Venom Pen turned eleven last week and continuing a long-standing, yet completely inadvertent tradition, we find ourselves at the beginning of week two of another slow-bleed birthday celebration. I had a German teacher who loved to say "Prior Planning Prevents Poor Performance." It would have been far more helpful had she said Prior Planning Prevents Poor (or nonexistent) Parties. That's advice I could have really used.

Having not celebrated birthdays as a child (we were Jehovah's Witnesses) I lack the internal birthday clock that so many others seem to possess. You know the one that keeps Hallmark stores in business, inspired the so-called birthday calendar, and happily breaks up a boring day at the office with the arrival of CAKE!!! It's not that I don't think birthdays, especially yours, are important, it's just that they tend to sneak up on me. At least that's what it feels like.

In reality, our middle son Venom Pen has been discussing his birthday plans for nearly a year, commencing negotiations as the last guest left his tenth birthday party. (I will tell you about when I am drunk because of the Lice Incident). My Attorney and I have tried hard to manage our kids' birthday expectations with an insidious marketing campaign complete with blind ads and product placement designed to lead them to certain conclusions and decisions without them realizing it. When our marketing efforts are firing on all cylinders we can control almost every choice from the gifts they request to the flavor of cake they choose.

A few years ago we started selling the idea of "big birthdays" vs. "little birthdays." At our house, not all birthdays are created equal, as adults we are used to this, and now our kids get it too. If they're turning five, or ten, or god forbid, thirteen (perhaps I should start planning now, January is coming up) then it's a "big birthday" year. Birthdays in any other year, require a realistic attitude and an open mind, because anything could happen. Unfortunately for Venom Pen, this was an off year, which is why his birthday feels more like a loosely related series of pleasant events, than a party.

We had every intention of having a basic cake and ice cream party or better yet, a pick-two-friends movie and sleepover party- but the internet really screwed me over(again). Venom Pen was able to use "The Google" to acquire information about having a party at the Lego Store. Great idea I thought, easy! No. The child who has a party at the Lego Store is blessed with a mother who embraces the Prior Planning Prevents Poor Parties lifestyle. There are but sixteen coveted spots available each year for Sunday morning Lego Store parties. Securing one of those slots requires the same timing, persistence (and possibly bribes) as it does to get your kid onto a team with a preferred coach, and we all know how exhausting that can be. We discussed a Plan B, but then I got busy, really busy. And Plan B which involved a Lego party at home started to look daunting, impossible even, given the timing of business trips and other events. We begged for a reprieve and Venom Pen granted us a temporary stay.

On his actual birthday we tried to sell him on a family dinner at a restaurant the adults preferred. No sale. Instead we ended up at a restaurant that offers towers of onion rings (delightful!) because he wanted to go to a place where the staff is forced to perform uncompensated tricks and songs. After he opened a few slam dunk gifts (he LOVES the book 101 Things To Do Before You Grow Up) I foolishly believed in my ability to avoid additional celebrations.

Late the following day, I was on my way home from an event when My Attorney had me divert to Office Depot for a tri-fold board. (why they are sooo expensive? why do I buy only one at a time? why don't I own stock in the company yet?) I came home, delivered the tri-fold board without comment and went about the business of family. Three hours later at 8:26pm, Venom Pen stood before me with a long list of photos, images and supplies he needed "right now" so that he could work on his birthday "V.I.P. Board" for school. Just so you know, this mommy don't play that.

I went into Godfather(mother) mode; "you come to me my son asking for a favor...." I refused to comply with his strong arm techniques to dig through mountains of photo archives at bedtime and instead sent an email to his teacher (against his will) explaining that I was unwilling to accommodate the demands of a procrastinating tween because I have enough trouble solving the problems caused by procrastination of my own. The next afternoon I spent a long time finding dozens of photos, copying them and printing the long list of internet images on the VIP wish list. After stonewalling and ignoring all of my helpful suggestions and ideas, Venom Pen proudly showed us his VIP Board. It had exactly two pictures, and one of them was of the friendly "Hobo" we met last Christmas. My left arm went numb.

