How to go to a blogging conference, Part 1: Don't bring your Hitachi Magic Wand

Confession time: I was totally in love with my last post. I was so in love with it that we got married. And no matter how old and shop-worn my last post got, I couldn't bear to dump it in favor of a younger, thinner trophy post.

What was so special about it?

I lost my blogging Hitachi Magic Wand virginity in that post. You see, I'd been blogging for almost five years, and yet somehow, I'd never mentioned the Hitachi Magic Wand before. But then I did. And the earth moved.

But now it's time to move on. Because sex isn't everything. And neither are Hitachi Magic Wands.

Now, a while ago, when Blissdom09 was winding down, I told the internet I was going to write a post about how to go to a blogging conference. With BlogHer looming on the horizon, I figured that now was as good a time as any to make good on this threat.

I could get all demure here and say that having attended precisely two blogging conferences, I'm not exactly an expert. But the way I see it, blogging is like a virtual literary pyramid scheme where everyone who starts blogging inspires 1,000 other people to start blogging, too. That means you're a newbie for maybe a month. There will always be lots more people who know even less than you do. So you might as well go ahead and call yourself an expert. Since I've been blogging for almost five years, I'm probably your blogging great-great-grandmother. So pipe down, you whippersnappers, and listen up.

If you go to a blogging conference, you'll hear all about Search Engine Optimization, or SEO. And if you're like me, you'll pretty much zone out, because who cares, right?

And yet, like me, you'll eventually realize that you might pick up a few extra hits by mentioning the Hitachi Magic Wand every other sentence. And you'll probably pick up a few more hits by using pictures that you stole from a sex toy website and then renamed

PoppyBuxom_says_thats_not_where_you_use_a_HitachiMagic
Wand.jpg.


Or


PoppyBuxom_doesnt_actually_own_a_HitachiMagicWand.jpg.

And I don't. But if you do, don't bring it to a blogging conference. First of all, you're going to have to go through airport security, and it could be embarrassing. I mean, look at that thing. It's as long as my arm.

And anyway, what you really need to bring is business cards. At least 200 of them. There are lots of places that can make them for you. And keep them handy--stash a few in your pockets, in your laptop case, in your purse. Get so you can hand over a business card within seconds of meeting someone. Keep a pen handy for notes.


You'll notice I use my avatar on mine. I do this to cushion the blow people feel when they discover that I'm not a semi-nude 23-year old Parisian with poppies in my hair. Now that I've clued you in, when I hand you my card you'll have your pen ready, and you'll be able to write THE MIDDLE-AGED BLABBERMOUTH WHO DOES NOT RESEMBLE HER AVATAR AT ALL on the back before you throw it away.

Next up: How to go to a blogging conference, Part 2: What to bring home. Stick around. This post will probably be my dirty mistress for a while, but Part 2 will show up eventually.

Mental masturbation, or, what I learned from doing Blog365

First of all, I'm amazed I did it. OK, sure--to make sure I adhered to the letter of the law, I farted around with my date and time settings. And daily readers might have been a little confused at times, because sometimes I was blogging someplace other than here (like here or here or here or even here.) But I did it.

As far as I'm concerned, this is even more amazing than losing 30 pounds and keeping it off. Which (in case you haven't been keeping score) I haven't managed to do yet. And partly I blame blogging, because sitting on your rear end in front of your laptop is not conducive to weight loss. Even if you are exercising your fingers.

Well. Now that I've landed heavily (pun intended) on this side of the Blog365 experience, now that I could buy and wear a t-shirt saying

I bored the Internet for a year
and all I got was this lousy t-shirt

my primary response is: why? What good did it do?

Let's explore this question, shall we? Here are some not-very-frequently asked questions about Blog365--which I made up--and my answers--which I also made up.

1. Did Blog365 improve your writing? Maybe. It certainly made it go faster. Let's face it; do anything at all every day for a year--even masturbate--and you'll be able to do it faster.

2. But what about quality? Quality is an issue, even with masturbation. Say you masturbate and have a sort of half-hearted, not-particularly-intense orgasm. What do you do, complain that you don't love yourself anymore? Break up with yourself? No, you roll over and go to sleep. (That is, if you're female. I don't know what guys do. And I don't want to know, OK? This is a family blog.) Well, let's face it: quality is even more important when another person is involved, say, for example, with blogging, where you really do kind of hope a reader or two will materialize.

