I'm a loser baby, so why don't you hear me?

Last night was the 2nd annual Blog Out Loud Ottawa, or BOLO for short. It was put together by the lovely and talented Lynn of Turtlehead. She had asked me a few weeks ago if I would like to read at this year's event. I had never been to BOLO before, but it didn't scare me. I mean, I've done public speaking in front of much bigger audiences. Besides, I'm The freaking Maven. What's there to be scared of?

In my mind, I was picturing a quiet evening with a handful of pasty-skinned, blurry-eyed people looking over their laptops at each other. When my turn came, I would simply stand up, read a post, get a few golf claps and sit my sizeable ass back down. The end.

I had so many misconceptions about BOLO and Ottawa bloggers in general that I feel the need to confess what I've learned in a post. So here is the point format version in all its embarrassing glory:

1. First of all, BOLO is not some teeny tiny event that takes place around a table. This is a fairly large gathering of local bloggers. There were many tables, and all of them were full. And what was at the very back of the pub? Was that a... a stage? A fucking stage?! With a microphone and speakers and, and... Oh my wordsmith. I had to get up a stage. I don't believe I got that memo or I would have taken off from the blogosphere at a dead run, leaving several half-finished posts in my wake.

2. There are a lot of really gorgeous bloggers. I don't know what I was expecting, exactly, but it wasn't a large gathering of hotties, that's for sure. How on earth are people who sit in front of computer screens and regularly molest the social networking sites so damn beautiful? Apparently, I can no longer use my geeky hobbies as an excuse for cellulite-laden thighs. Damn you all.

3. I'm not nearly as confident as I thought I was. Once I realized I was firmly out of my element, I let the incredible Nat flutter around like the social butterfly she is and sat nervously at our table right in front of the big scary stage, sipping my Diet Coke and unceremoniously shoving fries into my mouth. I did see some familiar faces, like Pauline and XUP, but overall, I was a total BOLO loser. Thankfully, I had a couple of fabulous friends groupies come hold my hand and stop me from crawling out the back door when no one was looking. It's a good thing I brought some of my popularity with me or I might have started crying right there, at my table, into my drink.

4. There are some incredible local bloggers out there. I was completely blown away by the talent we have right here in Ottawa. As one of the last readers, I started panicking about halfway through the night, wondering how on earth I was ever going to top everything from Facebook as an abusive relationship to the great wasp nest fiasco to some truly fried rice to some epic bra flashing. And there were more, but I would be writing all day. Seriously, how on earth could I follow those up with my mediocre writing? And, more importantly, how was I going to duck the beer bottles being thrown at me with that annoying spotlight in my face? Reading alongside these funny, witty, provocative writers was probably a big mistake. I panicked. What was I thinking? I'm not a good writer! After tonight I'll be hitchhiking down the road of spammy SEO content articles at $2 a pop. This is the day I go down in flames. Better order up another Diet Coke and get my nerve up.

5. Too much Diet Coke can lead to a mild hangover-like state in the morning. Ouch.

6. I can make up the steps of a stage and over to a microphone even when my heart is about to explode out of my chest. And, more importantly, I can read something once I'm up there. And make people laugh. And surprisingly enjoy myself very, very much. And, I believe, connect with my audience. I had no idea I had that in me, and it feels good.

7. Was I the best of the night? Absolutely not. Far from from it, actually. But I did hold my own, and I won't lie: I loved every second up on that stage (after my heart started beating again). I felt like an upper class gal in a Prada store. Oh, sure, I still felt like a lost little girl in the loser corner of the schoolyard when I sat back down (ah, memories!), but that's okay. I had my three minutes of fame and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Long live The Maven's ego!

8. Twitter is way more fun when you've met a bunch of the local people you're now following. I foresee myself getting a wee bit addicted. Somebody break out the methadone.

I had an amazing time last night. What a rush! Thanks to everyone who organized the event, who came out to speak and/or to listen, and to those who came and introduced themselves to me afterwards. You made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Or maybe that was the Diet Coke. Next time, if someone could cut me off after the first glass and steer me toward the pot of decaf, that would be great.

Coming Out of the (Writer's) Closet

I'm just going to come out and say it.

I feel an enormous amount of pressure to put out -- good posts, that is. Because I'm a writer by trade (I love being able to say that), I'm always trying to outdo myself, raise the bar, make the next one better than the last. And what does that result in? A serious lack of posting, heartbroken readers, and a frustrated Maven, that's what.

