“Oh, I’m sorry! My name’s Nick. I’m a reporter out here in Santa Monica, and I just finished up an interview with Julia [Child] for our paper out here.”

I was really going to have to get my phone number unlisted.

“I’d like to get your thoughts on some things. Because I asked her about you, and frankly, she was kind of a pill about it. Is this a bad time?”

“Oh. No. It’s fine.”

When I hung up the phone five minutes later, I felt numb.

…I sat on the couch beside Eric…. “That was a reporter from California. He just interviewed Julia. He asked her about me. She hates me.” I giggled, like I do in these breathless situations. ”She thinks I’m not respectful or not serious or something.”

…Eric put his arm over my shoulder. “What is she, ninety?”

“Ninety-One,” I sniffled.

“See? She probably doesn’t have the first idea what a blog is.“

…”I don’t know. Maybe she thinks I’m taking advantage or I’m — I’m not –” I was taken surprise by a sudden rush of tears. “I thought I was — I’m sorry if I –”

And then abruptly I was wailing….

–Julie Powell, Julie and Julia, pp. 333-334

So there was a Simon Fraser University Masters thesis written extensively about me and seven other “mommybloggers” (grrr…). I heard about it yesterday, of all places, when I was sitting at Podcamp TO, listening to a panel discussion, of all things, about what happens when social media goes wrong. My heart started pounding when I heard — my face turned beat red, palms sweating, hands shaking.

I’m used to people responding to my individual posts in the comments, on twitter, even on email. I’m definitely not used to someone reading my blog from start to finish, making gross assumptions based on posts here and there, and then publishing these gross assumptions and frustrating misreadings in a thesis — both offline and on — and not telling me about it, even after the fact.

At first I was furious. And I definitely (over)reacted on twitter:

I got really upset that The Thesis wasn’t in fact about the “works” themselves or the genre of blogging, as indicated in The Thesis’ abstract, and that, rather, it was about our lives, our income, whether or not we love that our children are away (for 2.5 hours, hello) at preschool, and so on. When Danigirl sent me the abstract (which was all I could see for hours until I got home to open the pdf file that contained The Thesis), I was a little flattered and excited. To be studied in the context of Bakhtin’s Dialogic, for example, and to be categorized as “Canadian Women’s Literature,” was so cool. Bring it on!

But, when I opened the document and searched my name…, I was floored. All those assumptions about all sorts of irrelevant stuff. It hurt. Bad.

I think the thing that bothered me most was when The Thesis writer suggested that I may have contrived how I started blogging in the first place. I told the world that Ali Martell introduced me to blogging when the Monkey was 8 months old, and that’s the truth — no questions asked. But, according to The Thesis writer, I “contrived” this bit in order to appear flippy and erratic or whatever. In another post, she ingeniously discovers, I mention that Jennifer Lawrence, who happens to be the author of the blog MUBAR (which no longer exists), helped me out when I was clinically depressed while pregnant with the Monkey. (And, by the way, an article was written about my prenatal depression and published in some major psychiatry journal — APA? — and, you betcha, the author asked my permission even though they used an alias and I’d never find it in a million years!). Yes, Jen Lawrence helped me, but it was OVER THE PHONE. I didn’t know she had a blog, or what a blog was.

Why does this bother me? Because it’s an insult to my integrity as a blogger. SURE, I might exaggerate things — for entertainment’s sake — here and there, and less so these days. But I would never flat-out lie. I would never “contrive” something. To me, that’s the ultimate insult to a blogger.

Somewhere, way out yonder in the internet ether, there’s a great old email conversation in which Ali reveals to me, “I HAVE A BLOG,” and to which I reply, “WHAT’S A BLOG???”

Anyway.

Whatever. I’m really okay now. I’m flattered that I’m in an MA thesis, even though the reading of “me” is false and unflattering for the most part. As you can see on twitter, I felt beyond violated and uncomfortable when I first read the thesis. But, I haven’t looked at it since, and I’ll never look at it again — and I feel better. And I can laugh at the broad assumptions, as I’ve also done on twitter:

And, this one….

