You’ve seen this photo on twitter. MommyLite likes to refer to it as my Droid Cleavage. I like to call it my Dear John to the Blackberry I dropped like a hot potato the minute The Husband was overcome to the fluttering of eyelashes and threats to go all iPhone on his ass if I couldn’t get what I wanted.

So I got. And he did, too. (A Droid of his own, you perverts.)

The taking of this photo occurred while we waited in the never-ending registration line at BlogHer. After a while, the strangers staring off into space started making eye contact. Some, like Julie Diaz-Asper, started interviewing those looking for their 15 minutes about their phones for her awesome tech blog. And because my Droid was new and shiny and pretty, I went for it.

Right after my uber-fantastic interview (and holy hell do I enunciate my “s’s” overly much?), MommyLite was up for her shot at telling the world why her Blackberry still rocked her world.

Which reminded me…

I may be in love with the Droid now and have blacked out all references to my Blackberry in my diary, but there is one thing I do miss and one major factor that makes the Droid not as much fun to own.

It doesn’t fit in my bra. My Blackberry? Yeah, that didn’t look like some weird rectangular tumor.

So I shared that tidbit (demonstration and all) with MommyLite (her name is actually Sarah Maizes. I just really like typing MommyLite for some reason) and Julie and that’s when this light bulb went off for MommyLite and suddenly I was having photos taken of my cleavage and being posed with my new phone cleavage to make sure everything was just so and voila…I had made two new friends and got a rockin’ twitter avatar out of the deal.

All because I stopped tweeting for a minute, looked up, and said hello (in person) to the real live people in my tweet stream.

 

I know I’m a bit behind the 8-ball here, but I just got home this past Friday and figured now was as good a time as any to get my BlogHer groove on.Call it my (Semi) Wordless (Day After) Wednesday photo tribute, because I sure as hell am going to.
Juliette and I actually ran head on into TheNextMartha while trying to exit the elevator to find her. Yay for having a clue!

There was that stop in the  Smores suite where I pretty much embarrassed myself. Until that moment when the first bits of gooey melted chocolate and marshmallow smushed between crunchy graham cracker burst into my mouth, I’d pretty much denied myself all things not clean. Which means the Smore was dirty. But damn, dirty can be so good. And Theresa and Mary looked so much cuter than me and my  Smored-out face, so we’re gonna post this one and call it pretty.

The revolving doors at the main entrance to The Hilton. Pretty snazzy, eh?

We missed breakfast every morning. Rooming off-site and staying up half the night will do that to you. So we got our MilkMustache and then got some breakfast (hello sausage pancake on a stick!)

If Mrs. Potato Head The Pillsbury Dough Boy…Elmo…and Dora were on my Must Meet and Be Seen With at BlogHer10 list…I rocked that goal. Hard.

There was more than a bit of sightseeing…

And then there was The Bloggess. Don’t worry. She’s only offensive to assholes. Which is funny because I fancy myself an asshole and yet…I wasn’t offended. Go figure.

There was also plenty of glow-in-the-dark party fever at the Sparklecorn shin-dig

And then there was this. My poem. By The Bloggess.I’d call that pretty much done, wouldn’t you?

 

We bought my sister Pati a refurbished iPod for her 20th birthday last August. And because she uses my Amazon account just because it’s easier and that whole she lives with me thing, I recently began to wonder if she had replaced the now trashed iPod with a new touch model.

To be clear, I wondered for about a half second while in the process of placing my order for my Nook decal sticker thingy that BFF Mel and I spent hours on Skype discussing. I saw the iPod touch accessory in my cart, raised an eyebrow, and saved it for later while finishing up my current order, all in the same breath. And by the time I took the next one, I had already forgotten to ask Pati when she was going to tell me she had decided to spoil herself for her birthday.