I pondered this over my afternoon coffee today, and then tried to come up with solutions. I managed to think of three:

1. Shut down my blog so I don't have to worry about it anymore (not really an option, as the world would be reporting a surge in attempted suicides shortly thereafter)

2. Keep stressing out about coming up with The Ultimate Post (not really an option either because my stress quota is pretty full as it is, thank you very much)

3. Quit worrying about it and write what I love, even if not everyone loves it as much as I do -- like those owners of really ugly purebred dogs who think they're the cutest things in the world

Maybe this blog is my greyhound. Maybe it's not to everyone's taste and will never be a wildly successful online parenting pagoda, but as long as I smile when I see it, that's all that really matters, right?

When I first started posting, I wrote about our day-to-day lives. I had gremlin #3 growing inside of me, the first two scuttling around me daily, and a home daycare to boot. I needed a place to vent, to bitch, to whine, to look at things in ridiculous and highly inappropriate ways. It was a great release, which is why 2006 is filled with many entries. I felt free to write whatever I wanted whenever I wanted it.

And slowly, ever so slowly, I made a fatal mistake: I tried to categorize myself.

Much like the boy who sat next to me in grade 10 art class, I felt confused. What kind of blog was I trying to write? What message was I attempting to convey? Should I stay completely anonymous or let people know who I am? Should I use profanity or keep it G-rated? Should I be funny all the time or allow for some self-pity posts?

The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. But, unlike my grade 10 art buddy, there are no support groups for this kind of thing. There are no stickers on the back of other people's cars letting me know that I'm not the only who's ever questioned her bloguality.

Yeah, I like that word, too. That's why I made it up.

Today, as I sat in front of a blank post screen yet again, wondering what on earth I could write about that would be fun, thought-provoking and rich in quality, an idea came to me:

Screw this noise and get back to your roots, Maven.

As per usual, the inside voices are right. And to think the doctor said I should quiet them down with medication. Besides, who else would tell me when I need to wear my tinfoil hat?

First of all, there is absolutely no way I can categorize this blog. I'm a walking oxymoron; I'm a mom to three gremlins (mommy blog), addict (recovery blog), writer (professional blog), postpartum doula (breastfeeding blog) who has two kids with hearing loss and sensory issues (special needs blog). How on earth do you fit that all into one category?

Secondly, I can't write posts to please other people -- unless they pay me to do it, in which case I'll write whatever they want. Email me; I will be your whore. (Sorry, that's the freelance writer in me coming out) It's just not humanly possibly to please everybody all the time, even for someone as extraordinary as myself.

Finally, The Maven needs to stop worrying about what everyone else wants, and start writing for herself again. Somewhere along the way, I forgot what a self-centered, egotistical bitch I am. Where's the fun in thinking of others? That's for chumps and people named Oprah. This is the one spot in the entire world - in my entire child-filled life - where I can plant a flag firmly in the ground (hopefully not spearing my foot in the process) and make this my own territory. It's time to step out of the closet again and breathe the fresh air of narcissistic exhibitionism.

It's quite invigorating.

So what, exactly, does my readership get out of this deal? Simple:

1. You'll get more posts because I'll be drawing from my inner fabulousness instead of trying to find it externally all the time, and,

2. You'll get inside my very scary head and even scarier life as I recount the day-to-day goings on with three gremlins and a house full of chaos

Sounds great, right?

...Wait! Where are you all going?

Don't you want to see three-year-old Spawnling's (Jack's) first attempt at writing his own name?

Don't you want to hear about how I cleverly distracted the littlest beast for an entire day last week by taking him to the newly improved (and absolutely beautiful -- definitely go see it if you can!) Canadian Museum of Nature? I told him if he didn't listen I would let the dinosaurs eat him. The horned wonder informed me that dinosaurs died a long time ago and these are just fossils, stupidhead.

Little know-it-all.

Anyway, I'm going to try and shrug off this writer's block with a good amount of coffee and some personal freedom to just write whatever, whenever. My inner critic can critique something other than my blog posts. Heck, if she judged the state of my house half as much, the place would be spotless.

Now I can Prove How Awesome I am

Admittedly, I really suck at receiving blog awards, which is probably why very few people award them to me anymore.

