This weekend I was really taken back a bit at the level of emotions amongst my fellow non-BlogHer bloggers. I guess that’s why I appointed myself their collective yet unofficial caretaker, and dove head-first into nurturing mode. I just wanted to make sure everyone who wasn’t in San Jose felt more than just ok about their blogs and about themselves as integral parts of the mom-blog continuum. I took my job very seriously, and worked diligently to keep everyone happy and out of the ice cream.

And I think we all did ok.

We intentionally posted about BlogHer, and about ourselves. We read much, commented more and emailed each other. We too, made new friends, did some bonding, some bragging, some writing and some talking. We pretended we got all dressed up, put on invisible mascara and drank virtual martini’s. Ok, I had a mojito. We tried to keep up with y’all and your workshops and cocktail parties and pool vegging sessions, but to be honest, we were really too busy not being there to let it bother us as much as we thought it would. Whew.

But I guess in much more than a round about way, our shout-outs, virtual conferences, imaginary mojitos and our obsession with being a little more attentive to one another over a summer weekend than we usually are, is in no uncertain terms a direct result of the BlogHer conference we did not attend.

Well how about that!

So, just when my weekend stint of mother bear of the non BlogHer blogosphere comes to a close I find out that next year’s conference is, well, not too far away from me at all. It’s totally do-able. I mean, it’s in Chicago and I was just there last weekend with Mega Mom and Mrs. Fortune! That means, assuming I’ll still be blogging, and that it doesn’t correspond with any major life events or my daughter’s pickup day at camp (which it would have this year), I will be there with bells on and probably the first one to sign up. I’m already nervous about my shoes and tolerance-level for alcohol. Then of course there will be the issue of being a BlogHer virgin, of not knowing everyone, of fitting in and being cool and keeping up.

So while this is my last ever post about BlogHer ‘06, I fear it is one of the first of many regarding BlogHer ‘07.

I better start packing.

Update: Please visit the non-BlogHer blogger Gina. I am so sad that the link below was wrong! Sorry Gina!

* * *
I am loving the posts and pics about shoes and bags at BlogHer. These women have their priorities in order and drink martini’s. Undoubtedly there is some serious women blogger bonding going on. Sigh.

But since I’m not there and you aren’t either, check out Mommies Magazine Online again. It has a whole new look and is really easy to navigate and read. Oh, free of charge and without a plane ticket or a nametag, you can read my brand new column while you’re there!

Go ahead, it’s easy, and you can do it in your jammies with no make-up.

So kick off your flip-flops, Birkenstocks, Sketchers or Taryn Rose pumps and enjoy!

[Update: My weekend shout-out goes to Gina. Grab some coffee, share a virtual mojito with me (it’s noon somewhere, I’m sure), and go give her some non-BlogHer lovin’. And look who pinged me! Thanks to Mrs. Flinger for the cool button!]

* * *

Not going to BlogHer?

Me neither.

Wish you were?

Yeah, me too.

Don’t really care when it comes right down to it?

Me either. Sort of.

Sure, more than half the bloggers I read and assorted superstar bloggers are gathering in California this weekend for merriment, mayhem and martinis to be sure. There will be workshops and seminars and undoubtedly nametags. It will include hugging and pointing (in the nicest sense) and assorted conversations that will be free of punctuation and parentheses. Although I wonder how they’ll cross out what they are thinking in lieu of saying something possibly offensive, but heck, that’s not my problem. People will be taller and shorter, thinner and fatter, older and younger than imagined. Funny bloggers will be funny because they have to be. Serious bloggers will be funny too, because they want to be. The estrogen infused blogosphere gets a little smaller this weekend…and being on the outside doesn’t feel so good. It never does.

So those of you sitting on your bums this weekend with your kids at your elbow and your dogs at your feet and your computer monitor in front of you instead of the face of a brand new friend…take a minute, or fifteen, and give a shout-out to a non-BlogHer attendee you adore. Ping a post, introduce someone new, add someone to your blogroll and tell us all about it.

Wipe your tears, clear your throat, stave off the envy, make a mojito and jump on the I’m-not-going-to-BlogHer-dammit-but-I’m-gonna-be-OK bandwagon.

After all, we at-home bloggers need love too have to stick together.

Good things come to those who wait.

* * *

On Saturday I was had shpielkis. That’s Yiddish for kniption. Oh wait, kniption is Yiddish too. Ok, shpielkis is like having ants in your pants, a million things running through your head all added to being a bundle of nerves. Needless to say, it ain’t pretty.

