Now We're Talking

Last Friday, I wrote a post about Judith Warner's latest Domestic Disturbances piece wherein Warner provocatively posits that there is a dangerous resentment toward affluent and educated women brewing in our contemporary society. Though her words sparked a storm of criticism among many readers, those same words struck something in me. I was moved to do something I am actually very bad at doing -- to write a thank you note. To be honest, the note wrote itself. I just sat there, rattled, impassioned, pounding the keyboard. And when I posted said note on the NYT and then later on here on ILI, I felt a familiar breed of nausea. Immediately, I worried that I had gone too far, said something it was not my place to say. That perhaps I should have just ingested Warner's words, mulled them over, and then moved on.

The temporary existential unease, the fleeting fire of regret, was well worth it. Within hours of posting my thoughts on the matter, I had a few comments from fellow bloggers who applauded me for saying something, for starting - or rather continuing - an important and necessary conversation. And then yesterday, these compatriots continued the discussion, each on her own blog.

Lindsey of A Design So Vast bemoans our inclination to judge others based on appearance, on external qualities. She writes, "It is impossible to know, from how someone looks on the surface, what is going on inside his or her heart. I have learned enough in my life to know that with absolute certainty." And she is on to something, isn't she? Because this is what affluence and education are - superficial, surface markers of an individual that often reflect poorly what is going on internally. Thankfully, Lindsey is another curious soul who refuses to remain quiet because of her arguably fortunate life. She states, "I will not be muzzled; I believe there is too much to be gained by telling our stories, whoever we are and whatever formal education we have."

Lindsey's classmate Mama of The Elmo Wallpaper highlights an interesting and overlooked feature of the Montana mom saga, namely that this woman was so overwhelmed that her judgment was possibly compromised. Being overwhelmed, stretched thin, drained are phenomena to which all of us mothers can surely relate, regardless of pedigree or paycheck. Mama makes a number of stellar points, her arguments rooted in her own experience as "one damn lucky woman" and concludes, "An education or a privileged background doesn't guarantee us anything, and everyone has a story to tell."

I want to thank these two women, these Cheerio Compatriots, whom I've never met in real life. Yes, because they linked to me. But more because they are keeping this conversation, this fundamentally important, albeit incendiary, conversation, going. Because they are telling their stories. Yesterday was a good day; I read their words, their ideas, and through the screen their conviction was pure and palpable. I felt a surge of old school academic adrenaline and nodded and said to myself, Now we're talking.

Let's not stop now.

Back to "Business"

I planned on penning a provocative post about Sarah Palin or the conundrum of celebrity death, but those can wait. I planned on waiting until this evening to post because I am back to "business," hard at work finalizing edits for BLACKBERRY GIRL and I need to put that first until it is completed. But I can't wait until later.

I am sad. Nanny just texted me and said that the girls had a blast at the playground and that Toddler is soaked because she ran through the sprinkler. And as I read this text, I smiled. And pictured rosy cheeks and soaked ringlets. Cheeks and ringlets I've seen 24/7 for two weeks straight. Because as exhausting as "vacation" was, I was with my girls at every moment (except for when Grammy and Dad-Dad generously watched the babes while Husband and I slept in). And I got used to this. And even though I saw my girls a few hours ago, I miss them. And, yes, I'm being a bit melodramatic because we will reunite a few hours from now for music class. But this is about something bigger.

Maybe I should only work before 7am and after 7pm and during nap-time? Maybe I should put off career ambitions until the girls are in school? Maybe I should be soaking up this fleeting time with them? Maybe my priorities are off-kilter?

I know. I know. Tomorrow, I will probably feel better about things. I will realize that it is in fact possible to be a mother-plus. But right now, I am on the verge of tears about a missed trip to the playground. Right now, frolicking in the sun and sprinklers with my little girls seems to be the most important thing in the world. Far more important than blogs and books.

When will this get easier? Will it? Can "business" and babies truly coexist?