But sometimes, a person quite ignorant to my years of slackdom, comes along and hands me over something shiny, like this:


Thanks, Mandy! (I'm not thanking myself, just so we're clear. The cool chick who gifted me shares my real life, non-interweb, super secret name.)

The Sunshine Award. It could mean so many things, could it not? Perhaps I was given it because I glow radiantly, like a large ball of life-giving fire. Maybe the sheer idea of me not blogging would be like the sun ceasing to burn, causing the end of the internet. Gosh, there are so many possibilities running through my mind, and all of them are just as - if not more - pompous.

What do you expect? I'm a maven -- it's my job to be like this.

It's not like I don't deserve awards, of course. I blog at least... once a week. And when I blog I'm even kind of funny, sometimes. There are even days when I'm not being sarcastic or bitchy in the slightest in order to avoid having some of my more politically correct readers choke on their tears of disgust. Because, hey, if you're politically correct, you should totally be reading my posts. I practically scream social correctness.

(Did you detect the sarcastic tone? And the bitchy, too? Thank you. It was rather impressive, wasn't it?)

So, why don't I typically accept awards graciously and do as I'm told by passing along the joy to others? Because I am a giant procrastinator, that's why. I have the very best of intentions, I really do. I really, really want to do what I'm told because I'm a good girl who obeys the rules. (Yes, that last sentence was sarcasm again. Good catch!) The problem is that I get busy herding gremlins, cleaning their nests, and drinking copious amounts of caffeine. Days go by, then weeks, and I simply forget. By the time I remember, it's just far too late to do it.

This time, however, things will be different. I will not let Mandy down. Not just because I need to prove I'm not always lazy (only on pizza nights), but because having something shiny with which to show off my awesomeness is always useful. Sadly, there are days when I need to flash my blog bling in the eyes of naysayers, rendering them temporarily blind. Once the pain and awe subside, they always come back for more. Possibly because they've heard rumors that deep down I may have something resembling humility in my soul.

Why are you shaking your head at me? Is there an award for bloggers who show humility? No? Well, then, I see no reason to be modest if I'm not going to get a trophy to show off my humbleness with. You can see the bind I'm in.

But I didn't say I was the only awesome blogger out there, did I? Hell, no. I share the spotlight sometimes, you know. As part of accepting this award, I'm going to list 12 of them. You can go check them out, befriend them, and then talk about how grandiose I am. They'll understand.

If your blog is listed and you decide to accept this award (Why wouldn't you? It's not smothered in herpes or anything), please find 12 more awesome people to give it to. That's how it works. It's like one of those annoying chain letters, but without the threat of death or dismemberment.

12 Blogs That The Maven Likes to Read and Give Awards to and Stuff:

The Single Screenwriter
Chasing Blue Sky
Jobthingy's Jungle
meanoldmommy
WackyMummy
From Nat's Brain
Canadian Bald Guy
Party of 3
XUP
Not just about cancer
Sunshine on My Shoulder
As told by Kat

These are some of my favourite people, and if I could I would read them every day. Unfortunately, this life thingy takes me so far away from the computer lately that I scarcely have time to tell them how amazing they are. The nice thing about giving them some blog award love is that I have an excuse to go read their work and comment on it; Something I haven't done for a long time. I'm betting they'll be weeping with joy.

Oh, they won't admit it, but they will be. Trust me. I have that affect on people. It must be my thick coating of humility. It's like lacquer - you can see right through it.

Extreme Makeover, SAHMayhem Edition

So I may have the flu, and I may not. Who knows? Last night it felt like I had been inappropriately touched by a steamroller, but by this morning it was more like being lightly fondled by a dump truck. I had a bit of nausea today, some aches, and a handful of chills, and the thought of doing much more than checking out LOLCats seemed ridiculously difficult. Mostly I watched Spawnling make a mess and fed him sugary things to keep the peace.

This afternoon I feel almost normal. Well, I think. I don't believe I've felt normal for a very long time. I lost that feeling the first time I stayed up all night with a teething baby. My sanity batteries ran out by 4AM and to this day I still can't find the charger.

The good news? Being sort-of-but-not-really-sick gave me an excuse to give the blog a facelift. The old girl was looking rather tired, even with Pippy Longstocking and her cup of coffee lounging in the background.

And, yes, I made the logo myself. I do have talents other than being very beautiful, really smart, and scrambling to the top of the popularity dogpile with ease, you know.

