Things are backed up here again. Blogstipation. A whole lotta blog fodder has been going in and I’m having trouble getting it out.
To wit, my blog to-do list:
1) A post on fear: why, when asked by Leah during my AlphaMom interview, if there was any question to which I’d been searching an answer, I responded, “why is motherhood so terrifying?” (alternate title: Why I Stood Up in Front of 700+ Women at BlogHer and said Hello, My Name is Her Bad Mother and I Find Motherhood Terrifying and Could You Please Help Me, Arianna Huffington?)
2) A post on why becoming a parent is like joining a secret club, and why that’s not a bad thing.
3) The post that I have been struggling with for weeks, but feel ready to complete now having discussed it with Mary this past weekend, on babies and eros.
4) A post on being a mother and writer, inspired by my conversations with Liz and her post on same.
5) A post, further to #4, on how and why writing motherhood is a radical act, regardless of whether the term ‘mommy’ is ever used in that exercise.
6) A post on whether or not the presence of Weight-Watchers promotions, diet (ass) water and Tool Time girls at a conference that empowers women is at all ironic. This post, however, is unnecessary now that the brilliant I, Asshole has addressed the issue, and so should really be a post on why you should all read I, Asshole. (Thank you, Sweetney, for the heads-up.)
7) You should also read I, Asshole for her post on BlogHer haters. Because it’s perfect. I love her.
8) A post on blog gangs, and a reflection on why the breakfast waiter at the Hyatt felt compelled to warn Liz, Christina and I that the windows in that room were not, and I quote, “bulletproof.”
9) A reflection on the lesson in post-structuralism that I received from a burrito jockey in the food court at O’Hare airport.
10) An ode to my husband, on the occasion of his birthday. Because he deserves more than a litre of duty-free Grey Goose vodka to mark that occasion, and because I am too tired to wrap my saggy self in Saran Wrap and play Poke the Leftovers.
11) Maybe something about WonderBaby. Just to maintain my mommyblogger bona fides. Wouldn’t want to have my membership revoked.
Yeah.
Cuz, me, I know my doll. She came out this weekend. She slapped pasties on her engorged breastses and gloried in being a woman, stretch-marked, stretched-out and stitched-up. Grown-up and flawed and beautiful. And she weren’t no fucking Pussycat. That doll celebrated and lampooned and celebrated celebrated celebrated her woman-ness in all of its happy terrible messy glory, because that doll understands the difference between confidence – sexual or otherwise – and desperation. That doll’s no pussycat.
Breathe.
I don’t want my daughter to grow up in a world where ex-burlesque-troop-pop-tarts are objects of aspiration. I don’t want my daughter to confuse self-exploitation for confidence. I don’t want her to be a Pussycat.
I want her to be a tiger.
(And, no, not tigers as understood by Britney-fucking-Spears.)
What immortal hand or eye/Hath crafted thy vile pole-etry?
(I just harshed the flow of my own post with a totally unnecessary and yet totally unavoidable nod to Britney Spears and pole-dancing.)
(See? BLOGSTIPATION. I bring it on myself.)
(Need a drink now.)
Step off, Pussies. I bite.