The next day, I was in a bar drinking a martini when I received yet another SOS text message; "Venom Pen needs birthday snack for school tomorrow." It was 9pm. One of the politicians I was drinking with suggested I follow his example and go retro with a selection of old school Hostess Twinkies, Cupcakes, and Ding Dongs. No baking required, and it boldly discards the false attempts to camouflage birthday snack as anything other than a gratuitous indulgence. Brilliant.

After school, Venom Pen happily repoted in one breath that the snacks were a hit, with the exception of one kid who turned down a Twinkie on the grounds of "too many preservatives." That same kid went on to report that "my mom used to eat them all the time until she found out they can last like 2000 years."

Then in the very next breath Venom Pen asked, "What are we going to do for my birthday?" My right arm went numb. I still haven't answered him, but I think I have time, after all, his birthday is nearly a year away.

It wasn't until I had my third child that I realized how truly important it is to have the right "birth plan."

As I prepared for the birth of our first child, I was adorably enthusiastic and undoubtedly obnoxious to all who encountered me as I set about learning-no memorizing- the myriad of tips and advice doled out by our very famous, very granola and very graphic birth coach, Penny Simkin. When I submitted my novel-length birth plan to my Obstetrician and his nurse I am pretty sure I caught them exchange looks that promised "we're gonna laugh about this later."

For baby number two, I left the hideous and supposedly soothing rice and lavender filled sock at home next to a blank birth plan. I headed for the hospital with every intention of having a nice soothing epidural. Instead I had a nice, not-exactly soothing baby, naturally and nearly by myself. My Attorney had gone to get my bag and the Nurse had just "popped out" for a Latte. An hour later I was enjoying a sandwich and a Hershey bar while bragging about how "easy" natural childbirth is and how everyone should give it a try. Naturally, I was insufferable and paid for it five years later with seven months of 24/7 morning sickness in search of baby number three.

I was a very different mother by the time I had Sistafoo, a busy mother, a jaded mother, a real mother. This time I was going to be in complete control of my birth experience from start to finish-except for the whole boy/girl thing. This time my birth plan was set firmly in reality. Reality Television.

I waggled (swagger+waddle=waggled?) into the hospital with my birth plan priorities set straight. Labor, delivery? Whatever, surprise me! What was really important to me was whether or not my assigned room had perfect television reception. After all, the second episode of The Apprentice was on and I was NOT going to miss it. Not after putting on my best Trump face, and making it to callback auditions in a dimly lit hotel room. I needed to watch who they had foolishly chosen to compete instead of me. Yes, yes, I'll admit now that Omarosa really was brilliant casting. My longtime (and longsuffering) Obstetrician and his staff did not even blink at my request. Instead they gamely hunted for the best birthing suite while I calmly breathed through contractions and dinner at a cute little restaurant down the street.

We checked in just in time for the show. My sister-in-law and best friend had arrived. I shushed the growing peanut gallery as I strained to hear the show. I shushed myself as I strained to quietly breathe through rapidly intensifying contractions. By the time Trump said "You'reFired!" I was ready to get down to business.

Despite having three kids of her own my sister-in-law had never actually seen a live birth, I was delighted to help her check it off her bucket list. As a bonus she also agreed to handle camera duties. I started down the road to another natural birth, and then beat a sudden and hasty retreat to an epidural when things got a little too "owie!" My membership in the smug natural birthers club was revoked and replaced with a tramp stamp that says "Hubris is My Co-Pilot." A little of this, then a lot of pushing, and finally, a purple-faced stranger with a va-jay-jay popped into our world. Hello Sistafoo!

The next morning I was up and at ‘em, dressed in street clothes and toting my newborn through the hospital halls looking for someone to chat with. I was insufferable (again) and the staff kicked me out at the earliest possible moment. I arrived home in getting-things-done-mode, except for actually naming our new baby, THAT was gonna take some time.