Beach Brain

If you were gracious (or bored) enough to read my recent "vacation" vents, you’d think I’d vow to stay put at home for a while. It would be the sensible thing to do. But no. I try not to be sensible too often. It bores me.

Last night, Husband and I piled our little jet setters (and enough luggage/gear/potty paraphernalia for six months) into a sparky rental car to drive to Cape Cod to visit Husband’s extended family. The drive was mostly smooth, the girls mostly slept, and we made good time. We scarfed soggy sandwiches and chewed gummy worms and in an old school (and utterly futile) move, I swigged a Diet Mountain Dew to stay awake. Around one in the morning, we tiptoed into the home where we’re staying and tossed the girls into foreign cribs. Obediently, like the awesome, well-raised kids they are, they settled in and snoozed. Five hours later, Husband and I woke up to a swell of saccharine baby screeches and damp beach air. Exhausted, yes. Drained, absolutely. Happy, you bet.

I will try to keep the vacation play-by-play to a minimum because writing about the indulgent details of my "adventures" is beginning to bore even me. But I wanted you to know that I’m here and not there (although in cyber-territory, it doesn’t much matter) so that you will forgive me if I say something flip-floppy, offensive, or just deeply blonde.

Apologies in advance for the beach brain.

Dear Danielle LaPorte

Dear Danielle (White Hot Truth teller),

Thank you. For listening to me ramble. For encouraging this riled-up rookie about the possibilities that are endless as long as you dare to dream. For introducing me to two brilliant women Gretchen Rubin and Kelly Hoey, with whom I hope to spend time and trade ideas going forward.

For too long, I thought women were essentially catty creatures because I was one of them. But now, I realize that there is true camaraderie to be enjoyed and support to be gained.

Your words inspire and enlighten. Your dreadlocks remind us that you are not business as usual. Your website is a constant source of nourishment for the soul, that enigmatic item too many of us sell, or ignore, or forget.

I can't wait for your next book. Please come start some metaphorical fires here in NYC!

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

Dear Anonymous D

Dear Anonymous D,

I'm sure many ILI readers read your comments and think we are friends. They would probably be shocked to know that you stumbled upon my blog randomly. But I am thrilled you have.

This is the beauty of the Internet. The rueful randomness. The fact that two total strangers can bump into each other in invisible terrain. The fact that with the stroke of a key, words and ideas and emotions and confessions can travel from here to there. And from there to here.

We share Kyle and a passion for our kids. We are both experimenting with a new and delightful drug: honesty.

In my darker hours when I wonder why I am doing this, why I am blogging, why I am putting myself out there, I think of you. A person, a successful and good person it seems, who has taken time out of her busy days to read what I have to say. And to say something back. And when I think of this, I realize that it is all worth it. Very worth it.

Thank you for your web friendship. What do you say we talk life and law over a glass of wine one of these days?

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

Insecurely Yours

"Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company." - Lord Byron.

Dear ILI readers,

As you read this, I am likely doing any of the following things:

1. Sitting in the backseat of a taxi en route to LaGuardia Airport sandwiched between two carseats holding two girls who are thisclose to vomiting.

2. Bent over a filthy airport changing station, removing vomit-soaked clothes from my girls.

3. Sitting on an airplane praying that we take off on time, that there are no lurking ear infections waiting to spring to maturity, that our plane is not defective, and that our fellow passengers like screeching (and vomit).

4. Sitting in a rental car between two vomit-crusted carseats filled with two vomit-crusted kids with brand new ear infections.

The point? I'm going away. To Wisconsin. The magical middle of nowhere. To fly-fish and spend time with family. Yes, this is the ideal destination for a rookie blogger with two tiny tots; a place with no air conditioning, no Dora, no Internet access.

I'm not going to lie. This last fact (no web access) troubles me because I have just started this blog and I love it and I haven't missed a day (a sad, sad sign of obsession or perfectionism - take your pick) and I don't want to miss a day. So what should I do?

First, research. Per the blogging experts out there, it seems I have a bevy of options: to give you guys a vacation from reading my blog, to post ahead of time, to sign up a guest blogger.

