Editor’s Note: This blog entry was written in August of 2010. So, if you found it through a Google search, read it and lose your shit, know that you are losing your shit over something that is old news. -MO2
I said I was done (I should have said “finished,” bad English teacher) writing about special needs mommy-blogger extraordinaire Kelle Hampton, but I was wrong. With chagrin, I admit to you that I can’t resist one more.
There I was, shirt hiked up, pump shoved under my bra, attempting to access Photobucket and look at pictures of Baby V online to help get the milk flowing while I sat at my desk during my lunch break trying to pump milk. Did you just shudder? You’re not alone. My school’s firewall blocks Photobucket, though, so I was out of luck. I have several pictures of my baby on my phone, but I was ON my phone, talking to a nice gentleman in the tech department laboring to sync my password for Novell with my password for… I’ll stop. You don’t want to know.
Now I’m probably on some list somewhere in the district of people who violate the “acceptable use of technology” policy because I attempted to access a forbidden site. I’m not bidding on Ebay or planning fantasy vacations on Expedia. Any more. It’s all I can do to get my work done and get home to my baby.
My district hasn’t done a perfect job of banning all unacceptable sites, though, because you can still get through to http://enjoyingthesmallthings.blogspot.com, Kelle Hampton’s insufferable blog. “But, Mrs. Odie,” you cry, clutching your pearls, “didn’t you say you were ‘done’ talking about her?” Myeh, I lied.
Just a little bit.
If you must know, I don’t read her blog anymore. It’s the same thing every time. “I’m a rockstar,” “magic,” and “blah blah blah rocked my world.” The photographs are great, if you care about those things. I don’t. I read the comments. If I can’t get my damn milk to flow into that stupid pump, at least I can get tears of laughter rolling down my face. It’s stupid, I know. Surely I have better things to do with my time. Lately, though, it’s been like following a telenovella. In between barfing glitter and queefing confetti at Kelle for her AMAZING photographs and her BEAUTIFUL girls, the commenters have started getting bitchy at the “negative comments.”
Amid pleas to be adopted by Kelle’s father, “Poppa,” these women are assuring Kelle that she must not listen to the negativity. “Ssssshhh, sssshhh, there there, baby. Don’t believe them. Don’t let them get to you,” they croon. “Don’t take these haters’ words to heart! STAY STRONG!” As though she were fragile as glass and a little criticism will cause her to wilt where she’s planted.
Anyone who criticizes Kelle Hampton’s blog is a jealous, dark-spirited imp (not to be mistaken with a sprite) they say. They can’t say “bitch” or “fuckface” because Poppa Rik is also the cursing police, and he’ll make you throw a quarter in the swear jar or something.
I clicked on the comments every day for a while, because I haven’t followed a soap opera in years, and this shit was GOOD (if you’re curious, it’s all in the comments that come after the post about Book Looks, where she says she’s going to visit “friends” in New York and for some reason doesn’t admit that her publishers are flying her out for a meeting). I am sure that many Hamptonites, or Hamptoloonies, assumed it was me making the comments, or at least some of them. I pretty much stayed out of it.
In the past few days of being a working mother, I found time to wonder about the phenomenon of shit-talking. I went to a party over the weekend where some friends of mine and I discussed an acquaintance who had recently flounced into a gathering and bragged about a work-related success of his. Without going into the boring details, I will simply say that we all mightily enjoyed taking him down a peg or two, behind his back over cocktails. It fills some human need to turn to a trusted pal and whisper, “Are you fucking kidding me, this guy?” and have that person laugh or roll her eyes.
I enjoyed reading other humans out there in cyberland reacting to Kelle Hampton’s annoying “come frolic, wearing red cowboy boots (pigeon-toed, natch!) in the magic of my littles” writing style that is so weighed-down in similes, metaphors and self-conscious alliteration that it almost reads as parody. It satisfies something in the human condition to both build someone up and then tear them down. It is the mark of true American success.
The comments I received calling me a “fucking asshole, ” or (my favorite) a “Twinkie eating bitch” are a testament to the loyalty of her fanatics (the true origin of the word “fan”). I felt bad about the Twinkie comment, because I read it on my phone in the middle of the night and my shocked laughter woke my husband.
Now I have to find a new hobby, though, because blooming Hampton, or perhaps her overprotective “Poppa,” Rik, shut off the “anonymous” feature on the comment form. Bummer. Maybe I can get back into “Days of Our Lives.”