Monday, July 27, 2009

One Final Announcement

I want to thank you all for your years of readership, support and friendship. I truly cannot express how grateful I am for the connections made, the revelations had, the memories made both online and off with each and every one of you.


After an incredibly wonderful, life-changing experience in Chicago this weekend at BlogHer 09 I have decided it is time to distance myself from the mommyblogging community. While Of The Princess and The Pea will (for now) remain as an archive of old content it will no longer be an active blog.

But don't worry - I'm still writing! For new, relevant work by me please come visit me at my personal site DianaPrichard.com

I've even already started posting my BlogHer re-cap posts there!

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Friday, July 17, 2009

A Few Random Bitchy Things About Facebook

1. Stop trying to get me to friend your pet, blog and/or business. It's my FRIENDS list, people. And I am not friends with your snotty nosed cat or your blog about toe jam. Seriously. Make a page, I'll fan it. But stop signing up for random accounts like your business is a person. If it was YOU WOULDN'T FUCKING OWN IT!


2. Your high school nickname? Not cool. Bewbs Johnson? Probably not going to be friending her. Kathy Johnson on the other hand, who happens to mention her stupid high school nickname in her profile... it could happen. Be a human, with a normal ass name. It's okay. It's 2009. Robots are not taking over the world just yet. You don't have to deny your species for safety.

3. Stop putting up pictures of your children as your profile image. Ditto pictures of your cat. And your dog. And your horse. And your car. You are not your children (or your cat, dog, horse or car). They are their own entities and they like it that way. Try it sometime. Be your own person. WITH YOUR OWN PICTURE. Or don't. Chances are if you're that attached I don't want to be your friend anyway.


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Sunday, July 12, 2009

And It Will Suck; My Only BlogHer 09 Fear

Tis the season.


Halls across the country are decked. (With clothes thrown astray in pre-packing jitters)

People are kissing. (Mostly on twitter, not under a mistletoe. And mostly asses, not lips. You know, in hopes of making new friends before the big arrival day comes lest they be left travelling the streets of Blogger-filled Chicago alone. But it works.)

BlogHer '09 is right around the corner. Excitement, expectations and anxiety are all high in both the blog and twitter-spheres.

People are worried about what to wear, how to do their hair, whether or not they'll fit in, what sessions and parties and meet-ups they'll attend. And while many, many of those I've seen tweeting and blogging about these fears are new to BlogHer, I'm here to tell you the anxiety doesn't disappear entirely on your second go-around - it just takes a new form.

Last year I was a wreck. Did I have the right clothes to wear? Did my 'do look alright? Would I make an ass out of myself more than usual? Would I have anyone to talk to or would I end up wandering the halls aimless and alone?

This year. I can honestly say I'm not worried about it. Any of it. I still haven't even thought about what I'm wearing. I leave on the 23rd, figure I'll shop on the 22nd. I know that BlogHers really are very welcoming and I'll have no problem finding someone to talk to, hang out with, drink with, sleep with, eat with - even if I walk into a party or session alone. My hair is a mess, as usual, but I also know no one is actually going to be looking at it. And honestly? We all make asses out of ourselves. People seemed to like me best when I was myself -- like when I wrote cuss words on my name tag at Guy's house. They loved the assholeishness of it all. And I loved them for it. (Also, yes, Guy Kawasaki and I are on a first name basis - he's just not aware of it yet.)

No, I am not worried about any of that this year. No, there is just one thing I am worried about this year. And while I guess it does have a little bit to do with making an ass out of myself, it's not about just that anymore. I am worried that I was not memorable enough. (Because I wasn't memorable AT ALL, perhaps.) And that people who I met and spent time with last year will not remember me.

So, I imagine when I go skipping up to them all jolly and gay they'll not know who the fuck I am. They'll just nod and glance at each other sideways all "Who the shit is this chick?" and then they'll walk away. And I'll be all "What a bunch of bitches!" And they'll be all "What did you say?" And I'll be "Hitches. Are any of the vendors giving away free hitches? I totes need one. A hitch. Not a bitch."

And they won't believe me.

And it will suck.

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Tuesday, July 07, 2009

I Get a Little Pleasure From Other Peoples' Pain

Completely without rabbit food, you know because it is really hard to see that it's getting low before we run out entirely, and in dire need - no really, NEED - of coke to mix with my Captain Morgan we ventured out this evening after The Knight got home from work. While out, in the soft drink aisle of the nearest evil-mart, we stepped through a time warp and ran smack into an earlier version of ourselves.


