Sparks and Butterflies...

But aside from that, she's still completely normal

Splogging – Don’t Do It

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I wrote about my splogged content. I then wrote about my seeming inability to act. To recap… Content splogged, me mad, me ineffectual. I have since made sure that my Creative Commons is up-to-date (it was) and added a widget to add it to my feeds. I decided against moving to partial feeds because my readers were very vocal about their hatred of them.What I did not do, which I will do immediately after posting this, is do another search on my links (can someone tell me how to do this OTHER than Technorati links to you?) and ask for my content be removed. And keep track and follow up. Why didn’t I do this before?? I am leery of confrontation. I’m small potatoes. I was afraid of a fight I couldn’t win. I’m not afraid anymore. (update: went to find my content again, and couldn’t find it.  Disappeared?  WHY didn’t I bookmark or make screenshots?!)

This is my content. Mine. I created it. I thought of it. I took the time and energy and thought to put it out there. Unless I have specifically allowed you to use my content, you’re not allowed to use it for profit.

You are free to share, copy, distribute, display, and perform the work under the following conditions:

  • Attribution. You must attribute this work to Michele (with link).
  • Noncommercial. You may not use this work for commercial purposes.
  • No Derivative Works. You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.
  • For any reuse or distribution, you must make clear to others the license terms of this work. The best way to do this is with a link to this web page.
  • Any of the above conditions can be waived if you get permission from the copyright holder.
  • Nothing in this license impairs or restricts the author’s moral rights.

It’s fairly clear to me. You make money off my stuff without my permission, it’s theft, pure and simple.

Twitter informed me of this newest case of splogging, and Twitter has allowed me an action to take. Here I am. Some others have been splogged – bigger potatoes than me – all by blognetnews.com, with editor, Dave Mastio. I’m not hyperlinking, they don’t need ad traffic from me. I refuse to give it to them, however, I do encourage you to look it up yourself and see if you’re one of their stable of bloggers. Without compensation/permission. I am not one of them. Please be sure to look and make sure you’re not too.

The whole thing makes me sick. It makes me angry. It makes me tired. It makes me feel used.

Really.

Sometimes I write something I’m really proud of.  Sometimes, it’s crap, but I’m writing.  Sometimes it’s memories I don’t want to forget.  Please don’t abuse this interesting media of peering into the minds of others.  Don’t twist it.

My Mind

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My mind is all akimbo.

Things are starting to come together in plans to come home.  Granted, not tomorrow, but concrete plans.  There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

But I’ve had too much caffeine and cannot seem to put the words to paper blog in order to tell you all about it.

My mind is a jumble of thoughts, coherent and not.  Good and bad.  Fears and elation.  I can’t seem to sort it all out.  Usually writing it out helps, but not today.

motherhood, I wish I knew

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I was originally going to write this for a blog blast on another blog of mine.  Except then I realized I didn’t need the prize – it was for munchkin babies and my kids are too old.  But I’d already written the post and apparently had something to say.  So, here it is.

You know… There are several things I wished I knew before I became a mother. All the way from pregnancy all the way down to where I am now (my sons are 5 & 7.)

I wished someone would tell me how crappy I would feel when pregnant. I knew the technical symptoms. But no one ever sat me down and said, “Look. You’re going to feel like crap for the next 9 10 months. There will be varying forms of suckitude, and it can take different forms. Be prepared.” Or, how freakin’ bloody it would be – both for my husband to witness during the birth, and for the after process of bleeding. My poor husband went literally white and almost passed out. He thought I was bleeding to death, poor man. The doctor had to reassure him that this amount of blood was normal.

Or in the infant stages… That a fever did not mean certain death. That diaper rashes didn’t mean I was a bad mother. Or how everything would be, well, sticky. Of course that continues for, well, ever.

Nobody told me that I wouldn’t instantaneously feel love for the children. That in reality what I would feel was terror that they were sending me home with this creature and I didn’t have a medical degree.

No one told me I’d die for them either, but I think now, that’s a given.

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