The very next day we invited both families to visit our nameless spawn. Still in getting-things-done mode I decided to develop the photos from her birthday. I popped out to our friendly neighborhood Bartell's, "Washington's Neighborhood Pharmacy since 1890" where the longtime employees know me and my kids. As usual I dropped my film at the one-hour photo counter and asked for double prints, on matte paper with borders, "stat please!" I grabbed a few groceries next door and raced back home to serve as a milk delivery system.

One hour later I again snuck out of my crowded house to escape continued painful conversations about our no-name girl. I zipped back to my friendly neighborhood drugstore where I paid for a fat stack of warm off the conveyor belt photos. Oddly the mood was different. The employees were smiling maniacally. Sure they were friendly, but it was in a "Hi-Crazy-Neighbor-Feel-Free-To-Keep-Your-Distance" kind of way. Less than five minutes later I was back in my driveway dreading the interrogation that awaited me inside the house. So, I decided to steal just a few more minutes to preview the photos and remove any double chin shots, red-eyes or assorted other extra-unflattering pics.

Turns out I would have been less embarrassed making a fool of myself on The Apprentice than I was sitting in my own driveway flipping through picture after picture of my vagina-up close and personal. Somehow I had failed to notice my well-intentioned sister-in-law doing exactly what I had asked her to do, "take pictures of the birth." True, I may have assumed these pictures would be limited to artful shots of me bravely breathing through a contraction or elegantly pushing with a determined but attractive grimace on my face or perhaps even a joyful series of shots documenting the baby's ultimate arrival, first cry, umbilical cord-ectomy and even a snap or two of HER VAGINA-after all her sex was a surprise. My vagina on the other hand, is private, or at least it used to be.

As I sat in my car reviewing and perversely re-reviewing the pictures I got the giggles (post partem euphoria?). I wondered how many Bartell's employees and unsuspecting customers caught a glimpse of the photo where Sistafoo's head is emerging alien-like and screaming. Did they judge my bikini wax-did I have one? If the photo conveyor belt is approximately four-feet behind the photo counter would the average customer have been able to make out my face? Not that my face was in many of the pictures. Was the FBI going to knock on my door and arrest me for indecent, and frankly gross, exposure? Did I care? Because wouldn't prison be easier than having to face the employees at my friendly neighborhood Bartell's ever again?

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel mapping out alternate Bartell's locations in my head and then looked at the pictures yet again. By this point my manic self-talk was working its magic. I had a new attitude-or rather "vagitude." Instead of ewww that's my vagina, I found myself thinking wow; I've got a pretty awesome baby maker there. Plus, it does other stuff! I realized that I had no reason to avoid my friendly neighborhood drugstore in fact I couldn't wait to go back! After all childbirth in all its different versions is perfectly natural-right?

I flipped through the pictures one last time, removing only the unflattering pictures of my face. I told myself if anyone had a problem with them, including the FBI, I would look them in the eye and say, "Yes, that's my vagina, and I like it!"

I love hearing questions from other parents especially when something resonates with my own experience. It's always a huge relief to discover that a secret fear or struggle is shared by others. The fact that I haven't always been a hugger will surprise a lot of people because I have become a bit of a hugaholic of late--but it's been a long and awkward process.

Just becoming a mother, doesn't make you a hugger.

Viewer Question:

I have 3 children ages 2, 11, and 13. The reason that I'm actually
commenting is that after watching the show, it made me feel so much better
about my parenting because I thought that I was not a good parent. I felt
like I was an "adequate" parent but I just felt like it was just something
that I wasn't doing right. It was nice to see that I was not alone and
although I didn't hear my particular story told by anyone else, I know now
that there has to be someone out there who shares my feeling. I love my
children very much but I have a hard time expressing it to them. It's not
so hard to display affection with my youngest because he's still at an age
where he's adorable and no matter what he does, it's forgotten in like 5
minutes.

