Knit & whine

BB wasn’t thrilled to get up for school this morning. Okay, it was dark, it was pouring, it’s Friday, and, you know, while school is okay and all, it is (she informs me) not the best thing in the world. You know how that goes. I tried to talk her out of bed.

BB: “I wish I was too little to have to go to school.”

PS: “Yeah, I can understand that. But if you were too little to go to school, you’d also be too little to ride your scooter, or read books, or do all kinds of things that are fun.”

BB: “Fine. I wish I was too BIG to have to go to school, then.”

PS: “Okay, but then you’d have to get up to go to a job.”

BB: “Oh yeah? But what about MAMA?”

PS: “Er. Right. Well, then you’d have to get up to take care of your kids.”

BB [sighing]: “I wish I didn’t have to get up for a job OR kids.”

PS: “Then what would you do all day?”

BB: “Knit!”


Yeah. Since that first project I took on a couple of years ago, I have gone back to knitting with a vengeance. I’m a lot better at it than I used to be, but that’s mostly because I spend a lot more time on it than I used to. And the only downside I’ve found so far to my renewed knitting habit is that talking about it incessantly is a good way to bore non-knitters to tears.

So! With that in mind, fellow-knitter Jody and I have just started a Ravelry group for knitters, crocheters, and crafty kibbitzers from this corner of the blogosphere. If you’re a friend of mine on Ravelry, I’ve already invited you. If you’re not and you’re interested in joining, either friend one of us, or drop us a line and we’ll tell you where we are. Bonus points if you join this weekend, when I am planning to steek a sweater that I have just finished knitting for BB. That should be good for LOTS of whining. Also, I am planning to cast on for this lovely shawl — and I’ve never knit from a charted pattern before (in fact, I usually make up a pattern as I go along, with EXTREMELY mixed results), so that should also be good for lots of whining. So come along. It will be fun.

On pseudonymity

M. LeBlanc is trying to decide whether to shed her pseudonymity. (I’m not linking because 1. Y’all already read Bitch Ph.D., and 2. This is a post about me, not a conversation with relevance to whether M. LeBlanc should or should not continue with a pseudonym.) I’ve done most (though not all) of my writing on teh internets under this pseudonym, and it has mostly been a fine thing. Not because it has protected my privacy (when your in-laws and most of your friends know your pseudonym, qu'est-ce que c'est “privacy?”), but because it created a public space where I could play around onstage. I don’t expect to get taken seriously when I write under a silly pseudonym. And that, as it turns out, is the fun of it.

But that wasn’t the original reason why I chose to write under a pseudonym. I chose a pseudonym out of fear, though I knew then (not as well as I know now) that the pseudonym would never offer me fail-safe protection. A pseudonym is the condom of casual writing — it will protect you in most cases, but it’s got a high failure rate. It’s a house made of straw. If someone blows hard enough, they’ll get in, huffing and puffing and terribly pleased with their own efforts. Hey, if that’s what gets them through the tedium of their days, who am I to protest? Everyone needs a point of interest to get them out of bed in the mornings. Unmasking bloggers may be a sort of creepy and stalkerish hobby, but whatever. There are worse hobbies. It ain’t heroin. When it comes to someone like me, though, I’m just surprised that anyone would think it worth the effort. I’m nothing, no one. I’m a housewife in the suburbs, with two kids and an elaborate education I don’t do much with. There are a million of us, but the world already has more than enough volunteers to form the small regiment needed to conduct the Mommy Wars™ that seem to be our most prolific cultural production (and the New York Times’ most reliable revenue stream). Who on earth cares about the name of yet another member of the unproductive articulate chattering classes?

