So tomorrow I'm going to a writer's conference here in Kansas City.  It's for the Missouri Writer's Guild.  We're going to write about deer and moonshine.  No, just kidding, though I know, I KNOW that's what some of you on the coasts think we are all about here in the flyover states.  See?  I caught you.

Actually, I have a fifteen-minute pitch with a fancy-pants NYC agent who will probably wear black, sniff disgustedly down her hipper-than-thou glasses at me, and reaffirm my deepest-held conviction that my writing does actually suck.  However, I've spent hours upon hours upon hours on my proposal and have some really, really, REALLY cool people working on the project with me, so I'm hoping at the very least to get some decent feedback I can then use to target the superstar agent who will catapault me and mine to fame in two years or fewer.

Hey, baby, everyone's got a dream. Wish me luck!

I really thought that after the discussions of heroin, body piercings, c-sections and Jamaican pre-operative transvestite prostitutes, there was nothing my students could say to surprise me.

Ha.

Last night after a lengthy lecture on grammar and a depressing discussion of MLA style, I turned the conversation to considering the source.  I told them my father always said to make sure I knew who sponsored the study before I spouted the statistics.  I know from working at Large Corporate Tax Prep that the glass is half-empty or half-full at fifty percent - it just depends on whose budget it's coming out of.  To drive home the fact that we're all good liars, we played "Two Truths and a Lie."

Usually this is a drinking game, but since I could tell some of my students were minutes away from a drink anyway, I decided we should abstain.  One of them is about to have a baby, after all.  It turned out that we actually knew a lot about each other from the random class conversations we'd already had.  One student, a girl that I knew was originally from Mexico, gave as her list she was a) twenty years old b) a native of Chihuahua, Mexico and c) the owner of a Chihuahua dog.

She is only eighteen. I knew that, so I won this round.  However, I went ahead to ask where Chihuahua is in Mexico.  Feeling ignorant as usual when confronted by an at-least-bilingual immigrant to this country (I used to work with a whole lot of them, me, paltry monolingual idiot that I am), I mentioned I didn't know there was a city named Chihuahua.  Probably not, because apparently it's a state. Oops.  Then L. went on to say that Chihuahuas are from there.  Makes sense, right?

Then she told me there are wild packs of Chihuahuas that live in the hills in caves.

I pondered this. In my mind's eye, I was visualizing wild packs of rat dogs terrorizing old Mexican ladies wearing black lace veils over their gray hair.  Old men waving specially-shaped guitars in anger at town hall meetings held near a church with an adobe steeple and belfry repenting the day some idiot decided the feral Chihuahuas should be a protected species.  Osama Bin Ladin sharing a meager crust of bread with his only cave-dwelling friend, a wild Chihuahua named Jose Ricardo Gonzalez III.

I think she might've been yanking my chain.  L. knows I don't know Jack about Mexico.  I actually just tried to play it cool, considering I would do frantic Internet research later.

I spent about ten minutes today Googling Chihuahuas in the hopes of finding pictures of cave-dwelling ankle-biters to post here for you, but I came up really dry. There is a school of thought that they descended from the fox, though, just so you know.

Woof.

You may have noticed my new warning flag in the left sidebar.  Yesterday I was part of an interesting dialogue concerning freedom of speech and writer's rights. 

We who blog put forth our words for free in the hopes that they will make people we don't know snort Diet Coke out of their noses, or for cathartic purposes, or maybe even because we don't have anyone else to talk to at that exact point of the day.  That said, we still don't want anyone else to take our words and mess with them, even if it's done in the name of new and delicious traffic for us.

Hence the age-old question - which is better, fame or fortune?  Is it better to have additional traffic and become more well-known even if people do not pay you for your writing?  Or is it better to retain the movie rights for your story about your Nuvaring?  I'm being a little tongue-and-cheek here, but it is an important question to ask, and one that is coming to the forefront as mainstream media starts looking to bloggers for material.