I'd ask everyone to post an honest opinion of my new custom theme, but instead I'll just have you lie and tell me you like it, even if you don't. I have absolutely NO desire to change it, so I'm afraid any complaints will fall on deaf ears.

And besides, I'm too *cough, cough* sick to design a do-over. What kind of harsh critic are you? Get a life, slave driver.

Bitchy babies

Greetings, blog readers. It is just slightly after 11pm on Sunday and I have a somewhat bitchy Spawnling on my lap.

What's that? You think it's impossible for a newborn to be bitchy? Come again? You think it's downright rude and unmotherly for me to refer to my child as bitchy? Well, allow me to elaborate: Newborns are little people, are they not? And by 'little people' I don't mean the politically-correct-but-not-really-anymore-but-maybe-still-because-TLC-uses-it term for people born with dwarfism. I mean it in the literal sense (although I suppose both ways are literal...). Babies are little - or small - people. People get bitchy. Thus, why can't a newborn be bitchy? And have you spent any evenings with the Horned Wonder? Bitchy. Have you met his mother (that would be me, in case there's any confusion)? Beet-chay.

I rest my case.

Not only can recently arrived human citizens be bitchy, but near-four-year-olds can have incredily evil and sweet thoughts within moments of each other. Case in point: Gutsy hits his brother in the side of the face with a pretend sword (I would like to mention that I didn't purchase said sword, but that also it wouldn't matter, as young males will turn even cotton balls into weapons if given a chance). We then settle in to view Ghostbusters II - Intrepid's new favourite movie - and watch as Dana Barrett is locked in a cell of sorts, looking on helplessly as her baby is about to become the new spawn of evil (highly unrealistic, as I am the proud mother of the only three spawns of evil). Gutsy turns to Geekster and says 'Dad, someone should buy that lady a present because she misses her baby. It would make her feel better.'

Good on you, Gutsy. Nothing cures a mother's ache for her child, but some bling doesn't hurt. I bet if your future wife is blue because you have to put little Gutsy Jr. in daycare, buying her a new diamond Rolex will make her worry a bit less about how circle time is going.

It's been a busy weekend. Friday night involved my regularly scheduled 12 step meeting, followed by a visit with Lushgurl and Devilchild. They gave me pizza and played with my baby while I did a poor job of explaining how a blog works. But you know, she has one now and she posts to it. Once you read it, you'll understand that all my friends are deranged and that's how we relate to each other so well. It's a beautiful thing.

This sparked a domino effect with frightening consequences. I started a blog out of sheer boredom and in hopes of *snicker* becoming a real live writer who makes real live money one day. Jobthingy, being the amazing and incredibly bored friend that she is, started to read this trash and comment to it. Then Impossible Mom and, eventually, Lushgurl started their own blogs, leaving Jobthingy in an absolute tizzy because she couldn't comment to their blogs because she's not a blogspot member.

Have you ever worked in a call center? Well, I have, but it was way, way before blogs. I only lasted six months. The reason? There were no blogs. I don't know how someone can answer the same stupid questions all day, every day, without mindless junk to read and comment on. Blogs were created for people who work mundane jobs, like I once did and like Jobthingy does now. So while she was thrilled at having two new blogs to read, it drove her batty not to be able to waste yet more time and comment on them.

Thus, Jobthingy started her own blog. Naturally, I'm afraid, but I must read. You must read, too.

Wow, that was a lot of crap to go through just to explain that two of my friends have new blogs. You know you're a new mom with nothing to talk about when...

The bitchiness has subsided. My baby really likes his Neglect-o-Matic (read: Gutsy's old car seat turned bouncy chair), it seems. I only put him in it when I'm trying to type and he gets fussy. That's maybe once a day if we're lucky and it appears to be a special treat because of it. He's watching the screen intently, sucking happily on his pacifier and hugging his blanket. He's way too cute to be mine, you know.

Oh, and last night we slept from - get this - midnight until 8:30am. And he slept happily in the restaurant while we had brunch, then through most of our Walmart trip to get Gutsy some winter boots (not surprisingly, I wait until the first significant snowfall to think about getting my children ready for winter). I love this boy. I shall keep him even though he pukes on me a lot.

Anyway, I've neglected my three-week-old long enough. Time to find some awful Sunday night, made-for-television movie and settle into the recliner for the evening. Tomorrow morning I shall check out everyone's posts from this weekend. Is it sad that I'm looking forward to it?