Now, when it comes to my older boys, it is hard for me to hug
them, kiss them or tell them that I love them. I spend more time screaming
and yelling at them than laughing, joking and loving on them. I tell myself
that I'm a good mother and that they know that I love them and that I show
it in my actions (caring for them, buying them things, and reminding them
from time to time that I do). I just don't know what it is!

I kiss my husband whenever I leave the house, but not my kids. I think sometimes that
my children do so much wrong stuff sometimes that it's hard for me to
recognize when they do something right and it bothers me that I can't just
push some things aside and ignore them. Don't get me wrong, I have the most
respectful and sweet boys in the world but they do little things over and
over again that I have to constantly scold them for and it's just getting
old. Help me to love my children! Is there anyone else out there who feels
this way? Please don't say that I'm the only one.

Heija's Answer:

Okay, this one will make my longtime friends laugh. I grew up in big family with a German mom. We were not a lovey-dovey affectionate bunch physically, but we were together ALL the time because of our religion and I had absolutely no doubt that I was loved even when I was in trouble. In the early years of working for a major fashion retailer, I was horrified by the amount of girly hugging that went on in any given day. I was the one who would awkwardly stick out my hand or lean to the side in a group picture. Thank goodness I had softened a bit by the time I was expecting my first son because my personal pregnant space was violated multiple times a day as a retail manager. Motherhood has made me nicer but I am definitely not the mushy-gushy mom by a long shot. I cuddle briefly, I pat, I hug (even strangers!) but I am not, and probably never will be anyone's SnuggleBunny.

I tell my 12 and 10 year old boys that I love them, I hug them when they least expect it and force a kiss on them when I want to reinforce a particular parenting nugget of wisdom. I can be fairly strict, at least that's what my kids tell me, but I I am trying hard to use the advice I've been given from other moms about the importance of picking my battles and trying to remember that no matter how mature or witty they seem, they are indeed just little boys.

My 5 year old daughter is a different story, people say she's been "good for me." By "good" I think they mean "ha, ha your daughter spends every waking moment trying to attach herself to you physically, despite your desire for professional distance." She forces her affections on me, I don't get to choose. Every morning before sunrise she launches her physical assault; she twirls and rubs my ponytail between her palms, follows me to the kitchen where she laces her wiry arm around my neck while contemplating the many different ways she will invade my space over the next 16 hours. I hate it and I love it all at the same time.

It's not too late to revisit the way you interact with your sons. You don't have to become the mushy-gushy mom unless you really want to. You may want to pick a light moment to tell them how much you love them, even when you are yelling at them. Tell them that you want to find a way to show your affection and tell them you would like to start giving them a hug or kiss at bedtime or when they leave for school. Once the shock wears off they'll probably start looking forward to it. And you will have a daily reminder of why you love your "respectful and sweet boys."

P.S. My boys wanted me to suggest that you avoid making any sudden changes. They think it might freak your sons out too much.

I am so excited to be answering viewer questions! You'll find some answers here on my blog and a lot more in the O Mom section of Oprah.com. Do you need to vent? Maybe you have a mommyrant or an evil (genius!) parenting tip you'd like to share if only to find out you are not the only one plotting and scheming in a desperate attempt to outsmart your kids for just one more day. Fellow blogger Vicki Glembocki and I are here to share our stories and pass on tips that have worked for us. We're not perfect, especially Vicki (she pees in diapers), but we are creative, so take our advice with a grain of salt and the spirit (Tequila?)of adventure.

But wait, there's more!

We don't have to talk about just kids. We can talk about girly stuff, boy-y stuff, The Bachelorette, slamdunk gift ideas, horrible customer service (a personal pet peeve) or even that frenemy of yours. Send me your questions and I will be happy to answer them honestly, anonymously, and possibly even venomously(oooh, fun!)

First up, throw up. Keep 'em coming!