And since I do not like the idea of having gaping holes in my blogging, I won't. There will be something here each and every day for you to read. But what should I write about? I gave it some thought and I had an idea: I will let you guys read my letters. Because in this modern age of email and social media and linking, letter-writing is a dying art. So sad. So I will not let it die. No, this letter will be the first in a series of letters - to people and creatures and inanimate objects. You'll just have to wait and see.

And, no, these letters won't look like the beautiful antique letter above. They won't be quaint and coffee-stained. They won't be handwritten. They will be typed and sent over the web. Not very old-fashioned, I know. There will be no ecru envelopes or licked stamps or mailboxes or mailmen involved in this equation.

But there will be words. Words that are true whether they are written now or later, in real-time or ahead of time. And that is something.

This is a good plan because letters are timeless. This is a good plan because I need to take a break once in a while. This is a good plan because there is something wrong about blogging from a rustic hideaway overrun by deer and trout and ticks.

I hope you like my letters. One of them might even be to one of you.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

How Many Friends Do You Have?

This isn't an easy question to answer these days. Because (too) many of us have Facebook friends and Twitter followers and then, if we are lucky, some "real" friends. You know - the living and breathing kind who smile and sob and tell stories and sip coffee. The best kind.

The NYT Idea of the Day blog explores the evolving meaning of friendship in this contemporary landscape of social media madness in its piece What Do Friends Mean? The Week in Review staff maintains that the concurrent rise of social media and decline of the economy has prompted us to ponder the shifting psychological, social, and economic faces of human friendship. And, according to the NYT, what does this inquiry leave us with? Confusion.

Confusion is right. Online networking is complicating what was once a more simple, old school process of making friendships and then maintaining them. Furthermore, many of us are admittedly using Facebook and Twitter and other social media tools for professional purposes - whether to blast our authorial voice into the world or to hawk a product or a website. Are the people we encounter while joining in this cyber-conversation true friends or fellow pawns in a big bad game of self-promotion? Both, I imagine.

Furthermore, the NYT piece suggests something alarming and sad; that the current recession is ruining true real-world friendships. Slate author Emily Bazelon states, “Because of the downturn, friendships between two people whose Saturday-night spending and overall class status used to calibrate precisely have now turned into trickier relationships between one person who still has money and one person who doesn’t.” A troubling statistic? Per the NYT, Science Daily data indicates that we lose about half of our close network members every seven years. Cheerio.

How do you define friendship these days? Has the current economic climate compromised any of your good friendships? Has your adoption of online friends and followers had an impact on your relationships with your real world friends?

Humbling Hearsay

Yes, I was multi-tasking.  Baby was cradled in my left arm, chewing on a very safe key-chain-thing.  On my right, trusty Laptop was open, feeding me that nutritious morning mix of news and Facebook updates and tweets (yes, I joined! follow me!). Husband was in the kitchen feeding Toddler her equally balanced meal of chocolate milk and peanut butter.  

Well, apparently, Toddler came into the living room to tell me something or show me something or just say hi.  I don't know because I neither saw her nor heard her.

Well, she returned to Husband and reported (and remember this is hearsay-via-Husband):

Daddy, Daddy! Mommy is soooo busy.  She can't hear me!

When Husband told me this, I snapped Laptop shut and got defensive.  She did not come to talk to me. Right? Right? 

Wrong.

Then, presumably to make me feel like an even more delinquent mom, Toddler took Husband to play in her room. Amidst the towers of toys, she found her own toy laptop. She popped a squat on the carpet and pried open the plastic, held up her little hand, and said to Husband:

Daddy, I'm very busy on my puter.  I can't talk to you now!

Great.  Not only am I setting an excellent example, but I am instilling lovely anti-social behavior in my little girl.