“Pati got herself an iPod touch,” The Husband told me today. We were (are) in After Vacation Hell with the unpacking and the cleaning and the signing for the five boxes I had to ship myself from Detroit after barely making it to Detroit from New York at one half pound under the suitcase limit because I had given most of what I scored at BlogHer to the hotel staff before hopping in a car to LaGuardia. Turns out adding a three-year-old, a husband, and my obsessive-compulsive need to over prepare for an airplane apocalypse meant there was no way on God’s green earth that my luck was going to stretch for the last leg of the trip.  So I got to unpacking these boxes while The Husband took Buttercup to the bathroom for a potty break. I tried to ignore the fact that I probably paid more for the shipping than the swag was actually worth.

“Oh yeah!” I said, remembering the mystery item in my Amazon cart. “I was going to ask who was using my account to order accessories.”

“She had good reason,” he said as he walked out of the bathroom, leaving Buttercup to do her thing on her little Dora potty seat. “I checked hers out and it just stopped working. You should mess with her when she gets home, though. She got Buttercup a night light because she killed her fish while we were away and she eases her guilty conscious with a fucking iPod?”

I snorted while sifting through boxes and decided to take a peek and see if Buttercup was done. “Yeah, exactly. You’d think it would have been the other way arou…”

I cut myself off as I ran for my phone (because unlike the rest of blogdom, I do not possess a real camera or the skills to operate one) and ran back to take a photo before the moment passed me by.

“What were you saying?” The Husband looked up from the couch as I shushed him only to be given away by the tell-tale camera click.

“Mama?” Buttercup heard it, too.

“Shit, shit, shit…” What if I hadn’t moved fast enough to…never mind. I got it.

And The Husband couldn’t stop laughing when I showed him this photo of our little princess holding court on her throne.

“You posting that on Facebook?” He asked when he could talk.

“Already done.”

 

I’ve got these great ideas for blog posts. I think them up all the time.

When I’m brushing my teeth or giving Buttercup a bath.

When I’m driving.

When I’m knee-deep in a three week hell-cation and am aware that aside from, like, 2 friends, no one I actually know reads my blog (yet).

These moments happen all the time. You know the kind. Where you look up from whatever you are doing like Twist on The Fresh Beat Band and suddenly have a bright idea animate itself right next to your quirky little smile? Those moments are awesome…sometimes a blog post even writes itself. And when I’m in the habit of writing everyday, I can hold on to these mind pictures long enough to get through an entire day (including a story and bed time) before finding myself with enough free time to sit down and peck at the keyboard.

But I’m not in practice right now. Instead, I’m grasping at straws with no idea what I was thinking about five minutes ago because I am:

*simultaneously reading Eat, Pray, Love and Julie and Julia on my nook and calling it Baby F(Ph)at research while I continue to plod my way through the #agentsearch.

*bitching cuz I never found the time to get my sport length acrylics redone (read: filled and filed way the hell down) after BlogHer and am now hating life as I type because I still have a few BlogHer posts to write and at this point I’d really rather just not.

*ignoring and being mutually ignored by BFF Mel as our marathon-online-window shopping Skype session has surpassed the point of conversation, the interest of The Husband and Mr. @Bobherz, and has morphed into a nonversation. I’m writing a blog post and she’s trying to find the perfect accessories for her new nook and every 10 minutes or so one of us will ask the other how it’s going, the other will give a noncommittal “s’ alright” before resuming our BFF-y shared silence. Well shit…I think she just hung up on me. It’s cool. Not like we weren’t talking for three hours.

*recovering from 20 days away from home, even if home isn’t the home I still own 2,500 miles away because The Husband took a job 2,500 miles thissa way, and realizing that after this time on our own—with no real family or friends out here—I much rather prefer my own brand of crazy than the kind forced on me by competing personalities and agendas…even if it means scorpions and tarantulas because it’s legal to drown them in bug spray.

*thankful that the, like, 2 friends I have who read this blog won’t be mentioning this blog or the contents of this post to any of the little faces I may be imagining on said scorpions or tarantulas in the weeks to come.

