so hello chicks who may have no idea what BlogHer is… nutshell? It’s the largest blogging conference in the WORLD. Expecting over 4500 bloggers in attendance this year. Oh, yeah.. and it’s in New York City! AND Martha Stewart and Katie Couric are a couple of the keynotes. Ya’ know. Nobodies….

Remember when I went to Dayton, OH for the Erma Conference and had too much anxiety to take the anxiety meds my doctor gave me because I was afraid I’d pass out and wake up a decade later with a beard and grandchildren who believed me dead but really I’d been living in the Atlanta Airport all that time sleeping off a xanie… Remember that? This conference is in NEW YORK CITY. I’m thinking of putting a low-jack on my ankle so that Zeb can track me at all times. I know I’ll have fun when I get there. I hope I will. It’s the getting there that gets me all freaked out then I’ll be okay.

The other thing is that THE WHOLE ENTIRE INTERNET is talking about all the parties they are going to at #Blogher12 and “OOO did you get invited?” And I’ve been reading all the conference updates and have seen exactly nurn about all these cool kids parties people are signing up for NOR have I found a single solitary soul who can tell me how this works. At any rate, I know some very kick ask girls who I will be chilling and mingling with even if we didn’t get invited to anything.

And I’m just wondering about you people– you just don’t KNOW us?? Cause, y’all– we are funny as hell. Fun, we clean up after ourselves… and if you could see our stats? Well. You’d kick yourself, that’s what you’d do.

In a somewhat related column, I learned to deal with my travel angst by talking to my writer friend. Here’s what had happened: 

 I’ve written hundreds of words over the years of my affinity for profanity. I’m not saying it’s my finest attribute but there are times when in lieu of saying, “Gosh darn it all to heck fire!” I use one word that totally encapsulates the way I feel in that moment. Journalists call that an ‘economy of words.’ Christians call it ‘cussing’ and I call it ‘therapy.’

The immediate satisfaction of letting the four letter words fly is soothing although not great parenting. So I’ve made every effort over the years to cut back on my expletives. I realize it’s not my most attractive or endearing character trait and I certainly don’t want to pass my habit onto my children. 

That said, my oldest daughter, Aubrey, has been my little Jiminy Cricket. Even for  bad words that I’ve made up, “Fishbones! Fishsticks! Good gravy! FREAKING!” 

“Momma,” she’ll say disapproving pointed the tip of her index finger at me. The one with the gnawed off fingernail, “That’s not a nice word.” 

“I’m sorry Aubrey. You’re right. I need to say nicer words.” I apologize. I think it’s good for my kids to know that I’m not perfect and if I can use my bad behavior to teach them how to admit when they are wrong and apologize to others, then I’ll take every teaching moment that comes along.

The other evening I got an email related to my writing that filled me with rage. I didn’t want to respond to the email in anger, so I called one of my best friends. Kim Brock author of “The River Witch” and a Southern Christian lady who wouldn’t be offended by the slew of profanities I was about to unleash. I walked onto the balcony of the condo where we are vacationing, closed the door and unleashed my frustrations. Somehow in the midst of my hysterical outburst I didn’t hear the door slide open and closed or see Aubrey slip silently behind me. 

I spun around in my chair when I felt her presence and waved her inside, mouthing, “This is a work call! I’ll be there in a minute!”

I told Kim I’d been busted and needed to go get my kids back in the bed. I walked into Aubrey’s room and climbed on the bed with her. We snuggled up, then nose to nose I asked her, “Did you hear Momma say some bad words?”

She nodded. 

“I’m sorry honey. I really shouldn’t talk like that. It’s not nice. Don’t you ever say words like that, you would get in so much trouble! I wasn’t being a very good example and I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay, Momma. I forgive you. Sometimes I get really mad and say things I don’t mean too.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “What did you hear me say?” I tensed up in fear and waited for to drop a bomb. 

“The ‘A’ word.” She said gravely. 

“I’m sorry.” I was genuinely embarrassed. 

“Oh, it’s okay Momma. At least it was a compound word.”