Oops, how’d that tweet get there? (Disclosure: CONTRIVED.)

Here, see I can make light of The Thesis writer’s totally unfounded statement that I am the most “affluent” of all the bloggers (if she only knew!?):

Should the student have contacted me? It would have been the nice and, I think, scholarly thing to do.

Do I blame the student? Do I “hate” her SORT OF like Julia Child hated Julia Powell? No. I’ve done a Master’s Thesis, and I know how difficult that can be on several levels. This writer wrote the thesis in 2008. She’s obviously young, likely not a mother. There I go assuming, though….

As with all controversies surrounding “mommyblogging,”  people are now taking the opportunity to troll thoughtful posts on the subject and preach about the ethics of “mommyblogging.” We’re putting ourselves and our kids out there for scrutiny and misinterpretation, so apparently we should just suck it up, not react, and just plain expect this. But, surely we’re allowed to “giggle” or “wail.” On twitter?

Know what happened to me today? I went to Starbucks (shut it — I’m not affluent — I got a card for Valentine’s Day). Rascal and I sat beside a woman who was typing on her mini laptop. When she got up to leave, she said:

You know, I’ve been watching you, and you’re a wonderful mother. I see the way you talk to him and look at him, the way he looks at you. And I don’t see that all the time, unfortunately. It’s amazing to watch you. And I’m a therapist….

That compliment, that observation of ME, was so beautiful and so welcomed given my current frustration. And, so often, my readers and fellow bloggers, whether in comments, twitter, or email, make me feel THAT good with their genuine, caring feedback and friendship.

You can’t read a blog and claim to know the writer. As I stated several days ago on twitter,

You can’t judge a blogger by his or her blog. It’s not a novel. It’s its own genre. One absolutely worth exploring at an academic level.

If you’d like to see a copy of The Thesis, just contact me — which is easy to do for the record….

Love!

xo Haley-O

With the advent of twitter lists (which I doubt I’ll ever get around to making myself because I hardly have time to write to-do or shopping lists let alone SEVERAL lists dividing my friends into groups — high school much? — and unintentionally snubbing them, which is bound to happen)…what was I saying? I forget because I got distracted by Whitney and Jay’s conversation on this eve’s rerun of MTV’s The City….

That picture is so last year, like, when Jay and Whitney were still together. But I didn’t have time to find any current pics of them. But I DID have time to watch THIS WEEK’s episode just now. And I just want to say that, if Elle Magazine wants to interview bloggers — because, as Joe Zee (Elle’s creative director) puts it, “blogs are the places where news is breaking right now” — they should come TO ME, and my SLIPPERS…. Remember these?

Still wearing ‘em! There’s nothing these two less famous bloggers have that I don’t, right? I blog in my pajamas, too, and shop with my mother…? No? Yes? Elle?

If I don’t get into Elle Magazine, can I at least get on X-WEIGHTED? I need to lose these last 15. Or maybe I’ll just curl up on my couch with my Puffins and make twitter lists, instead. It’s safer here in my comfort zone…. Except right now. Because Josh just made clam chowder, and it STINKS in here.

So, I do have a little list JUST for this blog because my poor blog gets pushed aside so often these days for other more “pressing” things, and this really shouldn’t be, really saddens me, really has to stop because I love blogging…, and if one more thing goes to sh*t because I’m working too much, then something’s got to give. Because DOGGONE IT, I’m important.

So my list, ahem.

1. I love the way Rascal says “banana” — “badanan,” as in, “MO BADANAN, MAMA! MO BADANAN.”

2. Rascal eats too many badanans.

3. The Monkey is addicted to hugging. In the middle of the Swine Flu pandemic, she’s hugging strangers (not that it really matters because Swine Flu is air born).