But then, in the trademark and torturing throes of doubt and insecurity and guilt, I felt a fierce flash of optimism and then partook in a very un-me moment of looking on the bright side. Sure, zoning out one's progeny is not exactly commendable behavior, but it is my ability to zone out and focus that allows me to write. When I am in "the zone" it doesn't matter whether there is music playing or cars honking or dogs fighting (or, apparently, a Toddler talking). And I am a mom and a writer.  And sometimes motherhood and career might clash.  Like, say, on a random Thursday morning. Right? Right?

And then something else made me smile: I imagined sassy little Toddler becoming the world's first baby blogger. Sitting behind her melon-colored computer, brow furrowed with Mom-like concentration, sharing her pint-sized stories about toilet training and tumbling at the playground.  Oh, and being ignored by Mom.

So Far So Good

Just back from putting Baby down for her first nap and it seems Toddler couldn't decide which Pooh DVD she wanted to view because she shoved both into my laptop causing it to "suffer an error the DVD player cannot recover from."  (Or, more correctly, an error from which it cannot recover.)  And though I am hardly Handy Mommy, I have managed to save the day and nurse the suffering laptop/DVD back to life.  So now that Baby is snoozing and Laptop is breathing and we've gone from zone parenting to the more dependable man-0n-man, it's time to blog. 

Well, in my estimation, this Wednesday morning is already far smoother and far superior to the debacle that was last Wednesday.  Sure, it's still early.  And, yes, there are plenty of elevated surfaces from which Baby might tumble and the fridge and cabinets are stocked with dozens of dairy products she might accidentally sample, but I'm feeling rather good about things.  Allow me this odd surge of optimism.  Please.

The morning was fun. Baby and I sat on her little foam mat thing (to protect that little noggin from those naughty wood floors) and played catch with a (closed!) snack-size bag of Veggie Booty.  Yes, Baby is quite the little smartie at seven months, but, no, she doesn't yet know how to play catch. So, it was more a game where she would bite the bag, slime it with drool, gnaw it some more and then drop it at which point I would give it back.  Crinkle. Drool. Gnaw. Drop.  Repeat.  You get the picture. (Yes, Veggie Booty is a dairy product and an inappropriate snackfood for any infant, but that bag is so sublimely crinkly in character and we are rebellious chez Rowley and couldn’t resist.)  

And it seems that I don't need that Mommy Cam after all for I have Toddler to keep an eye on me.  And maybe she remembers the events of last Wednesday as crisply as I do (and as my Mom does – she just called to see if I need reinforcements) because Toddler seems to be taking this supervisory role quite seriously.  As Baby and I played on the floor, Toddler took a breather from her hearty second breakfast of Smart Puffs and called to me from her little sanctuary on the sectional, "Mommy, be careful with the Baby!"  I looked up at my two-year-old, perched precariously on that ultra-suede pedestal, nodded and said soberly, "I will be."

And as Toddler's admonition echoed in my head, it occurred to me that maybe Baby and I should be playing with some more appropriate old school toys.  But then I had a snack-size epiphany: we parents should not spend one measly cent on baby toys.  Because there we were, Baby and Mommy, surrounded by a rainbow sea of toys and teethers and blocks and books and these are the things (other than the bag of Veggie Booty) that Baby had a blast playing with:

(1) A white feather she finagled from a throw pillow;

(2) White Cat's tail;

(3) The remote control;

(4) A box of baby wipes;

(5) A fistful of my bangs;

(6) Star magazine (Come on.  Don't judge.  How else am I supposed to know that Jessica Simpson is an obese size 4?)

And it occurred to me that this shouldn’t amount to any kind of epiphany, however tiny, because Toddler taught me this lesson long ago.  And keeps teaching me it.  These days, she boasts impressive collections of bendy straws, band-aids, nasal aspirators, and toothbrushes.  And, in case you were wondering, baby food jar tops make perfect hockey pucks.

In case you were worried about my parenting skills and my ability to cease rambling, the point of this post is: it is Wednesday and we are surviving.  

