While at the BlogHer conference, a friend of mine and I were hanging out with some other people when we noticed an absolute mob.  We inquired about the mob and found out that these people were all hanging onto a big name blogger.  Both of us had heard of the blogger but never really taken the time to read her.  We exchanged a look that said, “What’s the big deal?  It’s just another blogger.  There are THOUSANDS here right now.”

Surely I’m not the only person who has noticed a heightened interest in celebrities, real or fake.  So often I scratch my head and say to myself, “What’s the big deal?”  Sometimes, I just don’t understand the need to make people celebrities.  What happened to the days of celebrities being movie stars and athletes (only the good ones though!) and musicians?  Who are some of these people I can’t seem to escape?

-Lady Gaga.  She’s a pop singer, right?  She’s a pop singer who seems to take every opportunity available to her to do something outrageous and stupid to be the center of attention.  But why?  Doesn’t her title as pop singer ultimately earn her a bunch of fans anyhow?  Now I’ve never listened to her music.  I never will.  It’s not a slight against her, but rather her genre.  But what the hell is with those outfits?  No, I’m serious!  Those things look like crotch-strangling-icky-suits.  ICKY.  There’s too much crotch and too much painful looking boobage.  It’s like she’s trying to one up Madonna.  Oh and then there are the stupid things she keep saying in magazine interviews.  Her vagina is her place of creativity?  Are you kidding me?  Again, she’s a POP singer.  POP.  POP.  POP.  POP.  What effing creativity (aside from her wardrobe) are we talking about here?  The bottom line is this:  Lady Gaga is someone who could have achieved fame and a loyal fan base just by being a little different and with her music.  These crazy/stupid things she keeps doing and saying look like a desperate attempt to hold on to that fame and fan base when it’s not really needed.

-The Twilight kids.  I’ve never read the books nor have I seen the movies.  And that is not about to change.  Look, I’m sure the stories are good.  With a fan base as crazy as this, it has to be interesting.  I’m not someone who thinks all my fellow humans are idiots.  The only idiots are the ones who “Like” the Twilight page on Facebook.  Yeah, I went there.

I am not interested in the stories.  I prefer vampires and werewolves that want to murder people in a horrific and gory manner.  Is that so wrong of me?  But the hype surrounding these kids is nuts!  Now I’m not old, but I’m not really all that young either.  So please explain to me how a vampire who never washes his hair (and admits to such) is as desirable as Robert Pattinson?

Every picture taken of these kids shows them with their mouths hanging open and vacant gazes on their faces.  Is that their attempt to look ethereal or dreamy?  Well it’s not working, it makes them look high.

-Reality show train wrecks.  Seriously.  WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE.  Why are we buying in to news about people having public meltdowns or who celebrate the fact that they are basically worthless?  It’s one thing to watch the shows (which I don’t!) and laugh at them, but it’s another thing when I see pictures of these people hanging out with real working celebrities and posing for pictures.  Is it really that simple?  Do I just go and get all oranged up on spray tan, go to the Jersey Shore and punch Snookie in the face while high on meth while wearing a skirt so short that you can see my yaya?  Is that my ticket to fame?  Why is this working for these people????  I’m so confused.

-Fake celebrities (a.k.a. sex tape celebrities).  All you need is a rich parent and a tape of you having sex with some douchebag to hit the public and Voila!  You’re a celebrity!  Oh you’ll get paid for making appearances and for doing shitty reality shows on E! but does that really make you interesting enough to deserve the attention?  Sure there will be pictures of you all over the place vacationing with real celebrities and you will be on every red carpet posing like your livelihood depends on it (because it does), but does that really make you a celebrity?  To me, that sounds like all you’re doing is leaching off of the celebrity vibes and hoping the light stops on you long enough for someone to notice you.  Please people, stop.  Do something worthwhile that doesn’t involve modeling or singing or acting, because we all know you got those gigs simply by being “that person in the sex tape with what’s-his-face.”  Go to college and get a degree.  Get a job that requires steady hours and concentration.  Be a REAL role model to little girls.  One that says that brains and empowerment can mean just as much, if not more, than looks and popularity.  But I’m talking to a wall, aren’t I?  These fake celebrities only care about looks and popularity.  Otherwise we wouldn’t know their names.