I’d feel differently, of course, if my goal was to become more important or pursue professional ambitions. But I’m not planning to run for public office, nor to seek my fame and fortune. And there’s not much I’ve written that would disqualify me from getting any ordinary old job of the kind that pays the bills so that you can dream your impossible dreams in the absence of physical privation. I’ve worked in a bookstore; I’ve been other people’s administrative assistants. I could do that again, and no one on the hiring team would give a rat’s ass about anything I’ve written here, even if it were under my real name. I might cringe a little to hear me quoted back to myself by coworkers and acquaintances — any collection of words must contain things the author wishes she could erase and make as though they’d never been. But most of my real-life friends have known about the blog for a good long time, and I find in the end it doesn’t much matter if I say something I’m a little ashamed of afterwards. As I keep telling BB as she struggles with the (comparatively) vast stage of kindergarten, we all embarrass ourselves. It’s just part of life, and something that doesn’t register to anyone else half as strongly as it registers to you. I tell her it doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t — unless someone you fear is paying attention.

I have always known that people I feared might be paying attention. I have an awful lot of privilege in my life, but there is one small privilege I have never had. I have never not been afraid. Fear was my birthright, and the names and faces of the people I fear have always been known to me. It was the faces of my family I pictured when I chose a pseudonym and hit enter. The thought of them peering into the contents of my head, even a public performance of the contents of my head, filled me with fear. They have never paid attention to me except in order to find more effective tools to shame and control me. I used a pseudonym in order to keep from getting flattened with weapons drawn from my own mind.

I bought myself a lot of time with that pseudonym. It’s been more than four and a half years — almost an eternity in internet time, and long enough to bury most of what I’ve said in the avalanche of verbiage that Google so meticulously tracks. (Oh, sure, you can still find everything I’ve ever had to say, but who has the patience to page through that many search results?) I bought myself so much time that having a blog is now as unremarkable as having a telephone. Everyone and their grandmother has a blog lying around here somewhere, gasping for updates. Hell, my dad talks about the people he’s met through blogging. I bought myself so much time that, really, having a blog turns out to be no big deal.

But I couldn’t buy myself forever. A few weeks ago, the wind blew through the place where the straw walls were weakest — Facebook, that mishmash of childhood friends, family, Lexulous buddies, PTA moms, bloggers. One of the people I have been protecting myself from noticed that I know someone she does, someone she works with. How is it, she demanded of the department secretary, that my SISTER knows that person? There was a chain of communication from the department secretary onward, like a junior high drama, culminating in a phone call. It’s just so FUNNY, she said to me, that you would know someone who’s an academic. (Only after I hung up the phone did I think of telling her that there’s now an equivalency exam one can take, such that, if one passes, one is certified to become friends with people in the hallowed halls of academia, even if one has not achieved such rarefied heights oneself.) We debated the merits of her method of trying to ferret out how I knew this person. That is to say, we yelled at each other for 20 minutes, while MB cheered me on in the background. After we hung up (or were hung up on), I shook for 40 minutes straight. But I was proud of myself. It turns out I really can feel the fear and do it anyway. I did it. I said my piece. I didn’t back down.

I don’t know for certain that she’s gone on to uncover my pseudonym, but I know there is a clear trail from the person she’s identified to this blog, if she digs enough to pursue it. The only reasonable course of action is to assume that I have already been discovered. I’ve come a long way, baby, from my most fearful early years, because I never considered pulling the whole blog down. (I did consider locking it, but only briefly.) I was relieved, though, that it’s been such a long time since I’ve used this space regularly, or for any personal ruminations.

But I have been thinking about it, and I have come to a decision: to hell with that. It’s a fine thing to not be blogging because I have nothing to say. It’s perfectly valid to set aside personal stories because I think the time for them in blogland has more or less passed. But to refrain from speaking because I’m afraid to be heard? Fuck that. This is still my space, whatever name I choose to call myself by. Audience matters, of course it does, but it isn’t everything. If I have something I need to say (which doesn’t happen often, these days, but I suppose remains possible), I’m still going to say it. Even if someone I used to fear is reading. Because, really, who gives a shit? I don’t. I’m nearly 40 years old. I’m done fearing my past. It’s time to move on.

