label the conferences and business trips that women bloggers go on as the “Mommy Business Trip.” The type of trip stay-at-home moms book just so they can get the hell out of dodge and, finally, leave their children and partners behind. Otherwise, you can find them cleaning, cooking and generally slowly dying of the Feminist Mystique.

Katherine Stone, a friend, ultimate professional and the voice behind Postpartum Progress, felt compelled to apologize for the way she was portrayed and, by extension, all parents that blog. I can understand Katherine wanting to write something, but obviously it’s the Journal that should be apologizing for continuing the myth that women’s work should be done for free and with a smile. And, subsequently, that whenever women invest in themselves and their work, it’s either financed by their husbands (who really work) or should be taken as seriously as knitting; a fun arts and crafts diversion to make it through the hell of everyday.

And then I met Marshall Weinbaum.

I didn’t really meet him as opposed to find his Facebook page with mom bloggers on their knees, grabbing for his, uh, attention.

Marshall Weinbaum is a publicist for Disney.

That’s right. He’s the guy that selects which mom bloggers attend what Disney and Dreamworks movie screening and, as one blogger told me, “the guy you go to if you want to work with Disney.”

He’s also a raging douchebag.

Let’s give Marshall the benefit of the doubt for a milisecond. Maybe he uploaded the picture above to his personal Facebook page in jest. Maybe he was trying to be an ol’ fuddy duddy with the women he knows DAMN RIGHT WELL look to him as the gatekeeper to one of the largest brands — if not the largest — in the world. Maybe they’re all good friends and it was a raucous good time and OMG what will his mom think when he sends the picture over to her with four women at the ready and on their knees?

Because even if he was sending this picture to his mom, the sexual overtones and dominance over women are there and I would, if I was his mother, throw a shit fit and question why I raised a boy that turned into a raging sexist man who needs a gigantic clue.

Updates to this post

Original image with Marshall’s caption found here.
Marshall et al. insist the picture uploaded to Facebook was a “spoof” of National Lampoon’s Vacation poster. Image here.
AdWeek story.
Jezebel story.
This is what I have to say about “doctored images.”

Don’t look for the “elite” of blogging parents to be outraged by Marshall and his bevy of mom bloggers.

Why?

Because they either work, write or have been voted Top Something or Other by Babble; the online magazine for a new generation of parents. And, if you’re a blogging mom, chances are you have done almost everything except get on your knees and take a picture with a Disney publicist to be invited to the Disney Social Media Moms Conference.

Or maybe you have.

Well played, Disney. Well played. I didn’t realize you really kinda, sorta, in one way or another bought the vast majority of parents online.

Look, I do have a sense of humor. Last week, at a conference no less, I was in the “MILF van.” I was, however, among equals and friends and it was before we got down to the hard work of how to grow our businesses and writing careers. There was no brand representation in that van or a guy that thought so little of the work that we do that he thought: “You know what would be funny, get on your knees ladies.”

So no, thank you, I’ll buy my own damn ticket. And write elsewhere.

You can reach out to Marshall “great to work with” Weinbaum at Disney where he’s the publicist for Digital Marketing and Publicity:

500 S. Buena Vista St., ROD 208A
Burbank, CA 91521-1394
Office: 818-560-6367
Marshall.Weinbaum@disney.com

Make sure your about eye level with his crotch before you do it. Remember we’re givers who like to work for free.

apple credit
orange credit

 I was scanning stories to write about today and I came across this one about Alice Jackson, a British woman who suffered from anorexia but is now competing in the Curvy Kate lingerie contest. At almost six feet tall, she used to only eat lettuce and run two miles a day and dropped down to a deathly 108 pounds. She sought treatment in Britain and is now a healthy 150+ pounds and is considered plus-size.

What in the bloody hell? How is that considered plus size as opposed to regular size I will never know, but good for her.

I took it upon myself to watch the Curvy Kate You Tube video where all the girls who are compete basically jump around, pose and look hot as hell while doing it.

And I was all: now this is sooo refreshing. Like when I take the first sip of my fountain bev refreshing.

I would never considered these girls fat. Ever. Here is what the Victoria Secret Angels look like by comparison:

There is something fucking wrong — actually there is a lot wrong — with this picture. Mainly that: 1% of the population looks like the Angels and 95% of women are, generally, trying to look like this. And it ain’t gonna happen. First women should love themselves, but today I had the chance to ask guys (I know that more then guys love women, but for the sake of being hetero I’m going to run with it) and none of the 25 guys even remotely came close to describing an Angel as their ideal woman. In fact, they used words like humor, strength, tenacious, ambitious, best friend and then, of course, boobs. I did not have an ass man.

I’m not writing anything revolutionary here, but a few weeks ago I had a friend have a mini breakdown on why she can’t look in the mirror. Those four chicks up there and the company represent and many, many other factors go into why regular women can not look at themselves from the waste down and it’s fucking ridiculous. Especially when semi-big girls look so hot when they do it.

photo credit: Curvy Kate

This weekend I went to a one-day intensive blogging conference in Philadelphia. Like most conferences, I met amazing people, participated in inspiring sessions about blogging and then realized I’m completely fucked.