This whole rant started over my confession over not being star-struck over a certain celebrity blogger.  Now, I mean no disrespect to that blogger.  That person obviously WORKS for that attention and adoration.  That person started at nothing and built a name and a brand up around a blog.  That’s great.  And I really mean that.  The blogging superstars had to overcome a lot in order to get where they are.  They had to overcome bias and dismissals that they were merely regular people keeping a diary online.  I think we all know that it’s so much more than that, and that those people who broke out of the stereotypes deserve those paychecks because they WORK for them.  You’ll just have to forgive me for not being all starry-eyed over having one 10 feet away from me.  But then again, the only way I get all freaky fan-girl on someone is if their job mandates that they have a guitar slung across their hips.  And that they play it really well.  And that they write all their own music.  Basically you have the be Jerry Cantrell for me to squeal and hang on to your every word.  (I have a great story about an almost run in with Mr. Cantrell that I need to remember to share with you all some time.)  And that’s it.

…..Okay, maybe Trent Reznor, too.

Everybody else is doing it, and since I am a total poser, I will post my BlogHer ’10 Conference experience with all of you 3 loyal readers!  Sit back and unbutton your pants.  This may be a long one.

We took the train in to New York.  I was a little nervous about traveling with a toddler again (remember the flying from Seattle to Philly experience?  Yeah, I was afraid of that happening again!) but we bought a portable DVD player, got the kid some headphones, and the ride was totally quiet.  Success!

We get into Penn Station and lug all of our extremely heavy crap up two escalators before hitting the street.  I took a brief moment to look up and admire the city-scape before realizing that the taxi cue was almost a block long.

“Jessie,” I said.  “The hotel is only a mile away.  This line is crazy, let’s just walk.”

“We are not walking to the hotel.  We are waiting in this line for a taxi.”  He replied.

“But it’s not that far!  We can walk it, it will be quicker!”

“WE ARE NOT WALKING WE ARE WAITING.”

“Grouch ass,”  I said.

So we cued up and waited for our turn to get a cab and in all fairness I have to admit that it didn’t end up taking very long at all.  We got to the hotel, we unloaded and checked in.  The lobby was already full of squealing and hugging women and my excitement grew.  We were led to the correct bank of elevators (the elevator situation at this place was insane!) and standing in front of me was Denise!  I had just gotten there and was already hugging someone I adored!

We went up to the room and I started texting and calling people that I knew to see where they were.  Nobody was available yet.  So Jessie brought back a couple of dirty water hot dogs from a local street car and I inhaled mine while waiting when I realized that I needed to go register and get my badge before the booths closed for the night.  While standing in line, Jennifer called me and we ended up finding a quiet place to sit and meet face to face for the first time.  We chatted for a couple of hours before I decided to call Denise and see about getting all of us Chatter ladies together for a nice meet up.  We ended up at the BlogHer CE Dinner and met some of the famous contributing editors of the site as well as two of the co-founders of the site.  It was pretty cool.

We went back to Denise’s room and sat around chatting for a few hours.  I got to meet TW, who’s cooking site I love (and who fondled my belly quite a lot), as well as Sassymonkey and her husband.  Denise and TW’s daughter Rebecca was also there.  She gives me hope that the younger generations aren’t all going to grow up to be Paris Hilton.

Day one of the conference started with e Newbie Breakfast where all of us first-timers stuffed our faces with muffins and fruit while listening to the founders of BlogHer say hi to us.  I went with Jennifer, Jessica (BlackBeltMama) and I waved Linda over to our table after Jennifer recognized her from Chatter.  It was a really nice breakfast and I was surrounded by great and intelligent women.

After breakfast, Linda and I headed over to the morning keynote where we sat in the worst place ever to hear or see what was going on so I ended up having a conversation with a book publisher who came to the conference assuming all of the attendees would be “mommy bloggers”.  I politely corrected her and explained the truth that women bloggers cover all topics of interest from technology to politics.  She looked like she didn’t believe me so I turned my attention back to Linda so I wouldn’t be tempted to pull her hair.