[And, yes, Wednesdays are more Play-Doh than Plato, but don't think I can't multi-task... My latest idea?  Instead of Mitch Albom's TUESDAYS WITH MORRIE, it will be ADR's WEDNESDAYS WITH MOMMY.  And the stories will be so delightfully raw and real, full of humor and humility, that Lady Oprah will come a-calling...]

Time to run.  Baby is awake.  Toddler has threaded both arms through the dainty little neck of her peach nightgown and is now sprinkling my laptop with Smart Puff "fairy dust."

Happy Wednesday!

What Happens on Wednesdays...

I am not a bad mom.  

As much as I like to preach about imperfections and insecurities, I am actually reasonably proud of my parenting skills.  Why? Because my girls are happy and healthy and growing and learning and all those good things.  And, you know what? I have something to do with this, right?  Right?  

Truth be told, there are days when I doubt it all. When I literally think and sometimes even say out loud: I. Am. A. Bad. Mom. And, unsurprisingly, those days are usually Wednesdays. When my dear Nanny has the day off.  I like to stay positive and call these days "girls days" or "adventure days" because, well, they are days with the girls and they are often - to put it mildly - adventures.

Now that I am a few days out from it, I can talk about this past Wednesday.  A day on which I had the following fleeting, but fierce thoughts:

(1) I'm not fit to parent;

(2) I should not be left alone with young children;

(3) I should have a Mommy Cam installed so Nanny and Husband can keep an eye on me;

(4) Blogging endangers babies

I know.  You are sitting there and saying, Calm down, spoiled soul.  It couldn't have been that bad.  Sure, there were probably some tears and tantrums and spills and spit-ups.  There was probably a little too much sugar dispensed and television watched.  But it was just one day.  Calm down.

But I am here to tell you something: IT WAS THAT BAD.  Here is a quick and dirty rundown (in chronological order of course) of what happened:

(1) Baby, an amateur sitter, teetered over and banged her forehead (lightly) on my laptop;

(2) At lunchtime, I fed Toddler "star soup" (organic of course) with my left hand and Baby stage one apples (organic of course) with my right hand.  Then something possessed me to switch it up and feed Baby some "star soup."  Baby has a severe milk allergy and is on prescription formula.  Star soup has dairy.

(3) While Toddler napped, I put Baby in the Exersaucer (a.k.a. "The Office") while I did some blogging.  Well, she was very quiet, so I glanced over at her and SHE WAS EATING A CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE.  My six-month-old baby who just started consuming solids and who HAS A MILK ALLERGY was eating a chocolate chip cookie (that her big sis generously decided to leave on her desk at the Office).  

(4) Toddler woke up from nap.  All three of us girls were having a cuddly moment on the couch. Toddler asked for some water (and said please), so I made sure Baby was scooted way back on the couch and then I hopped up to be a good mom and fetch water for my parched and polite little tyke.  A few seconds later?  Screams.  Baby was face-down on the carpet (note: we have a low profile couch and carpet underneath and Baby was fine in a matter of seconds). In the words of my darling witness Toddler, "She rolled off, Mommy!" And when I asked Toddler if she "helped Baby roll," Toddler smiled big.

Never before have I been so thrilled and relieved to see Husband walk through the door.  And when the girls were asleep for the night, I was able to laugh a bit about it. A bit.  And like a good boy, Husband told me over and over that I am not a bad mom. That I had a bad day, but NO, I am not a bad mom.

The good news is that I think Baby has outgrown her milk allergy because she suffered no adverse reaction to the soup/cookie combo.  The good news is that Wednesdays make up only 14.29% of my girls' lives.  If what happens on Wednesdays stays on Wednesdays, odds are they will be just fine.

I Can't Make This Stuff Up

Everyone is telling me that I shouldn't blog on weekends.  That everyone who is healthy and happy and has a modicum of control over his/her schedule should deem weekends sacred personal/family/non-work time. And, frankly, I'm beginning to see the merits of the argument... But, alas, here I am on what should be a sacred Sunday night, feeling a bit compelled to leave you with just a little something... Feeling a tad lazy and a tad uninspired and a tad curious about the angst of others, I conducted one of my uber-scientific anonymous online polls over at YouBeMom.  This week, I decided to prod the powers and perils of anonymity; to see what people will confess on an online message board, but not in real life. Below you will see the colorful array of responses I received in very short order.  I have inserted some translations for the those who are not tapped into the lingo.

