Baby mix me a drink

The day they handed out the baby cravings, I was probably skipping class, smoking dope, and steaming up windows in my boyfriend's car. I'll be 33 this year, and aside from those youthful generalized 13-year-old expectations of motherhood, where it just seemed obvious that I would have kids--as it seemed obvious I'd have a fleet of nannies and the excessive funds to pay them--I've never wanted kids. I'm selfish, messy, and irresponsible, and though I enjoy children in small doses, they mostly scare the everloving shit out of me.

So, it isn't any wonder I don't get mommy blogs. It's not so much that I don't like them--although most of them I don't (Blogs full of sunshine and cuteness and rainbows and PINK! and holier than thou platitudes about the end all be all of motherhood, I'm looking at you. And I'm making a rude gesture.)--it's just there's a serious disconnect in terms of life experience. For me, searching for a baby shower gift is like that dream where you're late for an exam you haven't studied for. And you're naked. And maybe on fire.

Imagine, then, the whine and sneer I emitted at seeing my blog to review today is, indeed, a mommy blog.

But wait! What's this? A nice design, a cool title, and the very first post, right up there at the top, brimming with snarkitude.

Yes, folks, it's that rare breed of mommy blog: one I'd read.

The design is pleasant, elegant, easy to read, and organized. Look, y'all! The shiny things and clutter are all collapsed in the sidebar so we don't have to see them if we don't want to. I'd suggest rolling up the archives into a drop down box with the individual months accessible from there, but other than that, excellent design.

And even better? Jayna knows exactly how to use a comma. I mean, exactly. Do you know how rare this is? For my editor's eyes, it's a treat to see a post with appropriate paragraph separation instead of huge blocks of text, proper capitalization instead of cutesy chat-speak, correct use of punctuation instead of a complete unawareness of the mere existence of a semi-colon, and holy lord she knows the difference between "its" and "it's."

This is a well-written blog, and Jayna is funny and has a wry sense of humor with enough sarcasm to satisfy my jaded sensibilities. And she's a mother with a realistic and human view of her situation and her child, without gumdrops and jasmine-scented poop and Stepford wife-like aspirations toward a smudge-free existence.

But what really gets me about this blog, as a woman who is so attached to her fiance (sometimes desperately so), I recognize the heartbreaking reality of being without that person who you turn to for support and laughter and love and common ground. But being without them for over a year? And while caring for a new baby? It isn't to be borne.

So, Jayna, well done. And chin up. Hug this little precious close and hang on tight.

Homage

Time was, I wanted to be a writer. There wasn't much else I was particularly good at, except maybe doling out advice, shaking my booty, and tying cherry stems in knots with my tongue. The advice thing I guess could have spun into psychology or something; my booty shaking was only ever good enough to make guys want me, never good enough for a stage; and the cherry stem thing is just a trite way of implying what other twisty things I can do with my tongue. But writing? I thought that was going to be my life. I thought it in big, grand, neon lights kind of ways, never in the way that you have to actually sit down and do it, muddle through, churn it out, take criticism, be rejected, and fight through days and days and maybe months or years of constipated creativity.

Though I still cling to the hope of being paid to write, it's a tarnished hope, one that's eclipsed by bills and time and fear. Mostly fear. You know that saying, "those who can't do, teach"? Well, those who can't write, edit. And that's me. I edit.

But today, I'm supposed to review the blog of a writer. One who does the work of writing, with discipline and apparent joy and determination. And honestly, I'm a little starstruck. Not because she's famous. I don't know her from Adam. I'm starstruck for the simple fact that she does it. She lives it. And that, to me, is brave.

Okay, Fine, Dammit (cute name, eh?)

The design of this blog is fine. It's uncluttered, neat, easy to navigate. Slightly boring and bland, but it does the trick. I'd like an About page, though. The design could be punched up several notches to create more visual interest, but it's not really vital. The writing, for me, creates enough interest.

When I review a blog, unless it's a hot mess of a thing that makes my eyes bleed--and even then, really--I tend to read the whole thing. I like to get a full picture of the blogger. Sometimes it's a struggle through pointless drivel and self-important posturing and crippling mundanities. This time, it was a joy. Because Maggie? She can write.

There's a quiet strength to her voice, and a precious attention to life that expresses joy and wonder. She's a mom, and a blogger, but not a mommy blogger. She writes about her kids with humor and humility. They're not appendages, they're whole people, who she respects and, I suspect, feels humbled by. And she's warm-hearted, but not in a way that makes me want to smack the ever-loving shit out of her, as do some namby pamby feel-good bloggers.

And she's funny. Maybe not rip-roaring, and not with the crass vulgarity that I so often enjoy (and emit). But it's a gentle, self-deprecating humor. Nuanced rather than overt.

My one complaint? That she's a bit hampered by lack of anonymity. My favorite post was written from a place of pain, and it was posted, I'm sure, with eyes closed, praying while hitting "publish," hoping that she hadn't revealed too much. Well, for me, it wasn't enough. It hit the tip of the iceberg of what I think this woman can express were she unencumbered by fear of discovery. Or reprisal.

