Yes, I realize I said I was glad to meet whomever I met multiple times. That’s just how glad I am to have met them. Yes, the sound [turn it up, I lost my voice!] is super delayed and makes me look as if I’m in some boring action-free kung fu flick. That’s the intended effect, of course; this super crappy laptop webcam is no match for my ultimate yammering on about nothing technique.

I’m seeing a lot of bullshit on the internet right now about BlogHer and the conference this weekend. Calling the attendees followers, wannabes, ass kissers, elitists, clique-sters, bitches: you name it, I seem to have read it in the past few days.

I have very little to say except STFU. It was awesome, the people were awesome, the experience was awesome. I plan on making a yearly trek there. Every single person I encountered was super friendly and wonderfully accepting.

If you didn’t go, you really don’t know what it’s about and you have no business knocking it. If you went and didn’t have fun, then that’s your own fault. Try harder next time. If there was drama, so what? It didn’t overshadow and shouldn’t supersede the rest of it.

I was asked this question last night and I had to reflect more on my answer, in the light of day.

I chose cheat.

Oh yea… btw. This is Miss. Maria asked me to cover for her because she is still recovering from her amazing weekend.

Getting back to the subject at hand. Cheating. Such a touchy subject, I know. But that’s what it’s all about here so I feel just fine talking about it.

Yes, I chose cheat. I’ve been cheated on in the past. It’s very much not fun. So why would I want to inflict that kind of pain on someone? Good question. I guess my answer depends on exactly what my definition of cheating is.

To me, a kiss with someone NOT your partner, isn’t cheating. Kissing, groping, getting a little dirty, not so bad. I mean, we only live once right? As long as you are using protection and using your BRAIN and not spreading diseases, then live it up.

Hi! I’m Amanda from Shamelessly Sassy. I’m taking over Maria’s blog today while she is at BlogHer rocking out.  I love Maria.  Not only is intelligent, independent, and fabulous, she’s quite gorgeous also. To make it clear,  I have copious amounts of respect for Maria.  Now, down to business:

Recently, I was directed to a little website called Rent-A-Dildo.com.  No, I’m not joking.  Just step back, take a deep breath.  Admire the scenery, if you must.

No matter what you do, it does not change the fact that people out there are RENTING, USING, and RETURNING sex toys.   Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prude.  But seriously, people are sharing sex toys? After they’ve been in someone else, um, NO thanks.

They are putting them in their orifices, mailing them back to the company, the company then sanitizes them, and  mails them to someone else.   Technically speaking, these sex toys are USED.

Hi, Zoeyjane here. Maria was piteous enough to ask me to add some filler while she is sleeping at BlogHer, so I give you the following to ponder…

How many readers feel like they really know us bloggers? Reading here for a while, on my blog, on a few others’, you might think that what you see is what you get. Zoeyjane=me, Immoral Matriarch=Maria and so on, right? But what self-censorship do we engage in, if any?

Who doesn’t want their husband to know exactly how much they spent on the new pair of shoes and who is fond of feeding their toddler McDonalds on a daily basis? No one, from what I can read.

We, the ones that could be sub-classed as the bitchy mommy bloggers, put it all out there. We bleed, ponder, opine, and rant. Our kids can be occasional dwellings: their attitudes and vices, say. But for the most part, we’re talking about our world - and the people and news that touch it. And how it pissed us off.

Two potential announcements. I’m looking for your input, if you are so inclined to offer it.

J. and I split in December 2004, when The Bella was 12 1/2 months old. During our separation we conceived and I bore Ari. We didn’t move back in together until May 2007. So yes, for all intents and purposes other than financial, I was a single mother. Which may be why he complained pretty often that I didn’t let him really participate in the raising of the girls. And why I’m dreading co-parenting. I’m selfish and they are mine.

During that time I kept a journal. I thought it’d be a good idea to document each month of their lives, of our lives together in order for them to look back on it when they were older and see that regardless of what happened, they had had a happy life. I also wanted them to be able to appreciate what I went through ensuring that they had that happy life, and look back from wherever I am then, to where I was now. I kept them written on paper, in private MySpace entries, in Microsoft Word, wherever. Sadly, I’ve lost most of them.

I’m a bit…crass on this blog. I know I am. I accept it. I appreciate it. It’s me. You either love it or you hate it. Take it or leave it, I could care less. I will be me regardless, and the only people that can come close to making me consider changing who I am are those who actually know me.

One thing I am pretty proud of is that immoralmatriarch and Maria are the same person. Don’t understand? OK. I’ll elucidate.

Ask a friend. Any friend. Any off the web, not-just-bloggy-friend I have and they will tell you: I am exactly the way I am in real life, as I am online. There is nothing I have said online that I will not say to your face, given the right opportunity. I may choose not to sometimes, or I may even decide that it’s best for me to put a bit of icing on top of the throwing star to make it go down a bit easier, but I’ll say it if I feel like it, and however I feel like it. Usually? It’ll come out the same way from my mouth as it does from my fingertips.

I have weird crushes. I mean, I have normal crushes too, but I have weird ones. For example…

Alton Brown.

Oh Lordy I love me some Alton Brown. He’s the nerdy chef host of Good Eats, which I believe is [hands down] the best show on Food Network. One of the best shows on television actually. I’ve learned a lot, laughed a lot, and swooned a lot. His fried chicken recipe makes the best you’ll ever eat, and also the reason I gave up vegetarianism, right when I was about to make the the move to veganism. Yeah. That good. His humor, his geekiness, the way he does that annoying ‘uhh’ in between sentences when he’s explaining something all scientifiky. His glasses and his perpetually thinning spiked hair. I just love him.

Forrest Gump.

The Bella has curly hair, and whenever it’s time to comb it out, the tangles make it a bit more painful than either she or I would like. So, when she was younger, I tried many ways to distract her from it, and found a magic routine.

I brush her hair, and make all kinds of comic book fight sounds. ‘Pow!’ ‘Bang!’ ‘Zap!’ along with some ‘ow’s’ to make it seem like I’m behind her in more pain than she is. I tell her that her hair is trying to fight me, and that brushing hurts because I’m fighting it back. So, in order for it not to hurt anymore, she has to tell her hair to stop kicking my ass. The whole thing makes her laugh, but nothing more than getting to say “Hair, stop kicking my mommy’s ass!” By the time she gets that out, the tangles are gone, and I’m finished. She knows it’s a joke and that her hair is as an unwilling a victim as she is, but she enjoys getting to say that ‘grown up word’ all the same. Saves us both a lot of hassle. A bit unorthodox, I’ll admit, but it works.

He was sitting naked on the couch when I returned, his hands folded together on his lap hiding his crotch. I smiled and took him in, appreciative that my first experience wouldn’t be with some creepy old geezer with age spots and unkempt nails. His hips and thighs were pale, while the rest of him was a mellow bronze. The hair on his forearms and legs was bleached from the sun and he sat with his feet pointed outwards, calves flexed from the angle. His eyes darted around the room and back to mine, glowing eerily under the blacklights along with the single speck of lint lodged in the bit of hair he had in the middle of his chest.