...Heija

Vomit Phobia

Question: My 2 year old daughter had her first bout with the stomach flu about 2 months ago...vomited every 20 minutes for 8 hours through the night. We all survived, however I really don't feel like I handled it well at all...I totally freaked out and made my husband sit up with her because the anticipation was too much for me to bear I guess. When she would begin to vomit I would come out to console her but I was a nervous wreck...I felt so helpless. Since then, I have become totally vomit phobic! I think about it happening again more often than I should and I keep her monitor (yes, I am embarrassed to say that I still use a monitor with a 2 year old), I keep it turned up full blast so that I can hear her every breath half expecting each night that we will be jumping out of bed to run to a sick child! Logically, I know that it wasn't the end of the world and that we all survived just fine but something else inside of me feels so helpless, like I just want to run away. She really hasn't been sick that many times in her life, I am a stay at home mom and we attend play groups and things like that but I don't go now if I hear that one of the kids has been sick. I feel like I have totally lost my "mommy-mo-jo", so much so that I am questioning if I have any business having another child. This must seem so strange...like I said, logically I know I shouldn't worry about this, there are plenty of other mom's with kids who really are sick and I shouldn't let this get to me but I am totally freaked out! Thanks for listening; it feels better to get it off my chest.

First, let's talk about that monitor-I LOVED MINE!!! My kids are 12, 10 and 5 and I only got rid of ours last year. In fact I used it mostly to spy on upstairs behavior which works like a dream unless you spill the beans that you are listening in. As your child grows, move the monitor and the receiver to a more obscure location so they forget all about it. You'll totally thank me later.

I am sorry your baby was sick, but there is no rule book for motherhood and if there was, I can promise you it would not say that vomit patrol is mommy's job. Your husband is perfectly capable of handling that task. Unfortunately vomit happens for some kids more than others. With your two year old I think maybe the fact that it was the first sickness of first child in the middle of the night that made it soo memorably traumatic. At my house My Attorney is the nighttime first responder; he has been from the beginning. He brought me all three babies to nurse(not at the same timeJ) and now he is the first to react to bumps and grumps in the night. I am a cranky, cranky person when I am tired, My Attorney and kids wisely accept that it is better for all of us if mom and dad stick to our strengths. Dad's strength is the ability to function rationally with little or no sleep. Mom's strength is sleeping.

We have had our share of stomach flu and sicknesses but not as much as others, for which I thank my less than anal housekeeping and belief that a little dirt never hurt anyone. I would hate to see you get so fearful of germ exposure that your daughter never gets to really play in a way that helps her build a normal immune system. You have probably seen the studies that recommend against too many anti-bacterial products and your pediatrician can explain what constitutes normal vs. overkill when it comes to exposure to sickness, germs and dirt.

As for fearing vomit,here's a little news flash, EVERYBODY is vomit phobic. In fact one of the most important rules at our house is Target Vomiting. The mere whisper of a frownie face or even the mention of a full tummy will send my husband into action: he carefully lines a brown paper bag with a plastic bag and places it near the child's bed. He then creates a washable path to the bathroom by methodically layering towels or old sheets over the carpet. We teach our kids that the first place to vomit is the toilet, then the tub or a sink, hard floors next and finally blankets, towels or sheets. They are taught to avoid vomiting on carpet or upholstery at all costs!

Be sure to talk honestly to your doc about your fears and questions. He/She will help you focus your energy on what you can control and help you understand what you can't. In the meantime, feel free to turn the monitor down. In my experience impending vomit is usually preceded by an unusually bubbly sounding cough and/or a high pitched keening cry. You'll know it when you hear it.

I am glad you wrote to me and hope that you will give yourself a break, you're doing great.

Warm Regards,

Heija

P.S. I realize that I am very lucky to have such wonderful nighttime support. But let's not make a big deal about it, ‘kay? It's taken me years to convince My Attorney that nearly all husbands are saintly nighttime nurses. I would hate to spoil a good gig.