What is the one thing you will admit here (anonymously), but not in real life?

•  affairs
• it's weird. i have been coming here for almost 5 years and i am here all the time, but there are still things i won't admit here. or irl (In real life).
  
• affair
• suicidal thoughts
• my weight
• that my ds (dear son) is on the spectrum. IRL (in real life), we don't share that information.
• how much i hate my mil (mother-in-law)
• that i've been on anti-depressants for the last year
• that i was sexually abused
• how worried i am about db (dear baby) and her stupid "milestones"
• that i fight a lot with dh (dear husband)
• the true extent of my hairiness
• my dds (dear daughter's) IQ
• i think fat people are lazy

Okay, so there you have it.  The upshot?  We all have stuff.  Stuff that we aren't willing to share IRL (in real life).  Stuff that brings us online to chat with complete strangers on the odd Sunday night.  

Insecurities abound.  On Sundays.  On all days.

The Addiction Fiction?

I haven't been on a real vacation (think: sun, sand, sangria) since before Toddler was born.  But I do go on a number of staycations everyday.  Where?  The Internet.  And on these little trips, I learn things.  And meet people.  And have conversations.  And write little stories. And see new things.  

And then I log off and I'm right back in the comforts of my own home. Without a sunburn.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.

So, apparently I am the prime example of the isolated, rookie mom, who turns to the world wide web to find a sense of connection, of belonging.  Uh oh.  I am a member of an ever-expanding population of what are being deemed Internet addicts.  Lisa Belkin explores this phenomenon over at the Motherlode in her eye-opening piece New Moms and Internet Addiction wherein she showcases fellow mom and former blogger Rachel Mosteller's recent Parenting article. Mosteller examines just why young moms are susceptible to that blue glow.  She identifies Three Reasons Moms Are Addicted to The Internet:

(1)  "I feel like I'm going crazy" 

(2)  "I can be a different person"

(3) "I have so much to do!" 

Do these sentiments sound familiar?  Of course they do.  But you know something?  I'm a Mom and I can make lists too.  Here is my list, admittedly more nuanced, of half-baked points that I think Mosteller and so many others are ignoring:

(1) Spending hours on the Internet is probably like drinking too much coffee;  it is not particularly good for your health. But calm down. It's not the Swine Flu.  Sure, it might give you that false buzz of belonging that will fade, but so what - it gets you through that day.

(2) Most of us do not -- and Mosteller admits as much -- resort to drugs to keep us awake longer so that we can surf the web.  Sure, there are those that are truly, and problematically, addicted to the Internet (but per my Internet research (ha!), there are also pour poor souls out there addicted to tanning, and talcum powder, and crunching ice)

(3) So much of the dialogue out there in this seemingly "half-empty" age focuses on the abuses, on the negatives.  The fact that we are zoning our kids out or neglecting our day-to-day duties.  What about the fact that the Internet allows us to reconnect with lost friends, or research a chapter of the book we are writing, or engage in CONVERSATION about things that matter to us -- albeit in the nebulous territory of cyberspace.

(4) This Internet v. Reality is not an either-or proposition.  We are not always embracing anonymous buddies on the Net at the expense of engaging with the real world out there.  Plenty of us have friends, the living and breathing kinds with names and families and jobs and problems, whom we speak to and see on a regular basis.  And (gasp) we also like to wander around and gather bits and pieces of serious and silly information, or philosophical insights, or ideas on the Web.  

(5) Have we ever thought that we might be smarter, savvier, better-informed parents and people because of the Internet? We are not all online seeking up-to-date news on celebrity baby names (although that is sometimes fun).  Where else can I research potty-training and dairy allergies and preschools and Plato? 