It started that morning when I was getting ready to leave home. I usually don’t leave home and go away over night with a girlfriend, so as much as I tried to put the mommy guilt under the covers before I left, a little bit leapt into my suitcase and followed me onto the train and into downtown Chicago. I actually wondered if I’d be able to have a good time not knowing if my son was having fun, leaving all my responsibilities waiting for me upon my return. My heart pounded in my ears.

Chicago was packed. It took me ten minutes to hail a cab. So, not only was a sweaty mess when I finally got into a cab I practically jumped on top of to stop, but on the way to the hotel we rode through (this is not a political statement, merely a fact) a political rally demonstrating against Israel and what is going on with Lebanon. Right or wrong, never in my life was I more grateful for my blonde hair and blue eyes.

We inched our way up Michigan Avenue, leaving protestors, bullhorns and banners behind us. I wondered what the hell I was doing thinking that I could just haul my mommy butt into the big city a weekend of grown-up fun. It was never going to work.

Finally the cab reached the hotel.

The bellman opened the door and I stepped across the threshold into another world. Perfectly air-conditioned, beautifully decorated with muted colors and obvious sophistication.

Someone smiled at me.

“Welcome to the Ritz Carlton”, he said. I smiled back.

Mommy WHO?

* * *

Remembering how well-suited I am to lavish surroundings and gorgeous views of Lake Michigan, I ordered room service. After all, I don’t want Mrs. Fortune and Mega Mom (so sad that Movin’ Mom couldn’t join us) to arrive and hear to my stomach growling.

I looked out the window, picked at my $28.00 club sandwich, and started to get ready for our teeny tiny Chicago BlogHer. And in an effort to have my hair have the best flippiness it has ever had, I actually singed it. Burning smell, hair that comes off in your hand kind of singed. Yes, now they wouldn’t hear my stomach growl, but they’d smell burning hair. Terrific.

I waited in the lobby for Mega Mom and Mrs. Fortune…looked to the left…looked to the right…to the left…to the right…don’t look too eager…too old…too weird.

And then, there they were! Cute as could be in all their cuteness. Mega Mom is, as stated by Mrs. Fortune, the cutest pregnant lady I’ve ever seen. Trendy and hip, funny and sweet. That is how I would describe her, since I know you’re wondering. Mrs. Fortune is just darling…and I certainly mean that as a compliment. She is petite l’il thing, you’d never know she just had a baby except for the way she glows when she talks about Jacob! She is adorable and insightful and quick-witted. Oh yea, and she really likes to take control of the menu (just kidding, couldn’t resist).

We had pricey mocktails at the Ritz Carlton…and headed down Michigan Avenue and ended up in a place with hot sauce lining the walls…which I thought in addition to being a place I’d always wanted to go, that it was pretty apropos for the Hot Bloggers in the City theme of the evening!

We drank and ate and talked and talked and talked. And talked. I dare say I think I talked too much, kvetched a little I’m sure (I sometimes can’t help it).

The best part of the evening was the fact that we already knew each other. Really. This was not like getting together with strangers, it was seeing old friends. We showed photos, filled in the blanks and talked a lot about ourselves and each other before talking about many of YOU and the whole world of blogging.

Meeting these women in person exceeded all my expectations - and I can’t wait to do it again!

* * *

I headed back to the hotel to meet my friend of fifteen years who flew in to spend the weekend with me. We headed to Navy Pier, saw spectacular fireworks, ate ice cream and walked and walked. Then we talked and talked until about 2 a.m. Our weekend was filled with walking and talking and snacking. And quite a few mojitos now that I think of it.

My kids sat way in the back of my mind, which is the only place they do not interrupt you or can’t pull you into Niketown or whine that they are bored. They exist there in only their goodness and sweetness, which is why when it was time to leave, I was sad to go, but ready.

I will miss me. For the weekend I was the me who I rarely am. The city savvy suburban sophisticate who can leap tall sale tables in a single bound, drink mojitos, talk travel and politics, but is be happy to be in bed by nine, talking girl-talk til one.

I was not ma, not mommy, not mom, and even at dinner with my blogging buds, I wasn’t Kvetch.

I’m home now. Back to dishes and dogs and kids and chaos.

But it was awfully nice to meet, and be with them, and all of you, when I was, if just for a little while, Just Amy.

Does Mega Mom wear a cape? Does Movin’ Mom ever sit still? Are you hungry an hour after eating dinner with Mrs. Fortune?

Just when I thought these were age-old questions destined to go unanswered like the mystery of how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, I’m here to tell you, it’s this mom-blogger’s lucky day.

Because, while it took me twenty years and 3 hours to get ready for my first date as a single mom, I’m taking the plunge after only five months and going to my first blogger get-together. I’m thinking it’s like a blind date with one eye open. Sort of.