The other side of this conversation, and the one that the flag addresses, is the idea of self-censorship in order to appeal more to mainstream media.  For instance, I doubt highly mainstream media would appreciate my frequent use of the f-bomb.  It's not so appropriate when you're owned by a conglomerate.  It's not really appropriate in the workplace, either, and that's why I channel all of my hostility and repressed curse words into my blog...it's the one place I can swear like a sailor and not fear the judgment of the daycare workers or the vice president of my department.  My blog is my house, and I'll do whatever I want in my house.  Even walk around naked.

But yet...I want the traffic.  I want to be heard.  I want my words to be in the world.  I'll admit...I even want to be famous.  I think every writer does - otherwise why would we be vain enough to think that other people care what we have to say? So yes, I do want the syndication. I do want the traffic. I just have to ask myself at what price will I get it.  That's a hard question, and I admit one I've never really thought about before, chiefly because these opportunities for normal people to get significant readership have only come about since the advent of the Internet.  And until blogs, most web pages were more about cool design (which I don't know how to do) than they were about writing. My blog, in some way, has been a dream come true - an opportunity to get people in North Carolina (yeah, I saw you in my statcounter, dawg) that I don't even know to read about the little angel's adventures in Toddler High.  Or my own fears about reproduction.  Or my thoughts on the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, or our president, or the mental state of my composition students.  I suddenly can have an active dialogue with fifteen women from all over the country that I've never physically met about the word "fuck."

And that, Internet, is what it's all about.  Opening up the dialogue.  Expanding your social circle. 

Feeling heard.

*****Updated to add...

For more on this topic, check out Jenn Satterwhite's post on BlogHer.

The snake is why I'm not in Eden anymore, and I don't need it walking around my neighborhood.

This weekend there was this guy walking around with two huge constrictors wrapped around his arms.  He was also holding a beer. 

Me:  "Hey, what kind of snakes are those?"

Snake Man:  "A boa constrictor and a python."

Me:  "Don't you have to restrain them in some fashion?"  (Here I looked pointedly down at my delicious little angel.)

Snake Man:  (shrugging shoulders and taking a gulp of beer):  "I don't think so."

So I thought about it all weekend.  Today, I shared this story with my co-workers at lunch.

M:  "Well what're you going to do, put it on a leash?"

Me:  "Well, I think a snake should be restrained in some fashion."

M: "Do you also think the snake should have to wear little sweaters in the winter?"

We argued about it all through lunch until finally we made a bet.  I bet that it was illegal just to carry snakes around, and he bet that the Animal Control department would laugh at me if I asked.  So I called them.

It turns out that you can have some pretty strange pets in Kansas City, Missouri, though nothing omnivorous or carnivorous that also happens to be a mammal. Oh, and no venomous snakes.  Constrictors, however, are A-OK with the City of Fountains. I did have a lengthy conversation with the animal-control guy, who said that when constrictors were more popular in the nineties, people used to take them to bars.  One guy came home from the bar, wasted, and fell asleep.  The snake apparently constricted around his neck and nearly killed him.  Apparently, there's also another woman who lives at 47th and Euclid who has crocodiles.  As in plural - more than one crocodile.  The only comment the animal-control guy had on that was "I bet she doesn't get robbed much."

As I continued arguing that maybe carrying a large python was more dangerous than carrying a beer (he argued I should call the police to come get him for open-container "which is against the law," though apparently "handling a four-inch thick reptile who wants to squeeze the lifeblood out of Little Bunny Foo Foo" is JUST FINE), he said I should call the police the next time I saw him drinking in public.  As I was about to hang up in disgust, he gave me the number of a local herpetologist, for whom I left a voice mail.  Hopefully he'll call me back.  I will have revenge on the Snake Guy.

I last tried self-tanner when the little angel was four months old.  I should've looked up my post to remind myself how very bad I am on the first attempt.  This time was no exception.

I was inspired to purchase the self-tanner yesterday, when (on an 86-degree day in April) I was exposed by my Costco squort to my blinding, Midwestern legs.

I've decided that I don't LOVE the way I look in shorts anymore.  The front? Fine.  The back?  God save the queen.  The squort is longer than the shorts, though, reaching almost to the backs of my knees, and it's a lot easier to run around the playground after a two-year-old when one has the safety of the underneath shorts to fall back on when one ends up ass in the air after a bad round with the twirly slide.

