Imagine me channeling the guy at the mall kiosk that asks you whether those are your real nails or not… and then starts spouting about how the Dead Sea has healing salts…  Okay, done?

I’m doing research into how to optimize the efficiency of my blog reading.

(READ:  I do not have three hours to read blogs and as a result have read about 5% of the posts in my reader.)

1. How many blogs do you read?

2. How do you read them (i.e. GoogleReader) ?

3. How do you organize them?

4. About how much time do you devote to reading them?

5. How often do you comment?

6. How mad would you be if I stopped reading your blog?   (KIDDING.  No.  Not really.  How mad?  Like, “Meh, whatever” or “I will stalk you and boil a bunny rabbit in your kitchen”?)

7. Do you have any suggestions to help me out?  Other than paying more attention to my husband and abandoning the Internet completely, Tariq?

Geeks rule.

I am not at all above admitting that I’m a little bit of snob.

Back when I first got an iPhone, nobody had an iPhone.

People that I didn’t know would wade across the room to come and look at my phone.  “Wow,” they’d say, “is this an iPhone?  This is so coooool.”

And, I felt cooool.  Yes, my cell phone made me feel cool.

And, then?  Apple decided to make a newer iPhone, and suddenly, I was dated.  Old news.

And, then?  Apple decided to make a newer newer iPhone and suddenly, I was double dated.  Old old news.

It was in those days that I started hating my iPhone, despising it for how uncool it made me feel.  To make matters worse, not only was it dated, but it was making me look stupid.

I could see it in people’s eyes, every time I pulled that old relic out.  Hello, why didn’t you just wait for the new new one to come out?

Moderately cool people just do not understand that very cool people are only very cool because they do not wait for coolness to be thrust upon them, but they go forth and conquer the cool.  The problem is, of course, I’m not so cool that I would discard a perfectly good phone just because there was a newer version out.  Because I love the environment.  Plus, I’m kind of a miser.

So, anyway, I was stupid looking and uncool.

And then ::cue angels singing:: the Android!!

This was my moment for redemption.  I switched providers and got the HTC Desire which is a pretty great phone.  Cool, even.  I love the free apps, the Google friendly functionality and the fact that I can use it as a GPS device.

I also love the scan technology.  I can basically scan UPC codes and do comparison shopping OR it can upload the calories of the food I’m consuming into a calorie counting application.  The possibilities of the scan technology are endless, they say!  But those are the only two I can think of, right now.

Except.

My Android is possessed.  I should have known this was going to happen.  The phone is named Desire.

If I’m trying to Twitter or text, it autocorrects me.  It clearly does not realize that I am not someone who needs autocorrect.  Not only does it autocorrect, it does so with some strange sense of … a personality.

It’s always correcting “Tariq” to “Tariw,” yet it does not correct my name.  Strange.

Also, when I try to type MisterBritt‘s name, which is Jared, it autocorrects to “Hated.”  I have no idea why my Android hates my friend’s husband who is a perfectly nice man that opened almost every door I walked through in NYC.

If I try to type “crap,” it autocorrects to “veal.”  Apparently, it is either a member of PETA or it really dislikes veal.

And, then, it just does annoying stuff like turn “of” into “if,” or “day” into “fay,” or “to” into “ti.”

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TI IS NOT EVEN A WORD.

Anyway.  I’m just going to say it.

I miss my iPhone.

And, no, iPhone mafia, I don’t expect you to take the high road in the comments section.

I know how you people roll.

A weekend, as I recall, is supposed to be filled with laziness and fun with light sprinkles of productivity.

They are supposed to start off with a fabulous lunch with someone who flew all the way down from Iowa, followed by a tiny little birthday party at your parent’s house for your husband and son.

A weekend is also supposed to be spent possibly going to the beach or at the very least lounging around in a huge salt water pool at said parents house.  Once you get home from your parent’s house, said weekend is then supposed to be spent cleaning and reorganizing your office so you can get some writing done up in here.

Then, it’s supposed to be spent casually revising your knowledge of the French language for an exam that has to be taken next Friday.  It is also supposed to be spent revising the first and last chapters of your thesis which you really should have been doing aaaalll summer, but slacked on in order to expand your cultural horizons and gallivant on the other side of the world.

Do you know what weekends are NOT supposed to be spent doing?

They are NOT supposed to be spent fretting over how both of your children should be wearing a T-Shirt that says, “My mom ditched me to go to NYC and all she brought back was this lousy VIRUS.”

How was your weekend?  Did everything go as planned?  If so, exactly how much does your voodoo woman charge for her services and does she take American Express?

P.S. The baby is fine and barely has a temperature, and I can tell he’s fighting it off.  Go nursing!  N., on the other hand, is super duper sick.

So, I’ve been In New York for about twenty four hours.

BlogHer has been interesting.

I’m feeling overwhelmed.  But, not quite in the way I expected.  I don’t want to elaborate too much because I’m not a ranter.

Let’s just say, I’ve done some watching while I’m here.

I’ve watched how one “type” of blogger will treat another “type” of blogger, and I’m… surprised.  More on this later.  Much later.  Maybe never.  I don’t know.

Okay, how about I just say that there’s something reminiscent about Pink Ladies and Heathers and it’s all very surreal?  And, some of it, frankly is just tacky.

Everyone deserves to have a smile returned with some degree of genuine feeling, their name asked of them and “Nice to meet you” said to them.

That’s all I’m saying.  I don’t care who you are… that’s just good manners.  And, no, I wasn’t snubbed (much) by anyone, but I’ve seen it happen at least a dozen times in the past day and it just hurts my heart.

It also hurts my head to see grown women act like thirteen year old sheep.

I had this voluminous post typed up about myself that I intended to post here as a “landing page” of sorts. It was suggested to me that I do this because maybe someone would get my card or a link here at the conference and they might want to know more about my blog or me, etc.

I deleted that post.

Because I think that every prize requires some effort.

Inside this blog, there are posts that contain wisdom, beauty and heart.  Those valuable gems, though?  Are only visible when a person takes a genuine interest in finding them.

These treasures also only reveal themselves to the people who search with the conviction that they exist in the first place.  Those worthy few… they are the ones I’m interested in meeting here.  People who believe that everyone has something to offer, and that they, in turn, can also offer in return.

I’m lucky that I’ve already met a few such women.  I’m also a little disappointed that I haven’t met more.

Getting to know a person or a blog requires effort.  Value is not apparent on the surface.

Not on the first page that you see.

Vaue lies deep beneath.  Sometimes it lives in something bright, shiny and popular.  Sometimes it flowers in the shade of relative anonymity.

Either way, the prize belongs to those willing to search for it.