It has been a lovely courtship so far. The online correspondence has been witty and intellectually stimulating. It has made me laugh. And although these women/mothers/bloggers know things about me I don’t even reveal to my family, there is still a bit of mystery involved. For me that is adding intrigue as well as a bit of angst. If I bit my nails they’d be down to the quick. If I drank I’d be drunk. Lucky for me, and them, my preparation will probably only involve extra time on my new flippy hairdo and a bit of chocolate. Ok, more than a bit.

I want to make a good impression when I meet Mega Mom (OOOH) and Mrs. Fortune (GASP) and hopefully, cross your fingers, Movin’ Mom (AWWW), in downtown Chicago on Saturday. Mega Mom knows Mrs. Fortune and Movin’ Mom, but Movin’ Mom and Mrs. Fortune haven’t met — and I’ve never met any of them. I’m hoping I live up to their expectations — or exceed them if they aren’t expecting much. How much of the Kvetch they know is an skillfully crafted illusion? How well do they really already know me before even really knowing me at all?

What I do know is that we’ll have a lot to talk about. Mega Mom is expecting a baby and already has three rambunctious adorable boys, and a handsome husband at home. I already think she’s cool because she’s been coordinating this shindig with me. Mrs. Fortune, of course, has Jacob and her one-in-a-million way of looking at things. Movin’ Mom is moving again, and like me, is over 40 with teens and tweens. And of course I have the entire town of Mayberry to dish over along with the latest goings on of the kvetchlings, not to mention the possible meeting of the dead ex’s namesake (who I did call and who did not return requested call as of yet). And don’t forget we have all of YOU to talk about, and to wish were there with us. And then there’s that little topic of, oh yeah, blogging.

So I’m not worried about fodder for lively conversation. Heck, we’re gonna get so cozy maybe I’ll even tell them my real name.

As if that get-together isn’t enough, it’s actually the kickoff to my real-life, real-time, Weekend to Myself. A girlfriend is flying in from the East Coast, where staying at a fabulous hotel, and hitting the ground running with fireworks, boat rides, shopping, beaches, brunches and dinners. Not to mention plenty of walking and talking and shopping. Kids? Oh, no kids. She has none and mine have been put away for the weekend. Boarded with the dogs you ask? No. This is the only full weekend that Pre-Kvetch is away at camp (sniff sniff) and Kvetch Teen is spending the weekend at a friends. And the forecast is sunny and low to mid 80’s after a few weeks of rain that were followed by stifling heat. If I wasn’t superstitious I’d say that this weekend, luck is on my side.

I do feel a tug and a twinge leaving all my responsibilities and familiarities behind. Intellectually I know I deserve this time away, and that my kids are fine, but I’m not good at stepping out of the box. I do it because I am going to slit my wrists if I don’t get some extended time to myself without kids or dogs I try to live my life with no regrets. No wish I would have’s. No only if I could have’s. I’m going to pack light, meaning leaving most of the mommy guilt and all but four pairs of shoes at home. Ok, maybe five.

So keep an eye out for a very special post where our get together is relived and our secrets are revealed…and where my attempt at letting go and having a blast goes through simple self-analysis. But don’t blink, because though I might not be bringing much jewelry, I am bringing the laptop.

After exchanging many emails, my intuitive friend Mega Mom has given me my official Indian Guide name: Wears Laptop Around Neck.

So I guess we all know how they’ll recognize me!

When Christy Brinkley’s husband cheats on her what’s his excuse?

1) You’re too rich.

2) You’re too beautiful.

3) Our family and life are too picturesque.

4) I’m only a mentor to this 19 year old girl.

5) I’m a perverted old man.

I have a special place in my own personal pergatory for men who leave their wives for other women, and now Mr. Brinkley has his own free pass. When Christy Brinkley’s husband goes looking for greener pastures, I have to wonder what kind of chance us regular gals have.

No, really what comes to mind is the most important lesson I learned when I lived it. The cheating thing? It’s nothing personal. It’s not done to spite us, its done despite us. And quite frankly that’s worse.

I learned a lot through the perils of suspecting, uncovering, and living through betrayal. It was the soul scorching and burn-a-hole-in-your-heart kind and the most important lesson I learned was…it wasn’t my fault. Cheating is almost never about the the person who is cheated on, even though they are the one who is usually blamed. It’s all about the cheater. It’s about being self-serving, selfish, immature and about what we like to teach our kindergarteners - making good choices. And, in most cases, there is nothing that could have been done to stop it.

I hope Christy knows that.

Overwhelmed with Joy has seen fit to make me her Blog of the Week. Check it out!

Coming to terms with letting go is exhausting. Combine this with over five hours of driving and minimal AM talk radio station reception and cell phone service, and it’s just plain debilitating.