However, the downside to the squort is the exposure of skin, any skin, especially skin like my skin that is as white as white girls get.  Last night, after looking at my whiteness all day, I ventured to Walgreen's at nine p.m. to purchase new self-tanner.  If only I had read the history.

This time I got foam, thinking it would be easier to control.  Also, I was sucked in by the "just mix the pink and white together" line on the back of the bottle.  The experience was more like I should've reckoned - massaging mousse into your ass.  Needless to say, I now look partially awesome and partially like I have some skin-ravishing disease.  Thankfully, it will wear off in a few days, giving me the opportunity to invest in some surgical gloves (this being the key to my success last time - I didn't have to worry about how long the stuff was sitting on my hands and took the time to rub it in properly) and try, try again.

In the meantime, if you see me, don't worry.  It's not catching.

The little angel has already mastered "Please, Mommy," with an angelic tone whenever she wants pudding (which we have convinced her is "ice cream").

Tonight, after her bath, I gave her baby spa, which is her nightly rubdown of lavender-and-chamomile-infused lotion.  She immediately wanted to wear her silky pajama bottoms, which are like Mommy's.

As she clamored over me, stepping (it seemed) purposefully RIGHT ON my bladder, she muttered in an off-hand, New York City sort of way, "'Scuse me."

Watch out, world.  She's already avoiding eye contact.

I had my sonogram yesterday, and it turns out everything is completely fine.  Once again proving that women's health is more of an art than a science, there is no explanation for why I had such an odd month. My OB, who dropped the little angel's placenta on the floor while I was giving birth (lending the "birthing suite" the look of a Soprano's set), sat there with his white athletic socks pulled all the way up and his Nike running shoes clearly displayed and told me "things just go haywire after thirty."

The sonographer concurred.  "I don't know how many times women come in here and say they've been just regular as clockwork, then all of the sudden there they are, bleeding like a stuck pig for no reason at all.  It happens a lot.  It happened to me," she said.

I searched for more answers.  Did they think I miscarried?  It's possible, they said.  But I did take that pregnancy test that came out negative.  Did they think I had tumors?  No, they said.  You saw the sonogram.  (Of course, to me, the sonogram always looks like a study in grays more than a clear picture of ANYTHING.)  Did they think my birth control was still working?  Ah, they said.  Maybe we should switch it. 

First he said he could give me a pill that I had to take every day at the EXACT same time.  Not taking it at the EXACT same time would result in "breakthrough."

I asked why the hell anyone would want a pill like that?

Then he said he could give me Nuvaring, but that it's too weird for some people.  There are very few things that are too weird for me.  I asked what happens if it falls out.  He pulled up his socks.

Dr. M.:  "If it falls out, you just wash it off and pop it back in.  Presto."

Weird. 

But then he said it's the lowest-dosage hormone available.

Awesome. 

So I brought this thing home.  My beloved examined it closely, completely baffled as to why I would accept such a thing.  Men.  I explained the alternative is for him to wear the little raincoat on his pee pee for the rest of our lives, because I was sick of remembering to take the little white pills every day.  The thought of the little raincoat snapped him back to reality and remembering, as he rightfully should, that he should have a Coke and a smile and shut the fuck up, because I not only have dealt with my feminine issues for the past twenty or so years, but I also carried his beautiful little red-headed daughter to term then pushed her out while he stood by helplessly.  Every once in a while I have to remind him that physically? I've had the harder job.  It more than equals the fact that I have never mowed the lawn.

Anyway, so now I have this crazy thing.  And you are all probably horrified that I just discussed all this icky body stuff with the Internet.  However, no one EVER told me that your hormones can make your body go all wack-funky for no reason at all just because you've ticked over the magic 3-0.  So Internet?  Consider yourself informed.  'Cause I love you.

I woke up this morning to the little angel bonking me in the head with her cup.  Two nights ago, she woke up at three and I ended up sleeping on her floor until five.  That sucked.  Last night, she woke up at three again. I decided to take her down to the couch, because lately my strategy for conquering her sleep problems has been to make it all about me and my sleep.  Ironically, this strategy has worked better than Ferber or Sears.  I call it "Mine."

