Then I drove an hour to the nearest pharmacy to pick up the xanax and they were all ”Oh, we don’t have xanax in stock. WE’LL HAVE TO ORDER IT.”

(This is a space to let that shit sink in.)

So then I called Victor and I was all “What kinda fucked-up, backward, hillbilly town did you move us to?!” and Victor was like ”You might be overreacting” and I was all “Well that’s probably because I MIGHT NEED SOME DAMN XANAX” and Victor was like “Well, you certainly can’t tell.  Did you react this well when you were actually at the pharmacy?” and I was all “Are you even listening to me? THEY. DIDN’T. HAVE. XANAX.” Then Victor said “Well, I’m guessing they’ll stock up for next time” but he said it with less of a “clearly-they-are-trying-to-destroy-you” kind of tone and in more of a “Great. Now we can never go back to Walgreen’s” kind of way.  Then a squirrel bit me in the eye.  That last part is made up but it sounds like something that would actually happen to me.  That’s the kind of week this has been.  Also I haven’t had any booze or caffeine in 6 days because of my kidneys and I think I might be having withdrawals because my brain is mush and I asked the doctor if I could get some methadone and he said he “wasn’t that kind of a doctor“.   I don’t what he meant by “that kind of a doctor” but I’m assuming he meant “helpful”.

I apologize for this whole post.  If I had some methadone I bet it would make a lot more sense.

Updated: For everyone asking me why in the hell I moved to this scorpion-infested, God-forsaken suck-hole, this is the view from my street:

It does have some small perks.

And no xanax.  Apparently.

Fuck.  Now I’m mad again.

Comment of the day: If you decide to go through with the whole hooker kidney removal surgery thing, be sure to label which kidney she needs to remove. Because that would suck if she took your good one. Except I am pretty sure hookers take kidneys to sell on the black market, so if you label your bad one, then she will probably actually take your good one because how are you going to sell an inflamed kidney on the black market? Hookers don’t have time to worry about these kinds of things. They are paid by the hour, Jenny. So what you should do is mark your good kidney as the bad kidney so she will think she is taking your good kidney when she is really taken your bad kidney. Man, swindling hookers can be confusing. That is some espionage shit right there. But if you pull it off, you will have actually just screwed a hooker, but she will be the one that just performed an illegal activity. You win. Twice! Also, you should totally use Sonic ice to fill the bathtub because that stuff is the best. ~ Scott

I'm using this graphic because I don't have one of me on my deathbed.

This week on Ask the Bloggess:

• Do ravines still exist, or are they just called “ditches” now?
• I assure you, this font is not comic sans.
• What to do when Jesus talks to you
• Internet drama in a nutshell.

This week on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a douche-canoe):

• Twitter will make you never want to have sex again.
• Google searches will scar you for life.

This week on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

• I am a horrible mother.  Or an awesome one.  Hard to tell.
• Her second first day of school.

This week on the internets:

• There’s a picture of me in the shower for sell on ebay but it’s for charity so you’re not allowed to judge me.
• It’s the best book review I never wrote (and I mean every word of it).
• Everyone is beautiful.
• “Unfortunate technicality” is code for “this shit is rigged”.

This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

• My God, I love this woman.
• Mind fuck.
• Tiny cardboard people
• CatBinLady
• Joy and Sorrow
• Truth.
• Star Wars Uncut (If I had a video camera I would so do this.)
• Elephants in the room
• Strangely beautiful

Comment of the day: I googled “pyelonephritis” and one of the symptoms was “Mental changes or confusion” and then the whole post made more sense. ~ Stoic

I’ll be back soon.

Actual google searches that lead people to my blog last week:

Wow, y'all.

I think the most baffling one is “Mother fucker” because first of all, I think you spelled it wrong.  Unless you meant for there to be a space in the middle.  In which case? Ew. And secondly, exactly how far do you have to wade through the Google results for “mother fucker” to find my blog?  It’s disconcerting.

Updated: Huh.  Apparently?  Not that far.

I'm #3, you guys.

If I had a resume this would be on it.