Occupational hazards

One of the mild irritants of being the proprietor of such an aged (if not distinguished) parenting blog is the steady stream of emails one receives from marketing departments and PR operations. I suppose the poor dears can't be faulted for assuming that parenting bloggers of all stripes acquired the hobby primarily for the chance to Collect Free Stuff Whilst In The Service of Advertising-Based Consumerism. That is, after all, a big part of what parenting blogs do these days, and it's certainly the portrait of parenting blogs presented by the mainstream media. My local paper, The Boston Globe, has run several articles about product-based parenting blogs recently. If you're a hip, happening, Google-enabled marketing professional, of course you're going to be combing the "About Me" pages of even the most infrequently updated parenting blogs, looking for email addresses for moms who want to help you get the word out about your fascinating product or service in exchange for free stuff!

So. I get where these folks are coming from, and I feel for them. Why not harvest my email address and send me their latest marketing blast? Why not send me several marketing blasts per month, with no "unsubscribe" link? (Which, okay, let's not even get me started about the idea that I should have to opt out of an email list that I didn't subscribe to in the first place. But at least it's some way to put a stop to it.) Chances are I would love the chance for Free Stuff! And, on the off chance that just possibly I don't? Well, hey. What's the opportunity cost of email-blasting people who don't want to be email-blasted? Nothing. So why not?

Mmmm, well. I propose to develop a good reason why not. So here I present to you what I hope will be a very, very occasional feature: The Spammity Spam Hall of Shame. Presented to those marketers with very poor email etiquette: frequent emails, no unsubscribe link, particularly annoying content, and/or design features that make it difficult to filter them directly into the trash.

Our first winner of the Spammity Spam Hall of Shame is a local Boston company called [NAME REMOVED, because the company has promised to review its email practices]. The email I got today -- which assures me that my readers would love to hear about it, and I'm taking them at their word, as you can see -- avoided the filter I'd set to send their stuff directly to the trash. AND it contained a typo in the first sentence! AND it doesn't have an unsubscribe link! AND, best of all, it recycles a press release from June 24 which informs me that shoppers get a 5% discount on July 7! Only today is the 14th! So that's pretty damn useful, thanks!

The moral of this story, o marketing gurus, is that you can find my email address in the "About Me" link, yes. But you might want to think twice before you use it. Unless you're of the considered opinion that all publicity is good publicity, even the kind that associates your name with spammers via the Great God Google.

Silk Soymilk: I am not amused

It took Marion Nestle to alert me, though I've been buying Silk Soymilk by the gallon for years and years. You'd think I would have noticed from the packaging change. Except, whoops! There was no packaging change. Just the very subtle substitution of the word "NATURAL" for the word "ORGANIC" on a package that otherwise looks exactly the same, and -- more to the point -- costs exactly the same.

This, my friends, is Not Cool. I would take it under advisement if I were presented with a choice between the organic soymilk I am accustomed to buying, and a cheaper non-organic version of the same product. I would even take it -- somewhat more grumpily -- if I were presented with a non-organic product at the price I had been paying, but clearly marked as different from the organic soymilk I expected. But switching an organic product with a non-organic one with no change in price and virtually no change in packaging? Does no one at Dean Foods understand that consumers do not like being played for fools? Let me enlighten them.



Dear Dean Foods/White Wave,

I have been a consumer of your refrigerated soymilk since it was introduced to the market, lo, all these many years ago, back when White Wave was an independent company. I like the taste of it better than dairy, and I appreciate how easily your soymilk allows me to add more soy to my diet. My son, who is an extremely picky eater with a very limited diet, also prefers the taste of your product to dairy. We go through close to two gallons of soymilk per week in this house. In fact, I had asked my husband to pick up some more on his way home from work today.

I am going to call him back and tell him not to bother. There is simply no reason for us to spend organic-level money on a non-organic product, and there's certainly no reason to spend money with a company that can't be bothered to show a very minimal level of openness with its customers. Either we'll learn to love dairy again (and NOT Horizon "Natural," either), or we'll find another brand of soymilk for our cereal and coffee.