I'm adding this to my daily reads. I want more. I love her writing. And I hate her for it. In the best possible way.

Now I really want some curry

One of my very good friends lived in India for a while, and I always loved reading her emails about her experiences there. The strange sights, smells, spices. It was a taste of something completely foreign, and beautifully strange. And that's a little bit of what I get from Let Me Be Me.

Sure, it's in the vein of our recent deluge of Indian bloggers requesting reviews. There's still some cultural disconnect for me, but this is something new. She's an adult, and quite a progressive one at that. There's no angsty juvenile crap going on, and though there's some poetry, it's not making my eyes bleed.

The design could be heaps better. It's your standard mustardy yellowish Blogger template. Not cringeworthy, but completely nondescript and boring. And though her blog is, above all, serene, it didn't bore me. Not quite. There are tons of easy to customize free templates out there. Find something unique, something with personality.

Now, back to that serene thing. This chick is that. It's very zen, insightful, and thoughtful. And if the writing weren't actually quite good, it might be boring. For me. Because I like things that are ramped a little higher up on the raunch scale. I'm more pigpen than zen.

But there's a sense of peace here, a quiet observation of what's going on in the world that is appealing and interesting. The problem is there's a lack of personality. I read the entire blog, and I still don't know very much about this woman. That's partially because there are bits that, as an American who's never traveled outside of European countries, I'm unfamiliar with much of her world. But that's not all of it. There's some reserve here, maybe an unwillingness to let loose. And I'd really, really like her to. In her quest to "be me," I'm not sure she has. Ignorant American that I am, when I think of India, I think of spice. And that's what I feel like this blog needs -- just a bit more flavor.

I give it





because I really do enjoy her writing. But there's some improvement to be made. Snazz up your template, and give us a bit more of yourself in your writing. So many times I say that I don't want to hear about what people do every day -- but in this case, surprisingly, we might could do with a little bit more of that. Who are you? Where do you go? Who are your friends? What's your husband like? Show us your favorite shoes, tell us about your neighborhood. Let us in a little more.

She's giving me a toothache

There was a time, many, many years ago, when I had a Molly Ringwald perm and 20 pairs of Guess jeans and wore white Keds with everything. I made mix tapes of slow songs from the radio and wrote heartfelt and weepy poetry. I sent rambling notes to friends with cutesy acronyms (KIT, FFE, BFF) and used hearts to punctuate my exclamation points.

Because I was that girl once upon a time, it makes it hard to slam Sneha from Life is Above it All. Oh, she's quite a bit older than I was during the time I'm remembering, and she's a good deal smarter than I was, but that core of innocent youth remains. I don't want to squash that earnest hopefulness.

It's not that this is a hot mess. It's just... young. And fluffy.

To start with she's managed to include two of my pet peeves. There's a huge ass banner that takes up the entire page and I have to scroll for ages to get to content. Why do people do this? Why? Next, she uses ellipses constantly. Look, y'all. There's a time and place for these popular little dots: to indicate the removal of text, to indicate a thought trailing off, or to indicate a pause in speech. And that's about it folks. Overuse can be extremely annoying to read.

Some more problems? Lots and lots of poetry. Sappy, angsty poetry. It's not for me. Some people enjoy it, I'm sure, but I can't get into it. Especially rhyming poetry.

Also, the subtitle portion in the banner means absolutely nothing to me. "Emotion is not a footfall." (Ok, so I thought at first it said "football." Either way, I still don't get it.) What? I'm sure there's a cultural disconnect here as she's Indian and I'm American, but I can't for the life of me understand what she's getting at. And unfortunately that happens a lot for me with this writing. Oh, she's smart. No doubt. And kind and good and sweet and hard-working. But unfortunately for me this blog boils down to a lot of words on a screen. And not much else.

This is a young girl's diary, a smattering of thoughts and poems and daily experiences that, while meaningful to her and her friends, does not lend itself to wider consumption. And maybe that's fine. Maybe that's all she wants. But by submitting her site to be reviewed my guess is maybe she's ready for more. If that's the case, some suggestions:

Tighten up. Edit. Get rid of the ellipses, use proper spacing around punctuation, refrain from using cutesy IM-speak (ur, u, 2, shud, cuz, randomly capped and lowercase words, etc.). Don't write in all lowercase -- e.e. cummings can get away with it, you can't. Write for yourself but consider your audience. What do we want to know? Do we want to read paragraphs and paragraphs of your daily experiences? No, absolutely not. Find something interesting to write about. Boil it down, find the good bits, wrap it up in a bow, be concise.

Find your voice -- right now you're one of thousands of sweet young girls with nothing much to say. What makes you different? What do you have to say? Where is your individuality? I read your whole blog, and I know there's more you're not sharing: you're observant and insightful and you have a charming spirit. But it's flat on the screen. There's no dimension.

Right now it's a







but don't give up. Get cracking on my suggestions and let's see where you end up.