3. How much faster did your writing get? Much. And with not even that much of a diminution of quality. Like what I've typed so far? Took 94 seconds. Truth. But again--speed isn't the whole picture. I'll use my masturbation analogy again, because it's occurred to me that what this blog has needed all along is more talk about masturbation. So anyway, how impressive is the ability to have an orgasm after only 20 seconds of stimulation? It's efficient; it would make a good party trick, but in the larger scheme of things, aren't we really looking for something more intense? I believe that we are.

4. Would you say then that the internet meme is the Hitachi Magic Wand of blogging? I would indeed. Memes get the job done, but they're not especially memorable.

5. What advice would you give to other people about to embark upon Blog365? Keep all of your drafts; break down long posts into shorter posts; write reviews; write reactions to other blog posts; make fun of the government, religion, or your family. And when inspiration fails, fire up the Hitachi.

I was thisclose to losing it. Thank God there's school tomorrow.

You know, I adore the idea of homeschooling. I really do.

Let's face it; public school can be so public. So not-tailored-to-the individual. So dumbed down (when it's not spinning my kids' brains around like a game of crack the whip.)

And that's just the intellectual side of things. What about the social and emotional aspects of child development? I mean, do I necessarily think my kids are ready to hear about sexually transmitted diseases? At length? With slides? Not really. (It might be age-level-appropriate when viewed in the very big picture, but frankly, I do not need two skeeved-out children to deal with at once, thankyouverymuch, public school system. Also? Some warning would have been nice.)

On the other hand ... today was President's Day, so they were home. And they had Friday off, too. For a four-day weekend. And the rest of last week was occupied with nursing my daughter through some cold or flu thing.

So public school? You're taking them back tomorrow. They and their ridiculous sibling rivalry are getting out of my house, do you hear me, property tax assessors? We pay a ridiculous amount of money to live here, and I want my "free" babysitting.

Or before you know it I'll out front chewing up municipal property out of sheer frustration.

I'm thinking of starting with a couple of trees, and then graduating to the sidewalks.

I have caught the fucking piece of shit virus. See?

Onion News Network

No, Bloglines didn't mess up; this really is an update. Imagine that.

So here I am, sitting in my little haiku of silence and relative calm after

• A whirlwind trip to Nashville for BlissDom09
• Returning home to have my not-so-blissful domestic responsibilities handed off to me relay race-style as my husband raced out the door for a business trip
• (leaving behind a vast mountain of laundry)
• Nursing my daughter through a cold and fever
  
• Realizing that American Airlines is not going to call me and tell me they found my iPod. Those fuckers.
  

With all that on my plate, my first order of business was to sit on my fat ass in front of my laptop madly Twittering with everyone I met in Nashville. While I ate Little Debbie Nutty Bars.

People, it's a question of having priorities. OK?

So I'm going to do a Blissdom recap. I really am! But, since it's been several days, and everyone has beaten me to it already, I'm going to do a recap with a twist. I'm going to tell you Everything You Need to Know to Go to a Blogging Conference.

So stay tuned.

OMG! Lourdes looks so much like Madonna.

And I just realized something--Lourdes also looks just like my daughter. And yet, somehow, I don't look like Madonna. Go figure.

Anyway, I posted about Lourdes and Madonna this morning, and now I'm desperately cramming my suitcase with a whole lot of clean underwear (but forgetting my toothbrush) because after I get my kids off to school, I'm flying to Nashville to go to BlissDom.

So Blissdom ladies, if you're reading this? And you're wondering what I look like? You know what you need to know. I do not look like Madonna. In fact, I look more like Minnie Pearl. You know, the old lady from the Grand Ol' Opry who always had a price tag hanging from her hat?

Yeah, see, because I had to go out and buy all new clothes to wear to BlissDom, because I've gotten so unMadonna-like that my old clothes were way too tight. So if you're at BlissDom and you see someone who doesn't look like Madonna and still has the price tags on her clothes, that's me. Come say hello.

If only the rest of me looked as good as my hair.

