I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s this wee (50,000 people at least, OMG. Not really, that’s called an exaggeration. I do that sometimes.) conference going on this weekend in New York. You may have seen one or two (thousand) tweets about it. You may have read five (million) posts about what to pack or what to wear or what to expect or, you know, basically how not to be an a-hole this weekend. I haven’t written a post about BlogHer, because, well, I don’t think there’s a right or wrong way to do it. I am hoping to make the most of my weekend—see some awesome people, learn a thing or two about how to do my job better, eat many, many cupcakes, and hear the POTUS speak.

I have pretty simple goals, really.

So, I figured that instead of writing a post about BlogHer, I’d write a post about MYSELF, since, you know, I’m excellent at doing that.

But also, because there’s a good chance that I may meet you for the first time, and you know, it may be helpful to have

The five-minute guide to Alimartell:

If I could, I would dress like Betty Draper meets Annie Edison meets Emma Pillsbury all the livelong day; I’d wear shirtdresses and cardigans and pearls. I may actually be doing just that this weekend.

I am the editor-in-chief at yummymummyclub.ca. I will argue with you that my job is better than yours. I will likely win.

I will probably be talking about the Olympics, especially my boyfriend Ryan Lochte, who, even though he’s trying to make the whole diamond grill thing happen, can wear the heck out of a bathing suit. I mean, can really swim.

I am not a fan of 50 Shades of Grey. You can like it—doesn’t bother me if you do.

My biggest pet peeve is when my children chew vegetables in my ear. Or maybe when a person’s pants are just a wee bit too short.

I am currently a flexitarian.

I speak in movie quotes. I have heard that it’s pretty annoying.

I want to be Kelly Ripa when I grow up—and I’d like Jeff Probst to be my co-host please and thanks.

I *might* be allergic to nuts. I don’t know if I am yet. Don’t feed me any almonds unless you are capable of using an epipen. Related: I’m really good at taking care of myself. See: the dental work I have been pushing off for six months.

I once modeled for a Harlequin cover. Sort of. 

I am (too) passionate about indie folk music.

Fargo, Sleepers, The Godfather II, Back to the Future, and Almost Famous pretty much round out my top five movies.

I can still fit into the dress I wore to my Bat Mitzvah. And sometimes I wear it, just for fun.

I don’t like boats. Or ferries. Or cruiseships. Or anything that moves on a body of water. If you force me to get on one, you better have some xanax.

The word SWELLS gives me the heebie jeebies.

The words HEEBIE JEEBIES gives me the heebie jeebies.

It’s probably best not to talk to me until I have had the largest coffee you can buy.

I can play the piano.

I can eat an entire pizza in one sitting.

I don’t drink enough water. I don’t drink enough alcohol. I will give you all of my drink tickets—you just have to ask.

I love Sean Penn. I have learned to make no apologies for this.

I will always have gum. And Tic Tacs. And TUMS.

There is little in life that scares me more than clowns. Or vomiting. Or Benjamin Linus.

The literal video edition of Total Eclipse of the Heart is my absolute favorite thing on the internet ever.

My first crush was on Donny Osmond. I still occasionally have inappropriate dreams about him.

I am shorter than you think.

I don’t like potatoes.

I will likely be wearing the wrong shoes.

There is no way you can dance worse than I do. BUT, I can do the entire Thriller dance.

History is like porn to me, and I watch the History Channel more than the average person probably should.

I am emotionally attached to fictional characters. 

I eat cereal for dinner. A lot.

I add random yiddish words into my lexicon. A lot.

This is what I look like.

Please come and say hi. And hug me. I’m a hugger, you know.