Herr Meow is noisily banging in the kitchen –in raptures over his raisin, banana, Cheerio and cheezy cracker snack, no doubt. Feeding Herr Meow is like feeding a tiny and not wholly self-sufficient Craig Claiborne— only not a $4000-binge-eating Mr. Claiborne, may he rest in peace.
[Aside: Herr Meow does have dietary restrictions at this age– unlike some babies we know. For one he is not yet allowed raw dairy. So, yogurt and cheez are ok but regular milk will be a no-no for a while. He also does not yet eat a lot of spicy food, or candy. Unlike certain mothers who’ve fed their kid Twizzlers from a very early age, I think that getting them so used to loads of sugar, artificial colors and processed molasses is probably not a good idea even if the babies look absolutely adorable with a mouth full of FD&C red #3.]
Okay… in the time that it took me to hastily type mouthfuls of entry and try to research the other bits (I was talking about Heather Armstrong [Dooce] in the bit about mothers who Twizzler, btw), I stumbled upon something amazing.
The blogging world is a catty, catty place. Not only am I not even a runner-up in the cattiness contest… I’m not even in the running! Don’t believe me? Well, for starters I won’t post a trackback to the entry wherein Heather tells us brazenly that her six-month old eats Twizzlers– mostly because if she ever has the time to read all the ass-kissy comments on her blog, the love mail, the hate mail and all the other trackbacks to more recent entries, I don’t want her to think that I judge her solely on feeding her kid candy when she wasn’t physiologically ready to do so.
I like her blog, actually. But there are definitely many things I soooooooo do not agree with about the way she lives her life and VERY SPECIFICALLY about her mothering– though she is still hilarious as all hell and an entertaining read. But as most other bloggers, we all envy a little her astronomical success.
Apparently a few months ago, there was a blog called “Discussing Dooce,” which tore Dooce a new one and made loads of fun of her, her husband, her little girl, the dog, and all their woes. While I don’t really hate Heather, I think that would have been a total riot to read– I’ve read that it was very well written and funny (except for the part about completely ripping what another human being holds dearest, that is). Alas, it is now gone from cyberspace, and all you get when you try to look for it is some isolated comments about, alternately, how sad it is that there are blogging hatemongers out there and how it was really, really funny.
Honestly though…. Dooce is kind of a celebrity, and while it may not appear to be very nice to do so, celebrities do inch forward toward a niceness no-man’s land. The true celebrities get SEVERAL assholes torn daily by such websites as Dlisted. And don’t you tell me you don’t read.
But anyway. There have been catfights over at what used to be The Aitch, for dissing Julie’s A Little Pregnant in (not-so) private, and then the Sarcastic Journalist also seems to have a Dooce-disliking following (again– no trackback and no links because I’m a coward and don’t want the traffic going that way).
It’s just like high school, but with people who can mostly spell.
There was something I really hated about high school, and that was the mind games.
I hated wondering whether, if I acted overly friendly toward someone, my behavior would be read as either socially awkward or plain smacking of desperation.
I’ve never wanted to be a desperate person– one who cowers in the shadows, hoping she’s not last picked for dodgeball (though I never minded being last-picked– in fact, I tended to hide behind the out-of-shape people just for that purpose).
I hate mindgames, and I hate having to second-guess people. I like the straightforwardness I’ve found in the internet community, enveloped in one single credo: If you don’t like it, don’t read it.
And incidendally, I’m completely tripping out here, but I just had to get that out there.
And incidentally, again, I COMPLETELY agree with Trainwreck. I couldn’t even make it past a couple of sentences without feeling like .
Otay. Dinner, y’all. Talk to you later.