She was adorable in her black capris and striped, fitted tee. He was staring at her ass and almost knocked over an entire display of 7-up with the cart. His tennis shoes cost half as much as the payment for his shiny truck I rest assured was parked somewhere outside, freshly waxed. Her pedicure included tiny hand painted flowers on her big toe. And no, that wasn't a WNBA basketball under her shirt. Her pregnant belly was sickeningly, perfectly round and yes, cute.

And the best part was? They were completely unsuspecting.

Their faces were so innocent. So naive. You could tell she'd read one too many of those fluff-and-stuff parenting magazines that will have her doing postnatal yoga and baking fresh bread four hours after giving birth. And he was clearly just along for the ride. I imagine he had read a few of those articles but gotten overwhelmed at the one about achieving the perfect 'latch on' and given up. He's trusting she knows what she's doing and that it'll all just come to them. He was especially cute. *sigh*

So I stealthily attached a tracking device to their ankles like the ones scientists use on birds. I can't wait to track them down three months from now at 3 am when their new baby has shit up his own back, down his thighs, and has them on night four of a seven day, no-sleep, bender.

New parents are fun.

Mostly because I am never, ever doing that again. Ever. And the two heathens on my own side of the aisle who were meanwhile arguing over who would get to feed the rabbit it's first carrot crunchy when we got home were testament as to why.

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Monday, July 06, 2009

I Don't Make Them Be Nice

I'm fully aware that it may only be my perspective of the world that sees this spectrum as so, but I think there exists a grey area between nice and mean. And when you don't have anything nice to say, it is okay to say something that's just not mean. Something that is grey. Or even not say anything at all.


It's a well-accepted tradition that friends of family members are more than welcome to our gatherings at the lake. It's not uncommon to see entire families that you've never met before fishing from the pontoon boat, jumping off the zip-line and helping themselves to smoked pork sandwiches. This past weekend was no different.

Our immediate family - aunts, uncles and cousins - all were there, joined by some extended family and even some friends. One of those friends was a husband and wife duo with their eight-year-old daughter. The husband was a nice guy, the wife a bit quiet from what I could tell, and the daughter? She was an asshole. No that is not a typo. She was a complete and utter asshole. An ungrateful, ill-mannered, confrontation-seeking asshole.

She was rude, argumentative, unsupervised, and made-up like a two-cent hooker. That is not an exaggeration. The kid had enough lip-liner and lipstick on to polish up every whore on the Vegas Strip for a week. It didn't even come off during her two-hour long swim in the lake (during which her mother spent all of five minutes watching her - because we ARE free-babysitters, you know, but that's another story for another day)

And yes I do realize none of this is her fault. It is all a salute to an EPIC failure in parenting. I understand that.

What I do not understand is the predominant notion that we need to be, we MUST BE, nice to people, even if they are children, like these.

Because there is a grey area between nice and mean, no? There is being neutral. Not nice, but not downright mean either. There is ignoring. There is respectfully, but clearly communicating that no you do not want to play a game, or make a craft, or talk to, or be friends with a person. And none of that is nice, but it's not mean either. And it's okay. And it's what I teach my children.

Because lets face it, as much as it is not the child's fault she must learn. She must learn that being an asshole will get you nothing in the long-run of life. She must learn that arguing with the gracious hostess you were dumped on about how you can swim in forty-feet of water without a life jacket at the age of eight will get you out of the lake completely. That demanding marshmallows and more sparklers when others are asking for them nicely will get you placed swiftly at the back of the line. She must learn that walking into a band of kids who have known each others personalities, quirks, thoughts, ideas, families, and preferences since the day they were born on their turf and trying to stage a coup will only get you a spot on the outside looking in. And lets face it, we can't wait for the parental unit that made her that way to teach it. Because if they were going to, one would think they would have taken the opportunity at some point in the past eight years, no?

So I teach my children to utilize the grey area; the beautiful thing that it is. I teach them to be straight forward. Not to sugar-coat. If they don't want to be someones friend because that someone is mean? I teach them to say so. And they do. And it sometimes pisses other parents off. And you know what else, I don't care. Because their kids are assholes, and at least I didn't teach mine to say that. Because they know it, make no mistake. But they also know the grey area. And they use it. And here's the thing, if you don't like it, don't raise an asshole. Because someday, I'll also teach them when it is okay to be mean.


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