For you non-blogging folks: feel free to read another post of mine because it’s about to get all State of Blogging up in here. How about that time I wrote about naked house cleaning

Maybe this is a community specific problem or maybe it’s a blogging problem, but here is the take away from the sessions I picked to attend — which I might add had rock star presenters who were not the issue — whatever session you’re in and whatever it’s about, if you’re not currently doing whatever the presenter is evangelizing, you’re fucked.

WHAT! You’re not pinning?! It drives traffic, motherfucker!

WHAT?! You’re not email campaigning?! Everyone’s doing it. 

WHAT?! You’re not using video?! Don’t you know it’s the second largest search engine.

WHAT?! You’re not shoveling products? Gotta get paid, yo. 

I’m not naming the conference here because I do not want the fine folks and organizers of a genuinely great conference roped into my crazy because they are not the issue. The issue, I think, may be the community. A community that is trying too hard to be good at everything that it — for the sake of being general — becomes best at fluff. And selling products.

Which is not my bag.

Nor is pinning. Or crafts. Maybe video. And probably not photography.

Sitting in to hear a speaker basically tell a packed room that “no one has time to read,” was heart wrenching. I’m not a historian, but I’m pretty sure writing has always been powerful. Perhaps people don’t have time to read shitty writing. Has anyone ever stopped to consider that? Quite possibly the “death” of commenting is because a whole lot of folks are selling rather saying. Or sharing. When was the last time you got really fucking stoked about yogurt? When you thought: you know what this moment needs right now? YOGURT!

Probably never. Because it’s yogurt. And not the Pinkberry kind or frozen stuff because that is something to get excited about. I mean the kind that comes in a plastic cup with nasty fruit at the bottom, maybe in a glorified plastic straw with pictures of Spongebob.

Telling stories is powerful in a way that watching a video is not. And, quite frankly, I do not want my writing to have to compete for time with a mother that is trying to make dinner while the children set the house on fire. I want your full attention. When I read your writing, you have mine, so read my shit after the flames. Feel free to read at any time if you completely ignore your children.

We are not more or less busy then folks throughout history. Let’s stop patting ourselves on the back for thinking we’re exceptional because a lot of us live digital lives. And, by extension, think we need to become the face of a product to “make it.”

Whatever “making it” looks like to the person who is trying. It would be more than refreshing if someone stood among a group of women and said YOU are what matters. It’s the only truly exceptional thing you have going for you.

Plus, writing still matters.

Rahtaeh via family photo

I just came across the horrific news of the attempted suicide and subsequent death of Rehtaeh Parsons; a 15-year-old girl that was allegedly raped by four teen boys who then shared photos (a la Steubenville) to classmates. I’ll let Rehtaeh’s mother explain as she did from a post on “Rae’s” Facebook memorial page:

The person Rehtaeh once was all changed one dreaded night in November 2011. She went with a friend to another’s home. In that home she was raped by four young boys…one of those boys took a photo of her being raped and decided it would be fun to distribute the photo to everyone in Rehtaeh’s school and community where it quickly went viral. Because the boys already had a “slut” story, the victim of the rape Rehtaeh was considered a SLUT. This day changed the lives of our family forever.

She continues:

Rehtaeh was suddenly shunned by almost everyone she knew, the harassment was so bad she had to move out of her own community to try to start anew in Halifax. She struggled emotionally with depression and anger .Her thoughts of suicide began and fearing for her life, she placed herself in a hospital in an attempt to get help. She stayed there for almost 6weeks. The bullying continued, her friends were not supportive. She needed a friend and eventually along the way a few new friends came along and a few old friends came forward.

This is tragic. There are no words for what happened to Rehtaeh or Jane Doe or the countless other girls who have been raped. It will continue as the day is long until we teach boys that girls are not to be conquered. I am about to reference Kim Kardashian here and she too deserves more than this. Her former boyfriend, the one from the sex tape, just released the song “I Hit It First”:

 Hit it from north, brought her head down south, now that I’m finished, she’s on to Mr West .

Disgusting.

I use Kardashian here purposely. Because, by in large, a whole lot of folks will suggest that she “deserves” to be talked about like this and conquered. That she’s “slutty” and currently pregnant by one man while still technically married to another will be used as ammunition for her slut credentials.

And I say: this is a perfect example of how rape culture begins. With “she deserved it.”

Because no women, I don’t care about many baby daddies, sex tapes, or partners or how short the skirt or what.the.fuck.ever, NO GIRL OR WOMAN DESERVES RAPE. Or, to be talked about as something to “hit.” When we turn a blind eye to, say, Kardashian, it’s acquiescence and then we’re completely aghast that our culture produces boy rapists. And that young, 15-year-old girls commit suicide because they were raped and slut-shamed.