4. I had Kabocha squash for dinner.

5. Rascal can count to two now. It’s official: “One, Doo, ONE!”

6. Monkey is obsessed with drawing me without a body because, apparently, “it’s too hard” to draw my body….

7. WHICH I choose to take as a compliment, because why not and DOGGONE IT!

8. I’m the disembodied turbaned head on the far left of the drawing — next to me is the artiste herself, her brother, and a caterpillar.

8. I am NOT too old to love The City, OR The Hills….

9. I also love the Glee, The Office, The Tudors, So You Think You Can Dance and Survivor.

10. I did watch V, but I will never watch it again.

11. Just like I will never watch Fringe again.

12. Or the Y&R, which I quit a month ago, WHICH should be a post in itself because it’s a big f-ing deal.

13. I want Russell to win Survivor.

14. I can’t end on #13 not because it’s “bad luck” but because it’s just a weird number to end on.

15. #15 is a better number to end on than #14.

16. I always go for the odd numbers.

17. OCD.

18. But, #18 is an ideal number to end LISTS on.

19. Even though it’s an odd number.

20. I think I’m into even now.

After last week’s text-heavy blog posts, the weekend’s fairs and birthday parties and long walks with SUDDENLY-STUBBORN 2-year-old, I’m a little burnt out. And I’m going to LISTEN to my burn-out this time and HONOUR it by making YOU do the work today.

See, just like Chef Gustave says in Ratatouille — “ANYONE can COOK,” which I don’t entirely believe, by the way — ANYONE can BLOG!

So, checkit. I got to take a walk through the Monkey’s Kindergarten class today, and I nearly FELL OVER when I saw this painting she made and the caption under it….

Now for the caption she gave it:

My Brother Playing in the Garden.

Bwah! Her brother playing in the garden? How sweet of her to think of him when she’s at school. But, ummmm….

Okay, now it’s your turn. As BLOGGERS par excellence, YOU are going to make me a more fitting caption for this painting. K?

Ready, set, CAPTION ME!

I could totally write a sappy post right now — since I’ve been known to hazard them a little lately, AS I struggle over and over again to find my identity both on- and offline. Who the hell am I supposed to be? What do the PEOPLE want? And is that what I want? Who, me? Who?

And this was NOT what I meant to write about today….

So, I’ll just write from the heart, and give you whatever comes from this way-overtired brain tonight. And when I say way overtired, I mean WAY overtired. Overtired enough this week to…

a) buy the same book for myself twice in FOUR DAYS.

b) walk out of TOYS R US with unpaid MERCH under my armpit (of course, I ran back and paid for it).

c) and WHO STOLE MY BAGEL?

Rascal. The Rascal stole my bagel. He’s TWO going on BAGEL THIEF.

He’s 2 as of tomorrow, that is, WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 23 — on the CUSP of Virgo. Yes, he escaped Total Virgo by a thread (a special, lovely, golden thread, with magical powerses). Two years old. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LITTLE MAN, and your tenth percentile, and your BIG OLE ZIT on your cheek that I’m hoping to GOD isn’t chicken pox because I’m way overtired. Overtired enough to…

a) let my overtired daughter stay up AGAIN to watch So You Think You Can Dance Canada, which, by the way, is AWESOME.

b) attempt to put a shoe on Rascal’s HAND instead of his foot.

c) ask a mother at Monkey’s new school first-and-foremost if there was good PARKING at her daughter’s dance school.

d) mouth “HELP ME” to the cat. This cat:

Wait. That’s a pygmy goat. Bygones. And he’s eating my stroller. No wonder my stroller SUCKS lately….

Yes, Rascal is 2 years old. Amazing. And, lucky for you, I’m too tired to get sappy. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you how precious he is with his toothy, ear-to-ear smile with scrunched-up nose, his fluorescent blond hair, his massive blue eyes, and that belly button — “BUTCH, Mama, BUTCH” — that he loves to fondle, and the “CH” sound with which he finishes ALMOST every word he utters, and his still-doughy legs and bubble butt. Just? Love….

Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you about Monkey’s first days of kindergarten and how she clings to me some days wanting no school but “MAMA,” but then comes home elated and proud of herself and HYPER and horribly, terribly naughty…, and how almost every other girl in her class is BLOND-HAIRED and BLUE-EYED, and how I’m not sure how I feel about that….

Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you how short Monkey’s hair is thanks to a certain children’s hair salon that specializes in THE IGOR….

And, how Josh-O was furious that I did that to OUR DAUGHTER, and how SHE LOVES IT. HOW I (me) LOVE IT….

…and kitties.

They’re growing up so fast….

Love! I’m too overtired to go to bed. Maybe will tweet for a bit….

xo Haley-O

Make it stop! Gorgeouses, make it STOP! I can’t. I can’t stop procrastinating. I have SO much work to do this evening, and am EXHAUSTED. I’m exhausted because I had SO much work to do LAST NIGHT. And I procrastinated the evening away DAMN YOU TWITTER CRACK HATE until there was no other choice but to work until 2am.

Granted, it didn’t help that I had to rewrite my ENTIRE Canada Moms Blog post because Typepad crashed DAMMIT CRACK, I MEAN CRASH and I had to get it all out before it left my tired brain forEVAH.

Sigh. And here we go again. But, I’m even MORE tired than I was when I was procrastinating LAST night. But, that’s neither here nor there (whatever that means).

In the meantime, I figured out what the deal is with my Canada Moms Blog posts. Like, why I have such trouble loosening up there. Obviously, it’s not yet MY HOME. And it takes time to find your voice in a blog of MANY voices. I mean, no wonder…. But, there’s one more thing. PICTURES. No PICTURES. Writing with no pictures feels more like ESSAY writing than BLOGGING. We’re only supposed to have one picture there. So, I sit down, find my picture, and I WRITE MY ESSAY. GAH!

Gorgeouses. I FIGURED IT OUT. I need to get used to blogging sans PICTURES. Call me PAUL WILLIAMS — mystery solved!

So, go read my words  at Canada Moms Blog while I wait here for you procrastinating on twitter. And please cut me some slack there for a while. No pictures! I’m like a child. I NEED PICTURES. Otherwise, I’m fighting tooth and nail with my old academic self NOT to write formal ESSAY. She and I are STILL fighting. Don’t worry, I’m winning. I need to write a few more essays blog posts there, and we should be in the clear. It’s all good, though — I love a good challenge.

As for right here right now? PICTURES! Check it:

1) As promised…, SPARKLERS from Victoria Day. And that’s some scary sh*t — Cheaty does NOT recommend….

2. Minden on my COMPUTER bag…. Suck-age.

3. Now, look out the window. To the right. Here — here’s a closeup….

4. It’s HOWARD!

HOWARD STERN…, i.e…:

Yes, I’ve named my new pet squirrel “Howard Stern” after Howard Stern. Because, well, it’sgrandma and I LOVE HIM. And I’m determined to get Howard to tweet me back one of these days. HEAR THAT, HOWARD?….

I’ll keep you posted on how that’s going, ‘course. Anyway, Howard Stern the squirrel (aka “Howie”) is totally STALKING ME, as you saw THROUGH MY WINDOW….

5. …which makes things a little, erm, awkard at dinner lately….

6. And if you think this kid actually sits this nicely at dinner, you have another thing coming….

That’s more like it. Ugh. SIT. DOWN.

7. There are no pictures of me here, of course, because I was pissed off all day. I taught yoga to two preschool classes and worked like a dog whenever I got a spare minute (“minute” being the operative word here)…. But, this is what made me feel better. VIEW FROM MY EYES AFTER DINNER WHEN JOSH-O GOT HOME AND RELEASED ME FROM GRIPS OF CHILDREN:

It’s not the ocean, or mountains or waterfalls. Just a tree near my backyard. I love it. Love trees. Love the way they reach up to the skies and ground down into the earth…. And, ahhh, I can breathe again.

Back to work.

Love….

xo Haley-O