*hoping that the little faces think I’m talking about other little faces should they ever come across this blog post when I’m at the top of the New York Times Best Seller List on a day that they got bored and decided to troll for a reason to start an argument because the laundry is done and the kids are in school and really, what else do we do right now?

*munching on Buttercup’s Gerber Graduates Mild Cheddar Lil Crunchies because I knowingly and willingly jumped so far off the wagon while away that I’m now resorting to pilfering my daughter’s cheesy snacks because it’s almost midnight and I’m not even looking at a spinach leaf until Monday morning after I wake up, not before I go to0 bed and oh hell yes is this an important distinction.

*wondering if I should break up with my Blackberry gently or just tell it like it is…

*also wondering if I’d get more blog comments if I gave the two friends who are reading it a cute group nickname, like pranksters but not, cuz that one’s already taken.

*wondering also if I’d already be a famous writer with book deals and “Now a Major Motion Picture” stickers on my book covers if I had started out not actually wanting to grow up to be a famous writer.

*thinking that the idea of Catherine the Great peeing on me whenever it rains is one of the sweetest ways to bring a smile to my face when I might be having a particularly shitty day.

*am surprised you are still reading thi…never mind.

 

While the rest of the world was knocked off their BlogHer high with the immediate onslaught of screaming kids and loads of laundry that refuse to take care of themselves, I am still navigating the perilous role of The Visitor. It’s a strange place to be, especially since, until a little over a year ago, I lived my entire life within a 20 mile radius.

To say I wasn’t prepared for the mind-numbing politics that go hand in hand with the Who We Actually Make Time For in the 12 day period available to us for our hell-cation would be an understatement. There’s his side, my side, his friends, my friends, and the friends who I totally didn’t miss but feel obligated to make time for anyway. There are late nights (combined with too much sugar and the new toothpaste I stupidly purchased which is yet to be used) for Buttercup, early mornings for me and The Husband, and an ongoing game of Tug of War for our presence in a rapidly dwindling window of time.

Don’t get me wrong…we are having fun. It’s hard not to have a good time when distance and time haven’t stopped me from slipping right back into private jokes and secret punch lines with the friends who will be friends no matter the actual distance between us. But I do have to admit that there have been multiple days when I have wished multiple times that Aunt Becky had decided to go with Mommy Wants Vicodin for her twitter handle so I could change my identity to reflect my current state of mind.

I also feel it’s very important to point out that I, in fact, have eaten my willpower. I didn’t just choose a random photo to fill white space. Instead, I avoided the weird looks from store employees while snapping a few photos of clever aprons because they basically summed up which side of the bed I have been waking up on since landing in Michigan for the second time in less than two weeks.

I’m clean-eating. Or rather, I was until this whole little adventure began. And I totally thought I’d be faithful to my new eating habits while hanging in NYC with TBFF Juliette and schmoozing with my new bloggy buddies. That was before total exhaustion hit and I decided that I just didn’t give a damn anymore. Had it just been those 4 days, I would have been fine. It’s a vacation, right? A chance to let go, have fun, and eat a slice of pizza so good that there was a line out the door long after the sun had gone down?

But by the time I return to Tucson, I will have been gone for 17 days. And because PCOS, Insulin Resistance, and all the other fun little things wrong with me that make being fat so easy it should really be a hell of a good time have probably allowed my body to gain a sickening amount of weight in an amusingly short amount of time, I am perfectly aware that the Fettucini Alfredo eaten at Tio’s today or the Kickass Local Pizza we’ll be chowing on tomorrow with friends are really going to fuck screw with my plans for reinstating my MILF card sooner rather than later.

So what exactly am I doing to myself here? Am I allowing myself to enjoy my vacation or making my trip back to reality (and what The Husband likes to refer to as rabbit food) that much more of a pain in the ass? I’m gonn go out on a limb here and say it’s a Laugh and  Point because It’s Me and not You twisted little combination of both possibilities.

Until then, I’m fast, cheap, and easy.

Social links powered by Ecreative Internet Marketing