I attended one session on Friday that bore me to tears so I went to lunch, hooked up with Sassymonkey and spent a couple of hours swag hunting with her and laughing as she volunteered to get her picture taken with everybody.  We then went to the Geek Lounge and chatted for a bit with Denise and Linda before I excused myself to go back to the room to spend time with Jessie and Lukas before the Voices of the Year Keynote that night.  (Jessie and Lukas, by the way had a great time in NYC.  They were out and about having a great time doing kid-friendly stuff together.  Great Daddy and Me time for my little boy.)  I went back to my room, played with Lukas and showed him all of the swag/toys that I had brought him.  We ordered a pizza from Ray’s Pizza (One of those iconic NY pizza places) and I ate in the room before putting on my pretty maternity dress (pretty, HA!) and headed to the keynote.

I sat alone and was enjoying the readers until a woman came in and sat right next to me (the row I was in had all empty chairs except for the two ends…why did she do that?) and kept getting up to go plug in her phone into an extension chord by a pillar in front of me.  Then she would sit and browse the internet on her phone and periodically ask me “Have they done the humor posts yet?”  She asked me this FOUR TIMES.  I wanted to yell at her to pay attention and leave me the hell alone, but I was a nice person and nodded quietly at her while biting my lips as hard as I could…you know…..the nice thing.

After the Keynote, I wandered around looking at the cool art.  I was getting pooped out.  I saw a room full of balloons and decided to swipe a yellow one for Lukas.  As they were still setting up for the Gala in the main ballroom, I decided I had enough time to run to my room really quick and deliver it.  I ended up laying down “just for a second” and fell asleep.  I’m so lame.  I got all dressed up in this ensemble that I had put so much thought into and I fell asleep in the damned thing.

I woke up the next morning and went to breakfast.  I sat alone at first but my table filled up with some super nice ladies.  Two of them were from Chicago and I asked them if it was an assault to their senses to be in NY and they said no.  I was surprised, but it was a great ice breaker and I ended up chatting with these two ladies the whole morning before my sessions started.  It’s proof that most of these people were totally friendly and totally cool.

I went to 3 sessions that day and enjoyed all of them.  I had lunch alone and was joined at the last minute by a woman wanting to talk about Apple products.  I stuffed what was left on m plate in my mouth and hurried away.  After my last session, I went up to my room to spend time with Jessie and Lukas.  We got dinner from the famous 53rd street Halal street car (it was really freaking good) and then I started texting and tweeting people about getting together.  Jennifer called me and told me to get my ass to the third floor for a little floor party the Chatter Ladies were having, so I rushed down and had a great time just chatting with women I adore on the internet and in real life.  And TW got some good belly-groping time in.

Jennifer and I then went to a party that we were both REALLY looking forward to only to find it a little too loud for us old-timers.  We stood in line to get drinks, but the woman in front of me was about to start a fist fight with the bartender over the color of her drink ticket and the fact that she wanted ALCOHOL and she wanted it NOW GODDAMMIT.  She finally got her cocktail consisting mostly of ice and cranberry juice and Jennifer and I got waters and got the hell out of there.  We decided to do a photography walk of Times Square (Jennifer is a super photographer).  It was dark outside, so we got the full experience of the obnoxious lights in the Square.  And all the obnoxious people.  If someone tried to harass us, Jennifer would threaten to beat them with her tripod.  I felt very safe with her.

And basically the next day we left.  I almost puked in the train terminal, but ended up holding it in until late last night.  Puking is fun!

At the end of it all, I have to say that I had a fantastic time.  It was so nice to meet people that I talk to almost on a daily basis face to face.  It was so nice to get out of the house and go to sessions based around my interests as a blogger (a pee-on blogger, but a blogger nonetheless).  The next conference will be held next year in San Diego.  Part of me winces at that.  I hate plane rides almost as much as I hate Apple, and I would have to go alone and leave my two babies behind for a long weekend.  I’m still mulling it over, but I would feel bad if I missed it.  I don’t know.  What I do know is that there are no regrets for this year.  I had a great time and I have an immense and new found affection for some of these women.  Thank you all so much for making my first BlogHer so great.

I’ve always been a little…..ehh….different.  Some people might call it creative.  Some people might call it…well….freaking weird.  I’ve heard weird more than creative, so we’ll go with that one.

I started early.  I’d come up with names for things that would send people into giggles.  I referred to all genitalia (from the age of 2 until about 14) as wingle-wangles.  To me, that is one of my word-inventions that actually makes sense.  Look at your stuff sometime, boys and girls.  Look at it and mouth the word wingle-wangle.  It’s a perfect fit.