The nice people at Harpo Studios may well have saved my life when they invited me to blog here at Oprah.com. Without their wise intervention it is quite possible that my husband would have killed me. While it's true that he has never spoken the words "I will kill you if you don't start a blog," I could sense it in his eyes and disappointed tone each time I blathered on about topics to write about, without ever actually doing it.

I have been the Worst Mother in the World since 1997, however I didn't pursue sole ownership of the dubious title until 2005 when I decided to see if the website was available. Imagine my surprise when I discovered Worst Mother in the World and Worst Mother were available for me to make my own. I am still mystified as to why nobody else seemed to want it.

Four years later I was lucky to take part in Oprah's Secret Lives of Moms show. Immediately after the show taped, I began a desperate hustle to start a website and a blog of my own. After all, who would be dumb enough to agree to be on a show with the most famous Mommy Blogger in the world, Heather Armstrong of Dooce, without actually having a blog of her own?

That's right, me. I would be that dumb.

Oh, and Vicki Glembocki (a.k.a mom who peed in diaper) who is also blogging here at Oprah.com. But at least she was smart enough to show up for her Skype moment having authored an actual book filled with words, lots of words, funny words about motherhood.

Me, I had nothing, so I scrambled to start something.

Venom Pen, was the first of my children to call me the Worst Mother in the World straight to my face. Despite repeated warnings not to, he had climbed high into the branches of the big cherry tree in our front yard. Soon he was bored with his bird's eye view but too afraid to climb back down.

It was time for a life lesson.

He called for me to help him climb down. Instead I stood at the base of the tree and delivered a boring (and frankly patronizing) lecture about choices, consequences and responsibility. I ended my speech with an alarming announcement straight out of the Bill Cosby school of parenting:

"I will not be helping you climb down. You got yourself into this mess, you can get yourself out,"

The Venom Pen lost his mind. He screamed and wailed for the listening pleasure of our neighbors.

"You have to help me down, you're my mother, it's your JOOOBBBBB!!!"

I reminded the flailing beast that my j-o-b is to help him learn how to make good choices and to listen, not to undo the messes he gets himself into after repeated warnings not to. He was not impressed. I went into the house to secretly watch what would happen next. Venom Pen cried quietly for a moment before converting to angry mutters and loud harrumphs. I could see him assessing the surrounding branches looking for the best escape route. He made a little progress before he stopped to share another loud mommy critique with the neighborhood.

"What kind of mother are you? You don't even care about the safety of your own son. You just want me to die in this tree! You are the WORST MOTHER IN THE WHOLE WORLD!!!"

Oh, how I laughed, quietly and out of his sight.

A moment later the Venom Pen let out a final aggravated sigh, carefully climbed out of the tree and pushed past me as I smiled proudly while trying to pat his back.

At that moment I knew that trying my best to be the Worst Mother in the World ain't nothing to be ashamed of. It might even be a good name for a blog.

There was a day a few months ago when I dared to make my harshest critic mad. I don't even remember exactly what I said or did, but I do recall that my parenting sin sucked my husband into the vortex of drama and resulted in one very angry ten year old boy, known as "The Venom Pen" barricading himself in his bedroom to sulk. The resulting peace and quiet was heavenly. But as usual all good things must come to an end.

We heard his door open and the sounds of muffled complaints floated down the stairs. When we failed to react, The Venom Pen stepped up his game, and the volume, with a nerve-hammering pattern of door slamming and inarticulate grunts, growls and other noises of discontent. Still, his father and I didn't budge.

Our failure to overreact to his ten year old power play infuriated The Venom Pen so much that he decided to send a message to us via brother mail. Our ears perked up when we heard our twelve year old asking, "Are you sure you want me to give this to them? Are you positive?"

"DO IT!" screamed The Venom Pen.

Our oldest son came downstairs clutching a piece of paper to his chest, his face a visage of horrified glee. He was clearly ecstatic, and a little scared, to be the messenger of this hate mail.