Remember: as the day is long…

Here are my Friday Faves on Tuesday. Because it’s better late than never and I’m sure you were expecting nothing less from me. I mean, it’s ME folks.

A “loopsie” is what happens when two lesbians get accidentally pregnant.

Alabama gives abortion the ol’ heave-ho. Well, they’re trying to anyway. Assholes.

Mommy blogging IS a political act.

The NY Times dedicates an entire pullout section to women on Wall Street and it’s surprisingly un-Sandberg. Thank the Heavens for that.

I hope Liz Cheney keeps writing like a stark-raving lunatic. Seriously I do. I hope she continues to preach to the die-hards. It only means they’ll keep losing elections. Say Hi to Poppa Vader for us.

Even Marilyn Monroe hated looking at pictures of herself [NSFW].

When women get ugly with each other on the Interwebz.

The formerly middle class folks who now live in hotels.

Where I realize, holy shit, I’m a teen mom repeat offender. Please someone make this tee and send it to me.

And the lovely Sandra wrote 10 Awesome Things for Gay Parents in Philly.

I spent the last two days in Philly. On Friday night, I took the Kid down to the Titanic exhibit at the Franklin Institute and then today we strolled and did the playground thing on South Street. Both are iconic Philadelphia and for almost six months I have been confined to the suburbs and this house. I can now confirm to you that I will never kill myself. Because if there ever was a reason to grab the ol’ noose I leave around for those just in case moments every day of the past six months has been beyond noose worthy. Considering that I’m still here, I’m certain I can live through anything.

Even torture.

Like intentionally blaring “Call Me Maybe.”

We may head back down to the City tomorrow (three times in three days) to, finally, see the most spectacular post-impressionist paintings in the world at the Barnes Foundation. The Kid is an arteest and I want her to be inspired before we leave. Yes they have art in Atlanta, but not the Barnes Foundation or the Mural Arts Program or PAFA or Fleischer… I could keep going.

They do have the High Museum (their site is maddening).

As I sat at the playground with a friend, we stared talking about the baby boom that’s happened in Philadelphia over the past five years. Families that would have otherwise fled the city in search of better schools have yet to flee. But, it’s important to note, that most of the kids are not of elementary school age. As I looked around, I felt a longing to stay here.

Goddamn it.

I looked at my friend — as we discussed what these people do as their jobs and how they can afford the ridiculously overpriced rents and private school tuition or all day camp outs for the five public schools in Philly that aren’t a war zone and I told her:

I have to go.

And she said: I know. Maybe you’ll find your heart in Atlanta.

Which is so very true. I see signs everywhere now. Well, I have been seeing them for weeks, but I’m telling you now. I can’t go one day without Atlanta popping out at me: random HGTV shows about buying houses in Atlanta, Mail Chimp (my go-to email service provider) is in Atlanta, an Atlanta DJ followed Philly Kids Thing on Twitter.

The signs are so incredibly blatant that I really see them. There were massive signs that Slasher and I were on the rocks, but I never stopped to look around and connect until he walked out. The world or the power or the force knows that I am massively blind so without a beat over the head, I will talk myself out of leaving. I need daily reminders and I am getting them.

From all directions.

I am leaving in three months.

photo credit: Devlin Thompson

Last week I gorged on the last half of Season Three in an epic, late-night marathon. I did this to make sure that when the season was strung together without break, it would hold up to the first two. I watched Season One and Season Two this way and it’s how I became a huge fan. Slasher watched by-the-episode and he said Season One was unbelievable because the CDC was a ticking time bomb without any kind of resolution. By comparison, I breezed to the Season Two opener 30 seconds later and found out the gang made it out of the CDC. Slasher had to wait six months to find that out.

——

As a whole, here’s what happened in Season 3: they find the prison, Laurie gives birth and dies, Karl and Daryl are the best shot, Merle resurfaces, T-Dog dies, Woodbury and the Governor emerge, Hershel gets bit and loses a leg, Tyrese arrives, prisoners die, Merle and Andrea die. Rick takes a few phone calls, Governor tortures and kills everyone. But Martinez. More people arrive at the prison.

In short: a lot of people die and none of them are the Governor.

Motherfucker.

I had high hopes for the Season 3 finale — especially after they made me care about Merle and ponder if he, in fact, was redeemed in the end. But all I can think is: why?

Why

• Does no one shoot the Governor — especially Martinez — after he slaughters everyone?
• Does Rick take everyone back to the prison when staying at Woodbury makes more sense (and after I was told that in the comic, they essentially do take over a Woodbury-esque place).
• Did Andrea go down too easy? She was a tough chick and, to pull a quote from Slasher, was basically bit by the equivalent of Ned Flanders?

I really thought that this battle was going to be a Voldemort vs. Potter or Gandolf vs. whoever the hell in Lord of the Rings, but obviously with less people. The Season 3 close was the crescendo that wasn’t.

Even Glen and Maggie were all: that’s it?

And I was all: Iknowright.