Pink Asparagus

Apparently a shit storm is brewing in blog-land. Or brewed. Or blew over. I don’t know. It didn’t involve me except as a person who drove past the scene of the accident as they’re sweeping the glass from the road. (How’s that for mixed metaphors?)

But it makes my stomach hurt.

Today on IM my girlfriend that thinks it’s “cerebral geeky” that I’m attending BlogHer (I repeatedly told her I’m going for the booze) asked if I was excited. I told her I was nervous, that I sort of want to throw up. Don’t get me wrong, I’m far from shy. But at the same time 1000 new faces all knowing things about me that I didn’t share over a glass of wine. It changes the playing field. Similarly, I know things about you. Back in the olden days, the only way we would have intimate details of each other’s lives was if we were actual, meat-world friends. Or relations. Or friends of relations. Or relations of friends. And it makes me nervous. Maybe I’m not as cordial in person? Maybe I’m so freaking hilarious in person that you come back to my blog and you’re like, really? same girl? nah. Her posts would have me peeing my pants.

Nerves.

In my mail box today was the Pre-BlogHer Conference Guide. Reading it over I panicked. There’s a part about when you check into the hotel get your pin so other people will know you’re there for BlogHer blah, blah, blah. But I’m staying at the hostel. How will people know why I’m there? Granted, a rational person would say – uhm, that badge you’ll be wearing around your neck and the bag o’shwag. But for a moment I envisioned my lonely self walking from the hostel to the hotel on a deserted road with no one to hang with. I’ll wait while you run and get your tiny violins. Ridiculous? Yes. My imagination is a vivid place.

And here we are, two weeks before BlogHer and there’s trouble afoot. I will not pretend to know what’s going on. I read Catherine’s post. I thought it was well articulated. I read a lot of the comments. They were fine too. The thought that stuck with me more than anything else, is: is this going to cause a rift at BlogHer this year? I remember reading about cliques and hurt feelings after last year’s conference (which I didn’t attend). This year are we going to have a girl-on-girl fight in the bathroom? If so, I’d like to sell tickets, recoup some of my conference costs.

So that pit in the bottom of my stomach. It’s nerves. Nerves that I’m going to feel more clownish than usual. And sadness that the women I respect so heartily are tearing themselves apart.

Recently the kids’ preschool had an instructor from a local martial arts school come and give a one hour class. Cool, right? Yeah. Except for the part where the instructor left behind all sorts of marketing materials and no price sheet. Have you ever tried to find a price sheet for a martial arts school online? Next to impossible. But Google does turn up a lot of fantastic things. What I learned is that the man that owns the school that gave the free class also does marketing boot camp for other martial arts school owners.

You must have an upgrade system to move students up through higher tuition rates. At my schools, we move students to the Master Club at $259 per month within 8 to 16 lessons (that’s 1 to 2 months). Often, this results in a PIF at $7,800.00 or more.

Now, I’m not naive. I get that they’re not out there only for the greater good. The owners of the martial arts schools want to make money too. Good for them. But seeing the plan to fleece me in black and white was a little too unsettling. Elliot is four. He doesn’t need to be moved up to a higher tuition rate after 2 months.

I should have stuck with my initial reaction that I can’t give money to a school whose forms don’t work in Firefox. Who writes their stuff only for IE? People who don’t want my money, that’s who!

I did find a school for Elliot to try. Last night was his first class. I was so very proud. He listened, followed directions and I didn’t interfere once. Not even when he was picking his belly button. It’s a big step toward independence for both of us.