I know this because I drove my daughter to camp today. In an effort not to ride the whole way in silence, and to help keep her mind off her fears of not making any friends (of course you will), not liking the activities (of course you will) and missing us too much (just enough but not too much), I suggested she read to me from her latest edition of Astro Girl Magazine, an honest-to-goodness publication. I told her to start at the beginning and go page by page finding juicy bits of adolescent gossip that would interest me, like Zack Efron’s first crush and Ashley Tisdale’s favorite jeans. You know, the good stuff. Then she came to the part with the quizzes. Not Mad-Libs, mind you, quizzes. Think super-mini-Cosmo without the sex. Who knew that my love vibe is dreamer, that the perfect sneaker for my sign is pink and girly, that my clique style is social or most importantly that my magic make-up is lip gloss? The crowning glory was finding out that my inner goddess, according to Astro Girl, is the Brave Warrior Goddess. Fiercely independent with the guts to stand out from the crowd as well as driven and determined. And she wears lip gloss?

Damn straight.

We arrived at camp to find a flurry of perky, bubbly incredibly capabable and sincere staff and counselors. It took us less than ten minutes to unpack the two huge duffel bags full of items that took us months to shop for, weeks to compile and days to pack. In about two minutes we made up the bottom bunk. It took us over an hour to see the cabin, walk around, people watch and eat lunch (good camp food here, folks). We even met a Junior Counselor from right here in Mayberry — actually right around the corner. Then we met people from Podunk, where some friends of ours live. They said that Podunk was the new Mayberry. Who knew?

Then, after waiting for some more campers to arrive, it was time for me to go. No, they did not heed my wishes and set up a little mommy condo nearby. I had to leave.

And we were fine. Both of us.

I was a little sad leaving my girl behind. I was also very excited and proud to have offered her this amazing opportunity. It wasn’t on a silver platter, it was better. Knotty pine.

I drove home…all the way…dry eyed.

Tonight the house is a little quieter, and I don’t have the someone coming over to the computer saying “I’m not looking.” There is no one pirouetting through the family room spouting knock-knock jokes, finding my lost pen clipped to the neck of my tee shirt or pulling back my hair to count the gray and tell me “it’s time.” There is no one to wake up at 7:30 or to put to bed by 10, but there is also no one climbing up on the kitchen stool which I’m popping making waffles from scratch just because she wants to watch.

My son is home, and though as a teen he requires supervision and attention, its not to the degree or in the same vain as an eleven year old girl. He did tell me though, that if we went out for ice cream after dinner, it would mean spending a little extra time together, him being the only child home for twelve days and all.

Even Brave Warrior Goddesses have breaking points.

And limits.

What might that be?

Two scoops.

It must be some dreadful illness because the constant nausea, lump in my throat, dizziness and cold sweats couldn’t possibly be a result of PreKvetch leaving for two weeks at overnight camp on Tuesday.

Could it?

What if you were a single mom who decided to peruse some internet dating sites out of boredom? What if somone contacted you? The right gender: male. The right denomination: Jewish. The right status: single. The same name as: (you got it) the dead ex-husband.

Do you contact him?

Nope, no one ever looks at me and thinks, “lucky bitch.”

As I contemplate this scenario I take my cue from Kristen’s recent sex-infused posts and incredible tally of hot comments. I’m thinking about the possibilities that lie with actually making a connection. Although tempting, I realize that there is only one thing in the world I don’t want to ever be saying should I find myself in one of many sordid positions, so to speak, again.

And that name might just be it.

Sunday morning while my kids slept in I watched The Bridges of Madison County. I read the book years ago, but I don’t think I ever saw the movie in its entirety until now.

In addition to going through an entire box of Kleenex, gasping for air, and wishing that Clint Eastwood a.k.a. Robert Kincaide would come driving down my street lost and looking for, well, anything, I was flabbergasted by the intensity of one short sentence dramatically delivered by his character.

“This kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime.”

It made me stop in my tracks, blow my nose, and think about the steadfast truths in my own life, and also, what I wish was so. Quite frankly, I was bawling.

Is there anything in my life that I am truly certain of? Without resolve? Without fail? Without any hesitation? 100%? Do most people live their lives with that kind of incredible intensity? Do most not?

Perhaps what I am most certain of is not something of which I am proud, like Francesca in Bridges? Maybe I haven’t realized it yet? Maybe it has not yet occured. Or maybe it has.

I’m not looking for confessions here. I’m Jewish after all, and there is already a site for that.

What I’m sure of at this moment is that we can inspire and intrigue one another other by sharing our thoughts. Do it anonymously if that’s easier.

Just think of this as a little blogging bridge into the deep well of serious thought that so often eludes us in the carpool line.