Sincerely,
A Formerly Happy Customer

Well-schooled in the comedy classics

LG: “Mama, we are supposed to use compound words to fill in the blanks in this Spring poem.”

PS: “Uh, okay. You can show it to me when you’re done.”

LG: “Spring… time. Blue… birds. Butter… flies. May… flowers. Sun… Mama, is ‘sunbe’ a word?”

PS: “Sunbeam?”

LG: “No, not sunbeam. SunBE.”

PS: “Er, sunbe? No. That’s not a word.”

LG: “Oh, wait! It’s sun-flowers and may-be. Is 'maybe' a compound word?”

PS: “Yeah, I guess it is.”

LG: “Okay, I finished. Here, look.”

PS: [Reading it over] “Looks great, buddy. Except this here. You’re missing a letter. ‘Sprintime,’ see? The 'g' is missing.”

LG: “Oh, sprint-time, ha! ‘Yes, sprint-time days are filled with fun.’”

PS: [Laughing] “Sprint-time days are filled with fun. We sprint because we have to run. We sprint because we’re being chased. But soon this word will be erased.”

LG: [Laughing] “Mama, that’s great! We sprint because we’re being chased, and now this word is erased!”

BB: “Sprinting is running! You know what this is?"

PS: "What?"

BB: "A running gag.”

Change of plans

BB: "I am not going to have kids. Because they might bother me."

PS: "Mmmm, I can see that."

BB: "Yeah. Kids might bother me. How do you not have kids?"

PS: "Uh. I promise that I will explain that to you in embarrassing detail when you are a little older."

BB: "Okay."

LG: "Why embarrassing?"

PS: "Well, a lot of kids get embarrassed when their parents talk about that stuff. But it doesn't have to be embarrassing."

LG: "Oh. Okay."

BB: "Anyway. Kids might bother me, and I don't want to be bothered."

PS: "Okay."

BB: "Plus, I don't even LIKE kids."

Future plans

BB: [climbing up on the arm of my chair] “You are my mama.”

PS: “That’s true. And you are my BB.”

BB: “Well, I am not going to have a kid.”

PS: “No? You’re not going to have a kid? Okay. How come?”

BB: “Because I’m going to be an engineer.”

PS: “Oh. Okay. But, you know, you can be an engineer AND have a kid. If you want.”

BB: “You can?”

PS: “Sure.”

BB: “But, then I have to marry a boy.”

PS: “To have a baby you have to marry a boy? Well. You can do it that way, yeah. But there are other ways.”

BB: “I think I would try to find a boy who was already a grown-up.”

PS: “Good idea.”

BB: “But, how would I know if he was already married?”

PS: “Um, you can ask him if he’s married. Or you can check his hand. If he’s wearing a wedding ring on his left hand, he’s probably married.”

BB: “So if he’s wearing a ring, he’s married?”

PS: “Well, if he’s wearing a wedding ring. See? On the fourth finger of his left hand.”

BB: “But… what if I can’t tell which hand is right and which hand is left?”

PS: “Oh, honey. You have a long time before you have to worry about this. Because you’re a long way from being a grown-up. So. Trust me, by the time you’re ready to worry about this, you won’t have any trouble telling the right hand from the left.”

BB: “Can two girls get married?”

PS: “Yeah. You know you have friends who have two moms.”

BB: “Uh, yeah. But I can’t marry you, right? Because you’re already married?”

PS: “Yeah. You’re not allowed to marry your mama. That’s one of the rules.”

BB: “But you can have a baby and be an engineer.”

PS: “Yeah.”

BB: “But… well, maybe I could just build things in the yard, so that I can stay home and watch the baby.”

PS: “Or, if you marry a boy, he could stay home and take care of the baby.”

BB: “If you marry a girl?”

PS: “She could stay home and take care of the baby. Or you both could go to work and you could pay someone to take care of the baby. Or you can ask Mama to come over, and I’ll take care of the baby while you go to work.”

BB: “Okay, Mama. That sounds good. I love you.”

PS: “I love you, too.”