I feel flattered because I was quoted yesterday, quite extensively I might add, in a story entitled Danger online: Perils of revealing every intimate moment published in the Times On-Line, the Internet version of the venerable UK newspaper.

But I feel furious because I was never interviewed for the story and had no idea I even appeared in the story until my daily Google Alert for Don Mills Diva lead me there.

The published quotes, which are attributed to me, are lifted from an interview I gave to a Canadian newspaper in April of 2008 and from two blog posts I wrote around that time: one on the dangers of becoming addicted to blogging and one which was a response to the nasty on-line comments to the Globe article.

Neither the newspaper - the Globe and Mail - nor this site are attributed as sources.

Further, it appears the article is an excerpt from a forthcoming book on social media authored by one of the reporters.

Ironic, wouldn't you agree, that the author purports to explore boundaries surrounding the publication of on-line material while failing to observe any?

I have sent an e-mail to the Times On-line editor outlining my concerns and asking whether this is standard journalistic practise at that publication. I have contacted the Globe reporter, who mused about whether she would be credited in the book's footnotes.

I'm betting not.

I'm betting not because I think this is a clear example of the kind of shoddy and misleading journalism that the mainstream media is continually accusing bloggers of practicing. I also think it's highly unethical, though admittedly not actually illegal.

I know it's disrespectful.

And that's why I'm feeling just a little more furious than flattered.

Stay tuned.

I remember my late Irish grandmother saying that to me when I was an awkward tomboy, brimming with energy and a palpable yearning to be accepted and liked by other children. And I used to giggle at her and feel just a little embarrassed, even though I didn't know exactly what the expression meant.

But I know what it means now.

And I realized just what a great piece of advice it was last week while watching Graham in the play area of the restaurant-which-shall-not-be-named-but-which-I-have-nonetheless-learned-to-love-without-shame.

Yes, my son is only three years old. And no, there were no actual swine involved. There was only a perfectly normal and wonderfully boisterous group of eight or nine-year-old boys who were charging up and down the play structure, shouting and hooting and electrifying the air with their rambunctious energy.

And then there was Graham.

Graham spent the better part of an hour trailing the lot of them like a puppy dog in search of scraps. He stood at their edges, clapping his hands in excitement when they shouted and made vain attempt after vain attempt to join in their games of tag, only to be left in their figurative dust time and time again.

My heart ached to intervene, to distract him or implore the older boys to include him, but I didn't. I merely sipped my coffee and observed. Not only did the boys' rejection do nothing to dissuade him, Graham was so intent on trying to join the crowd that he actually failed to notice the overtures of a smaller, quieter boy who approached him and tried to interest him in a slide designed for children closer to their age.

As I watched I couldn't help but remember my grandmother's advice and I soon realized that the aching feeling in my heart was as much regret as it was sadness for Graham.

Check out the rest at:

www.donmillsdiva.blogspot.com

I always thought he didn't like dancing, so when I got the call from a local ballroom dance studio offering a free trial lesson I just chuckled wistfully and hung up.

Turns out it's not that Rob doesn't like dancing, it's that he doesn't like not dancing well. He spent a good part of his early adulthood working throughout the Caribbean where dancing is an art form and people seem born with a beautiful sense of rhythm. His travels left him a little ashamed of his typically, rhythmically-challenged, white, northern-European background and loathe to take to the dance floor.

But lucky for both of us he was ready to learn.

I was five months pregnant when we showed up for our first lesson. We bickered bitterly over his imperative to lead and my apparent inability to let him, but were nonetheless hooked. Before we left we signed up for several more classes.

Dance class became our date night and all that summer and fall my stomach grew as did our competence at the Foxtrot, the Cha-Cha and the Waltz.

We deliberately chose to learn older dances - those choreographed odes to compromise and propriety - because we discovered that we both felt they were classic, old-fashioned arts in danger of being forgotten or passed over for the sweaty, sexy gyrating that dominates dance floors today.

One of my earliest and happiest memories involves dancing with my father. I was about six years old and wearing black, patent-leather shoes which caused me to slip and slide most ungracefully as he expertly lead me through the Jitter-Bug, the Cha-Cha and the Waltz.

I remember feeling simultaneously like a glamorous grown-up and an incompetent little girl as he twirled me about and I tried, and mostly failed, to keep pace. I remember feeling exhilarated and happy and proud, aware that people were watching and smiling at the spectacle.

And then I remember retiring to my seat and watching my dad take my mother's hand and lead her through the same steps. It was as if they had been dancing together forever. One day, I thought, I want to dance with somebody like that.

Rob and I have learned that dancing, real dancing, is about so much more than moving to the music.

Check out the rest at:

http://donmillsdiva.blogspot.com/2008/09/marriage-and-art-of-dance.html