She slept pretty well until about five, when she commenced with the head-bonking.  I thought about drop-kicking her across the living room, but I am a nice person and would never do such a thing.  But I did think about it for a millisecond.  I was having a good dream. 

As I walked to the fridge to get her some milk, I noticed that my throat hurt really, really bad and all of my muscles felt as though they were encased in Polly Pockets rubber clothing.  This does not bode well for the rest of the day. I decided not to think about it until I woke up late, asked my beloved why he hadn't woken me up, and he said he'd been yelling for me to wake up for thirty-five minutes.  Hmm.  Didn't hear him.

Today is the little angel's Jog-a-Thon for the Emerald City. I can't make it, because I have a meeting with my new boss at the same time.  I feel bad - it would be soo worth the head-bonking to watch her jog around the school parking lot.  Alas, I'm here at work with a sore throat and Polly Pockets legs and have several Important Meetings That Can't Be Missed.  And a sonogram, because that thing that wasn't supposed to happen at that time this month kept happening for THIRTEEN DAYS.  So, there may be Fun Health News today, as well. We'll see.

I think I'll go find someone I don't like and bonk them on the head with my water bottle now.  I am a big believer in paying it forward.

Gah.

Relationships.  They are so hard.  I have a few loved ones going through some rough times with relationships, and it’s reminded me of all the evil men I’ve loved before, and some that I didn’t love at ALL but I continued to date for whatever reason.

My worst blind date was set up by my friend Sheila in Chicago. I haven’t seen Sheila in more than ten years, so I doubt we need to protect her anonymity. She set me up with a guy that worked in her company’s graphic design department. He was part-time there, and the rest of the time he worked in a record store on Michigan Avenue. I walked down to meet him for our afternoon date wearing khaki shorts, an orange tank top and clogs. (Do not question my fashion sense – that detracts from the story – but the outfit is important to the plot.)

The plan was to go to an art museum downtown then go to dinner.  After that, we’d see. 

Dating Lesson One:  Do not allow the first date to be open-ended.  This guarantees you will be stuck with a loser for upwards of six hours.

The art museum was closed for renovation, so we decided to go to his house so he could change out of his record store uniform (you think??) and go to dinner.  It turned out that he lived with a one-eyed cat, a stripper and a guy who was smoking the world’s tallest water bong when I walked in the door.  The guy with the bong was eating a huge plate of ground beef.  My date was pissed that the roommate was doing either the smoking or the eating of the beef without him.  I sat down on the couch to wait for him while he changed, and that’s when the stripper walked out dressed for work.  The one-eyed cat sidled up next to me. He smelled like Mary Jane. My date asked me if I minded if he smoked. I thought he meant cigarettes. I was wrong. After he’d puffed a few, he put his head in my lap and told me his therapist said he was ready for a relationship again.

I don’t know why I didn’t run screaming at this point. Probably because I wasn’t even exactly sure where I was. This guy lived about five neighborhoods south from my Lakeview apartment.  We went to an Indian restaurant. He ordered the fish. I ordered vegetables, being a vegetarian at the time.  When his fish arrived, it looked a little like Don Knox.  My date was so completely freaked by his food making eye contact that he proceeded to a) eat all of my food and b) tell me he was out of cash.  I paid for our meal.

We went back to his apartment and picked up two of his friends.  The male friend was wearing a leather dog collar. The female friend had immigrated from somewhere in Asia and spent about ten minutes telling me she had a tattoo of the goldfinch, the state bird of Iowa, on her ass.  We went to a club downtown called Drink. It’s a club, with beautiful people and really expensive drinks and house music.  Let’s recall two facts about this story:  1) my date had no money and 2) I was wearing khaki shorts, an orange tank top and clogs.  I did actually run screaming at this point, but in order to get home (I was out of money after buying him and his friends two drinks each), I had to let him give me a ride. He’d grown up on the north side and gave me a guided tour of his old neighborhood and elementary school. I had him drop me off in front of an apartment building that wasn’t mine, walked home, and called Sheila, threatening to kill her if she ever set me up again.

Dating is rough. I feel for you girls out there.