(6) I learned how to write a novel on the Internet.  After spending a short time at a law firm and realizing quickly that that was not the life I wanted, I took a risk.  I decided to dream big.  I said: I am going to write a novel.  I took online courses at Gotham Writer's Workshop where I interacted with students from all over this great nation and world.  One of my Gotham professors Russell Rowland, himself an esteemed published author who lives in Montana, became my fiction mentor.  And my beloved novel BlackBerry Girl would not exist without the encouragement and e-editing of this Montana man (whom I have never met in real life).

Now if there is truly an addiction to surfing the Internet that is spreading like wildfire among new moms and old moms and non-moms out there -- and maybe there is because I am quite adept at fooling myself and cooking up rationalizations for my own actions -- this rookie blogger secretly hopes you have it.   Or get it very soon :)

Short and Tweet?

The slow trickle continues.  A few days ago, I sent my Agent the link to this blog.  And held my breath and let those trademark tidal waves of worry buffet me: Is the site too edgy?  Are the topics alienating?  Does anyone care what I have to say?  Thankfully, a response came in short order.  She likes the blog!  Now this is incredible news as she is at the helm of my very rookie literary career.  BUT.  She had a comment.  And said comment was something along these lines: Your posts should be shorter.  People are on Twitter these days and they don't have tolerance for longer essays.  And though a fan of the longer, more meandering, philosophical essay, I knew one thing and knew it immediately: she was right.  And another thing hit me: maybe I should check this Twitter thing out? Perhaps there is no better way to practice spewing exceedingly short and meaningless bits of personal information into the atmosphere? 

Maureen Dowd's Op-Ed To Tweet or Not to Tweet got me thinking that it might behoove me to start tweeting if not just to experience first-hand another seismic shift in technological tectonics.  Is Twitter just the latest and greatest avenue for celebrity chatter and self-aggrandizement?  Is its popularity problematic evidence of society's shrinking attention span? Dowd asked Twitter's founders (whom she deemed quite charming unlike their invention): "Was there anything in your childhood that led you to want to destroy civilization as we know it?"  And they laughed it off.  But is this tweeting thing a laughing matter?  Not sure yet.  But if Oprah and Agent deem life tweetworthy, then maybe, just maybe, I can be convinced.  

How's that for short and tweet?  No, it's not under 140 characters.  But it's a start.

[Okay: indulge this philosophic-meanderer in a few more characters, will you?  An Earth Week Inquiry: Why is it that so many  modern technological toys (think Apple, Mac, BlackBerry, Twitter) are named to conjure natural goodies -- like lush fruits and sweet birds?  Is this meant to distract us from the fact that these are decidedly unnatural gadgets?]

Uh Oh

Talk about insecurity.  What have I done?

Last night (after a day spent obsessively posting arguably tiresome details about my day in the life of a Manhattan County juror), I was kind of (okay, extremely) pumped about this blog thing.  Putting myself out there? How daring! Talking about my hopes and fears and flaws? How adventuresome! And so what did I do? I drafted an email. To friends and family.  (If you are reading this now, you likely received said email).  In this email, I shared the good news about my book and asked people to check out this blog. 

And then I hit send.

Immediately, my heart began to race and suddenly I was thirsty for a towering glass of Pinot Grigio  (Don't you fret, I watched The Hills instead). I clutched my BlackBerry tight, willing it to buzz, hungry for emails from people.  From all five of you.  And thankfully there were a few instant buzzes to save me from my stress spiral.  Yes, mostly they were from that lovely Postmaster telling me there had been a mail delivery error.  And, yes, I was wildly relieved that at least those people wouldn't come here and witness this debacle-in-the-making.  But a few real emails came.  And they were nice. And I felt a little bit better.  A little bit.

Why the near-crippling anxiety?  Because I am putting myself out there.  Because I have a mild allergy to the self-promotion thing.  As my little sis said, I better get used to it if I am going to try to do the author thing.  Guess I better re-grow that thick skin I had as an associate at the law firm.  

Guess I better keep that wine fridge stocked.