You've probably heard about the freakily cold and snowy winter we've had this year. I mean, even if you live in Miami--like some people I know--you know that we've gone from wondering how much it would cost to convert the front hall closet into a wet bar (because who needs coats any more????) to inhabiting a landscape reminiscent of Jack London's worst nightmares.

Even at the best of times, I am a sedentary creature, and under the current weather conditions, I go out as little as possible. I have, I believe, spent every spare moment of the last two months huddled under a lap robe in front of a roaring flat screen working my way through entire seasons of Grey's Anatomy, House, 24, and Battlestar Gallactica. If cocooning were an Olympic event, I'd have a chestful of gold medals.

I'd also be popping out of my snappy red, white, and blue Olympic track suit.

People, those rumors you've heard are true. Sitting on your ass drinking wine watching fictional characters run fast, jump high, scale walls, and talk on their cell phones does not lead to a high degree of physical fitness.

Well, now I'm emerging from my cocoon. Yesterday I took my hair's frazzled ends and gray roots to the salon. Two and a half hours later, I emerged with the kind of bouncing and behaving hair you used to see in Salon Selectives ads.

Unfortunately, the rest of me is not bouncing and behaving. It's quivering and bulging, and I think I'm going to have to make an emergency run to Old Navy to find something to wear to Mrs. Fussypants' blogging conference. Or the other mommybloggers will point at me and laugh.

My other option is to show up in a Hefty Trash bag with Poppy Buxom business cards stuck on it with my kids' glue sticks. And only my hair emerging from the top.

So ladies, if you see a huge black plastic bag covered in business cards with a hank of freshly highlighted chestnut brown hair coming out of the top? Don't be shy--come say hello and take a card. Then pour a glass of wine into the hair end of the bag. Because I'm sure I'm going to need a drink.

Let me get you up to speed.

Look, the thing about blogging every day for over a year is that when the year is up, you feel the need to get some stuff done that you didn't do because hello? you were blogging every day.

So the past few days have been ACTION PACKED.

First of all, I had been driving without a valid license since my license expired on December 12th, known far and wide as The Feast of the Venerable Poppy, or "my birthday" to you pagan/Wiccan/Unitarians. This is a day when right-thinking people the world over eat birthday cake and give me presents.

Some of you really fell down on the job, so please remember: it's December 12th. Mark your calendars.

This is also the day when every four years, driver's licenses expire. At least, that's the way it is in Illinois. Way to go, Illinois. Ruin every fourth birthday. It's like Leap Year for bureaucrats.

Well, I realized that I was not going to be able to get onto the plane that was taking me to Nashville for Mrs. Fussypants's blogging conference unless I had a valid license. Plus I had to drive like a police patrol car all the time because I was so afraid I was going to get pulled over.

So I drove out to Niles, Illinois, which, as it turns out, is a lot closer than the facility I'd used the last couple of times I had to go through this. Thank God for Mapquest and GPSs and my iPhone which not only informed me where the closest facility was, but got me there without the usual panicking, palm-sweating, and swearing.

OK, so I walked in armed with my old license, my passport, a handful of credit cards, and my Social Security card, thanking my lucky stars that this is not Massachusetts. If it were Massachusetts, a scoff-law like me would be put in the stocks to be pelted with Dunkin Munchkins and lahge cups of regulah coffee by packs of jeering Mayflower descendants.

Instead, a very nice police officer told me that I didn't need all the I.D.s because when you looked at it from the cosmic point of view, my license had barely expired. And the lady who checked my vision was really nice and talked my head off about her uncle who had lived on my street in Newtopia. And then I passed the written exam with a point to spare, yay me, and got a not all-that-unflattering picture taken.

In every case, there was no waiting in line. There might be one person in front of me, but that was it. The whole thing took maybe 30 minutes start to finish, including the time I spent looking at the shapes of traffic signs trying to remember what the red octagonal one means.

So this just goes to show you that cleanliness is next to Godliness in Illinois. Because if Rod Blagojavich hadn't been about to be convicted, I would have been standing in line behind dozens of illegal immigrants who are unqualified to drive.

And then I would have had to waste a ton of time palming $20 bills to everyone to try to get them to pass me even though I don't know what the red octagonal sign means.

And then I would have had to spend another half hour and $20 more to get the guy to photoshop about a decade off my face.

So yay, Illinois!

And that's what I did on my blogging vacation.