Entries Tagged 'charity' ↓

You all had a lot to say about my post the other night, wherein I listed reasons why I have thought of cancelling my trip to BlogHer ‘09. Actually, everyone I’ve mentioned it to has had a lot to say on the matter, from the friend who volunteered to watch Isobel for the trip’s duration, to The Ex’s “If you wanna go, you should.”

I’m a practical person, usually. I can weigh the pros against the cons in nearly any situation. 90% of the time, I’ll end up making whatever choice will benefit other parties, first and foremost. Which is likely why this is such a hard choice, whether to scrap the trip or not, because the only person who benefits from it is me.

I’m not very good at being selfish. (Self-absorbed and involved are totally different things.)

But god, how I do wanna go. How much I covet the ability to walk on a plane and get off somewhere else, without an immediately need to survey for a potty, gluten free foods and soy milk. God, how I want the vacation, the friendships sealed with real hugs, and the education that attending would provide.

I want to drink without concern about a child waking up in the night. I want to pack my favouritest clothes, unworried about their stain potential. I want to breathe air in another country, because sometimes, I’m suffocating up here in Vancouver.

So. I made a commitment (to others, yes, but mostly…) to myself that I was going. That I’d step outside of my usual level of comfortable hermit-like behaviour, and really jump into it with both feet. That’s why I proposed a panel, and a Room of Your Own, and am volunteering to live blog, and even submitted some posts for a potential keynote speaker spot.

Since July 18th, 2008, I’ve wanted to go. And just six weeks prior to getting on that plane, I got cold feet. The mommy guilt started setting in – the guilt that’s plagued me since she was born, making showering feel selfish and telling me that her awakening hours were no longer mine at all.

Additionally, reality set in.

So. In a further attempt to convince myself that I shouldn’t go, I started cracking numbers together, to see what sound they made. It wasn’t a good one. Not good at all. Kind of like a high-piched keening, with an undertone of ominous dread, repeating “it’s never going to happen, you’re stuck here, forever.”

Or something like that.

You know I really wanna go now, right? Because it was as if the you can’t do that card got pulled on me, and if there’s ever something I will do, it’s the thing I’m not supposed to be able to. (Want proof? Isobel. Cuz I wasn’t supposed to be able to have kids, at all. Best. Accidental. Medical. Fail. Ever.)

That scary it’s not happening ditty looks something like this assumed (over estimated, for extra heart attack effect) damage:

Basically, it looks like I’m proper fucked, when you consider that I have eight weeks and change to raise those funds, still have money in the bank for rent and food when I get home and I have to make sure we can also eat and such, before the trip. And that doesn’t include any in-Chicago entertainment, gifts, or paying of volunteer babysitters.

If, from this point forward, I only spent money on bills, food, daycare and rent….well, it’s doable, maybe. Sort of. Okay, not really at all. It’d basically mean paying off my credit card, just so that I had enough room on it to live off of it in Chicago. It’d mean coming home to a very tight few weeks, assuming that The Ex doesn’t choose the exact moment of my homecoming to renegotiate our support agreement (which he would be completely entitled to do).

This is going to be a to-the-wire decision. This is going to mean spending all of my money, as soon as I can, on trip stuff, so that it doesn’t get spent on regular everyday money-wasting stuff. This means that, as much as I hate to and as hard as it is for me to accept any help, whatsoever, I’m asking for it.

I’m asking you to donate toward my trip, if you can manage to. Like Lotus, I’ll provide a button on this blog in a prominent location to any one (or entity) that sponsors my BlogHer ‘09 trip. Like I’m sure she, and other sponsored attendees, are, I’ll be grateful and stupid excited. Like an over-zealous little puppy, I will probably jump on you and hump your leg in Chicago, if you sponsor me.

If you’re scrambling for trip funds yourself, please ignore my sob story and continue digging in the couch cushions. I’ll (hopefully) catch you in Chicago.

When I agreed last week to let myself be auctioned off (as a date) for this event last night, I was more than nervous. I was terrified.

Jokes were made (by me, at my own expense) that a prescription for Prozac might be needed if I earned $1.23 in the auction. I looked in the mirror and I saw Tired.

Boring.

Frumpy.

I even felt so squeamish about the need to, for lack of a better explanation, bring my A-game, that I corralled one of my best friends into making me over for it. Which she did. Which made me feel quite….garish.

There was no way she was going to make me happy, really. Any makeup detectable would have felt like too much; any hair, too styled.

The fact that I was wearing a bra and heels and lace-topped stockings meant that I was going to feel like an example of what not to do. Or like I was trying too hard – and appeared to be.

I honestly, didn’t really want to go and I was definitely not looking forward to the auction portion of the evening. And that was going to colour my interpretation of whatever she did to me.

I looked in the mirror when I was ready to go, when she’d had her way with me, and I saw a whore. Tramp. Someone who was trying to literally sell herself at an auction, instead of helping (sort of) raise funds for a worthy cause.

Three glasses of wine later, a short make out session with a fellow auctionee and a bid of $270, I felt remarkably different.

I may even have felt, dare I say it? a little hot.

I definitely felt damn drunk.

You could say that I felt like maybe my interpretation is a little more off than I’d previously been aware of.

At the least, it was nice to hear, “You’re a really good kisser” in the middle of an auction.

Because that compliment? I can so accept.

The question of course is whether this might change anything going forward, whether my wounded, non-existent self-esteem in regards to my looks might right itself so that I can see something better in the mirror than a 6 on an extremely good day.

Did I walk with more confidence while pushing my stroller down the street?

No. I did, however, walk a lot closer to the ground today than I did last night, simply because I wasn’t wearing four inch heels.