When I was in first grade, there were two incidents that convinced me that I was a gem among clumps of dirt in my family.  I put together my very first rhyme.  I was so unbelievably proud of myself that I rushed into my house after school and announced to my parents excitedly that I had thought of a rhyme.  The fruit of my budding genius, the amazing depths of my talent was sure to astound my parents.

“What is the rhyme?”  My mother asked me.

I gave a brief pause for dramatic effect.

“Skippy dippy.”  I said.

Instead of looking at me in awe and adoration as I had expected, my parents burst into hysterical laughter.  I stood for a moment scowling at them and then went to my room muttering under my breath that they were poopy heads who didn’t respect my talents.

That same year in art class, I made my mother a refrigerator magnet for Mother’s Day.  It was in the shape of a heart and I inserted a short, lyrical phrase that to me was more of a beat poem.  It stated the love that I had for my mother and also showcased my immense talents.  It read, “Ri Ri I love you, Somer.”  (FYI, the “Ri” is pronounced like “rye”)

I brought that magnet home to my mother and proudly placed it in her hands.  She looked at it for a moment, looked at me, and then back at the magnet before asking, “What is reeree?”

Angered that she had taken the lyrical part of my poem and turned it into one ridiculous sounding word, I corrected her that it was “Rye rye” and that it was a poem.  She smiled at me and placed the magnet on the refrigerator and said, “Oh, ok.”

I stomped back to my room, making sure my denim Keds slammed into the floor smartly while muttering under my breath that nobody understood my immense talents.  I stopped sharing the works of my genius with my parents after that.  They were, after all, poopy heads.

When I hit about 5th grade, I was made familiar with Stephen King.  It was at that time that I convinced myself that I needed to grow up to become a successful female horror writer.  I mean, I could scare my little brother half to death, why couldn’t I scare and disturb my peers as well?  Sadly, I was never able to gather the inner strength needed to showcase my talents to my peers.  I secretly blamed my poopy head parents.

In the seventh grade, we were required to write weekly themes of fiction for English class.  The teacher liked to nurture creative writing and always made sure to pull me aside after class to let me know that my works were very “creative.”  All the while, my peers were telling me that I was weird and that I had bad hair.  My fevered brain laboring under my budding teenage angst secretly blamed my poopy head parents.

In high school, I took Honors English classes and really enjoyed the reading and writing encouraged there.  I was always in really good with my teachers and had a reborn sense of confidence in my abilities to spin a yarn.  I was nowhere near as confident as I was in those early years (thanks, again, to the poopy head parents), but I was starting to believe in myself again.

My Senior year of high school I entered a writing contest.  It was a voluntary writing contest given to all students in the county.  One winner would be chosen from all of the participants and the prize was little more than recognition and a certificate.  Really, I wanted to see if I could do it.  And I did.  Out of all of the kids in the county who participated, I won.  I gathered my certificate and handshake from the principal, took it home, and put it in the top left drawer of my desk.  I didn’t tell anybody about it.

When I applied for college, I took that certificate to the university councilor who was assigned to me, and it impressed her so much that she let me bypass two “pre” classes and gave me direct admission to the School of Journalism.  Well, that certificate and my G.P.A., but the councilor really was quite impressed with me.  I didn’t call her a poopy head.

In college I excelled in all my writing classes.  I hated writing Journalism, yet I was good at it.  What I still loved was the fiction writing that my English professors assigned.  I’d read them in front of my classes and my class mates would laugh at the funny scenario I’d written.  That made me feel so damned good.  I stopped calling my parents poopy heads.

Once the poopy head mentality towards my parents stopped, I began to understand myself a little better.  I’m smart, but no more so than anybody else.  I’m talented, but not on any sort of epic scale.  I’m funny, but nobody would pay money to hear me tell a joke.  I’m very “meh”, and the weird thing about that revelation is that I’m totally okay with it.  Had my immense talents as a child prodigy been nurtured more by my parents, I might have grown up thinking I was better than what I am.  I might have thought more of myself than I deserved.  In truth, those poopy heads laughing at my genius helped ground me, whether they realized it or not.  And every time one of them finds it necessary to remind me of the “skippy dippy” story, my resolve to not take myself too seriously is renewed.

And yes, I’m reminded of that fucking “skippy dippy” story at least once a month by one or the other.  Damn my genius!