"You're not going to like this" he said with a nervous laugh.

We stared at the picture quietly at first, because we were shocked. Older boy was escorted out of the room as tears started to stream down our faces from the silent laughter that shook our bodies. Our sweet little son with the big eyes, fabulous grades and impeccable classroom behavior had carefully drawn a picture of his parents...as poop.

The drawing was artfully composed, and well detailed. Each pooh parent had arms, legs and a head. My poophead had a ponytail while My Attorney's poopface sported the same goatee he wears in real life. Both of us had cartoon-style vapor lines indicating our odoriferous nature. Below the picture at the bottom of the page The Venom Pen had added two words:

"YOU STINK!"

I was delighted. This is why we had kids. You can't pay for this kind of entertainment. The only problem of course is that we are expected to nurture and develop healthy, productive and functional members of society. It would not look good for me or My Attorney if sometime in the future The Venom Pen responded to a negative work evaluation by posting pictures of his boss, the poophead, on his Facebook page. So we wiped our happy tears, called him into the kitchen, gave him a lofty lecture about respect, impulse control and the importance of not creating a paper trail.

After all, poop is forever, as he soon discovered.

I like bad commercials and I cannot lie

Those other mothers can deny

But when the King walks in with his shiny plastic face, faux outrage time will waste!

I get the giggles ‘til I start to cry, Though the haters may start to sigh

When those ladies start to spin, it really makes me grin, those Squarebutts catch my eye!

Spongebob is filled with punnies...This commercial's harmless funny!

Some haters call it sin

I say it's a win!

Some moms may sound a warning

Spongebob and me think-THAT SO BORING!

To avoid this controversy, reach out, turn off your TV

Turn them off, turn them off, turn off them crazy ads

Momma's just whack!

I'm tired of silly boycotts, the uproar over what-not

Shake it off, shake it off, shake that mommy butt

Mommy got BACK!

Today Oprah learned to Twitter.

I joined Twitter two weeks ago and allow me to say, whew! Thank goodness my mean friends won't be able to say something along the lines of "do you do EVERYTHING Oprah tells you to do?" (For the record the answer is yes, for the most part)

I have tweeted 31 times. Excuse me.

When I sign in to Twitter, I can scroll through my home page to read updates from the nine people I am following. If I am really interested in reading their updates in real time I can enable my mobile phone to receive updates by Text. I do not text, I talk. Texting is for gossiping twelve year old girls or sometimes, only sometimes, useful for reaching people in meetings (big fun) or when email is unavailable (the horror). When I joined Twitter I decided not to receive Text messages from anyone.

Except Oprah.

This morning I woke to a loud electronic boooinngg noise coming from waaaayyy down in the kitchen. A few minutes later it happened again, then again. I opened my grumpy morning mommy mouth to beg for mercy as I looked at the clock. 7:05am, Pacific Standard Time. I snapped my mouth shut as I realized that Oprah Winfrey was INSIDE MY HOUSE waking my butt up, as she learned to Twitter live on stage in Chicago.

Twitter is good for celebrities like Oprah, Ellen Degeneres or Ryan Seacrest. Because they lead unusual lives it is not unreasonable to expect interesting updates. No pressure. If they fail to be interesting we can cool our burning disappointment with the salve of recognition that celebrities are people too.

The rest of us have to "bring it" or risk growing resentment from our followers/stalkers. I am quite sure that none of my stalkers have the slightest interest in my son's Lacrosse practice schedule-at least they better not. Mere mortals like myself have but two paths in the Twitterverse; aggressively follow large numbers of Tweeps in an effort to feel popular while losing hours each day to the sucking sound of time being lost to reading about other people's lives, or follow a few funny people/celebrities who may offer entertainment while trying your level best to not to bore the nice people who have stumbled upon your own posts in which you try desperately to be witty.

I 've chosen path number two. Forgive me.