The radio was on in the car as we drove down the driveway, on our way to where I don’t remember anymore. I was in the front passenger seat unable to see over the dashboard of our maroon, two-door Ford LTD. I probably wasn’t wearing a seatbelt not because my mom didn’t care about me but because it was 1977.

My mom brought the car to a stop at the bottom of the driveway before she pulled out to make a left hand turn. That I remember.

The radio was tuned to an AM station, most likely AM1240 out of Waterbury, CT. I remember because we had to change our phone number not long before because it ended in those same four numbers–1-2-4-0. We were forever answering calls for song requests. After a weeks of apologizing to the callers and letting them know they had the wrong number, we just said we’d get the song right on and hang up the phone.

As she nudged the car forward to see beyond the hedges that lined our front lawn, the announcement came through the speakers.

“Elvis Presley is dead.”

Her foot went back on the brake.

“Elvis Pretzel is dead Mom?” I never could get his name right.

“Yeah,” she said, and we were both quiet for a moment–both of us processing the information in our own way. Me contemplating the finality of death; wrapping my seven year-old mind around such a horrific thought; worried that if he could die so too could the person I loved most in the world–the woman sitting next to me. And suddenly I was afraid. He couldn’t be dead! He couldn’t be gone!

“Isn’t there something someone can do?! Can’t they turn back the clock?” I asked. “No,” she said as she explained that if he was dead it was already too late. She was a nurse, and my mother, so I took her at her word letting the information sink in.

I wonder now what she was thinking when she heard the news. Elvis was the icon she grew up with. She had watched him on the Ed Sullivan Show with her family–my grandparents not understanding the draw. The cameras focused in on just his upper body. She watched over the years as he aged. She saw how he had become bloated. She saw too his comeback. But now he was gone.

Was part of her childhood gone too on that day?

Once again she inched the car forward and then turned left down the road. To where, I don’t remember.

It was just a moment in the car, at the end of the driveway, on a warm August day in 1977, but it has stayed with me for thirty years.

Oh the fun via Kevin!

Go ahead, upload those photos.

You should see my parents get down.

When I worked in retail–back when people used paper money–my favorite change to give was $.41.

One of each coin. So satisfying!

It’s Friday. I’m brain dead (so fried I just typed “ded”).

Thought you might be interested in getting in on a little contest over at My Mommy’s Place. She’s hosting The Buckaroo Haiku Contest. Hop on over. All entries must be submitted by 11:50 p.m. tonight.

My entries are below.

Happy Haikuing!!

I am so tired
Could be I’m glued to my chair
What? There’s beer? See ya.

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My foot is broken
Can you Bedazzle a cast?
Mamma needs some bling

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A fight is brewing
States are fighting for first place
Really?! Primaries.

…it’s probably just me limping across the floor.

Has anyone mastered the sexy saunter while wearing the walking cast? Cause this ski boot I have on my left foot is making it difficult to strut my stuff.

In the meantime, I give you *dun dun dun duuuun*

The Top 5 Reasons I Prefer to Visit My Podiatrist Over my Other Docs

#5. No hauling my ass over to another office for x-rays. He’s got a machine right in his office. Just for feet!

#4. The office decor includes many posters of fabulous shoes.

#3. When he pulls out the ultrasound I’m not going to find out if it’s a boy or a girl.

#2. You only have to get undressed from the ankle down.

And the #1 reason I prefer to visit my podiatrist over my other docs…

You don’t have to step on the scale.

“I’m grinding my teeth instead of sprinkling glitter.”

Crafty Chica discussing the stress of the busisness side of her art rather than enjoying her craft.

“My stuff looks like deaft people would love it–it’s all glitter and…”

Amy Sedaris talking about her craft projects (PC as usual).

“Personal blogs are legitimate.”

Kris Likey during Digital Exhibitionists or Chroniclers of their Time: Will Naked Bloggers Make History?

“I don’t want to hear ninety seconds on an issue. I want to hear it discussed.”

Elizabeth Edwards on why she likes to get her news from sources other than the mainstream American press.

I don’t want to mislead people about the benefits of the BlogHer conference. I really did meet some incredibly, wonderful women and attended some thought–provoking sessions. I had a chance to put faces with the voices that have become staples in my blog reading–and found out that they are even more beautiful in real life. The food was good (especially for a group that big), most people were VERY friendly, and there was a ton of swag (even if there were Butterball pot holders thrown in with the good stuff).

I was merely talking about a reaction I was having to reading blogs post-conference. This is my experience and mine alone. And it is probably happening because of some unresolved flaw in my personality. Lord knows there are plenty to choose from.

I won’t remove the post because I had to blog it out, and I’m hoping that by doing so I got the feeling out of my system, but I don’t want to discourage others. I will most likely attend BlogHer next year if I’m still blogging.

All this second-guessing. UGH! I guess I just don’t know why I do this. What I’m really saying, and honestly, if I’m just a big ole blogging fraud.

So to recap,

1. BlogHer was great. Go next year if you can.

2. I’m a big fat dork, and don’t know why I have a blog.

Before I went to BlogHer I commented without abandon. I never considered whether or not a blogger visited my site. I never considered how they were catagorized in the hierarchy of the blogosphere. I just left a comment when what I read moved me to do so.

Many times those bloggers would come visit my site and leave a comment, many times they didn’t. I didn’t keep a tally. Certainly, I felt I had developed a community with those whose blognames were regular visitors to my inbox.

Then I went to BlogHer.

Don’t get me wrong. The conference was good. It introduced me to many terrific women whose words I would never have had the privilege to read had I not been there. And boy, if I hadn’t attended I would have missed out on pulling my turkey out of the oven each week (you know I roast one every week for Sunday dinnner-HA) with my new Butterball pot holder.

All that said, I find I’m not looking at blogging quite the same way.

There were cliques. There was a hierarchy. There were snarky comments and “once over” gazes. And I kept looking over my shoulder to see if the principal was coming down the hall.

And that was diappointing.

The beauty of blogging has been for me the opportunity to get to know writers without the filter of appearances or “neighborhoods.” In the blogosphere, I felt I could get to hear about another’s experience in a way I might never in the “real” world.

I’ve resisted writing about this for fear that people will assume I am just the bitter, “dork” in the corner (okay I was) who no one would talk to. I tried to just let it go and move on with blogging in a way that was good for me.

But I’m having a hard time.

Maybe it’s because of my feminist leanings, of my approach to the world, but I don’t think women do each other any favors by knocking each other down…by judging each other because of their decisions…by setting themselves apart to feel better about the choices they have made. We only become stronger together if we support each other.

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I’m noticing whether someone has visited my blog now. I’m considering whether or not I should leave a comment. I’m thinking about cutting down my reader list. AND I HATE THAT.

I don’t know that what I have to say on this blog is really all that profound or all that important. And I don’t know if it’s worth doing if it means having to be aware of these things.

I just can’t stop myself!

This is for all the ladies, but I think I can hear Mitch McDad singing it too.

I was just turned on to this by Heather at Oh My Stinkin Heck.

Thank you, thank you Heather!!

*****
Edited to add: Am I the only loser who has never heard of these guys before?

I had to add one more.