Comment of the day: I know exactly what you mean, because I got a package today too. Except mine was full of candy, not beloved cremated pet. If i was a unicorn, I would use my magical powers to turn Barnaby Jones’ remains into candy. I don’t know if you’d want to eat it though… ~ Jamie the Very Worst Missionary

Alternate comment of the day that is technically more of a “noise” than a “comment” but one that I want to remember for next time I have to send someone a sympathy card: [sad trombone] ~ Nanette

Sad trombone, indeed.

Updated:

Worst. Linkage. Ever.

Updated comment of the day: I couldn’t agree more about the inappropriate linkage. If cremating your dog isn’t going to work, then nothing will. ~ kyknoord

Bonus comment of the day because this post is very short and I need to pad it: This is what I like to do (besides black tar heroin) — Halloween time I buy one of those fake UPS or FedEx costumes and when either guy brings me a package I open the door in a rush and go “thanks I’ll take it from here!” and slam the door.  Will also get you a free pizza if you stock up on pizza company costumes. ~ Chris Illuminati

So I called a million (a million = 14) places to get someone to come disinter my dog that was already partially disinterred by the horrible vultures that I attacked with a machete but NO ONE would come because it’s the weekend and then I found a guy on craigslist who said he’d do it but then I looked up his email address and he also has ads for people who are looking for prostitutes so basically he’s a pimp and it felt weird to invite a pimp over when it’s just me and Hailey and WHY IS VICTOR NOT HOME YET? So then my friend Laura called and I was all “I’m fine” and she’s like “Well, you don’t sound fine.  I’m coming over to dig up your dead dog” and I was all “NO! No one needs to see that.  Especially you because you knew him” and she was all “You sound terrible.  We’ll be right over.  I’m bringing my four year old.  And a shovel”.  And she did.  And I couldn’t let her do it alone so we put on a video game for the kids and told them we were going gardening and then we both put on gloves and she put on a bandana to mask the smell and we did it.  And by “did it” I mean that we dug up my dog except that I did it with my eyes mostly closed because I couldn’t bear to look and so Laura was all “Okay, lift.  Shovel to the left.  Further…further…lower into the box…DONE! HIGH FIVE TEAM.”  Then we carried the box we placed him in up to the house and as we did she said “Aw.  We’re Barnaby Jones’ paw-bearers.  Get it?  Laugh now.”  And I did.  I laughed as I carried my sweet, dead dog from his shallow desecrated little grave.   And that’s when I realized how incredibly lucky I am to have friends like Laura.  Because she took something traumatic and awful and made it…okay. Then we came inside and washed our hands for an hour and then she told me that she had everything in her purse to make fresh salsa, including beer and a tiny cuisinart because she knows I don’t own appliances.  And at the end of a week that was so horrific that I didn’t think I’d come out the other side again I somehow ended it feeling something that I never would have expected.  Lucky.

Thank you, Laura.  And thank you to everyone else who made this week so much less unbearable.  Thank you.

PS.  Hailey decided to take a picture of Laura and I after we were done “gardening”.  It is the single worst and best picture I own.

It's like some kinda fucked-up American Gothic portrait but with less pitchforks and more rappers.

PS.  DM I just got from Laura:

If there was a song for this post it would be the Golden Girls theme. But less douchey and with a kick-ass drum solo in the middle.

UPDATED: This has nothing to do with me touching myself inappropriately and everything to do with why I’m no longer responding to emails:

I don't know what's wrong with me either.

Emails from my sister:

Lisa: Barnaby Jones Pickles dies and I have to find out through facebook?!?! What has this world come to??

Me: It is kind of ridiculous that you found out that my dog is dead through facebook.  If you’d been following me on twitter you’d have known days ago.  You are a terrible sister.

Lisa: I think that the foxes in your neighborhood were really drug dealers and got him hooked on heroin and then they gave him some bad stuff. All so they can get closer to the house and rob you blind.  I mean seriously, did you ever teach him “hugs not drugs”?  I bet not.  Better teach the cat how to bark. Now at least I won’t feel so bad when Granny kicks the bucket and I tell you over Facebook.

Me: Don’t be ridiculous.  You know I never read your facebook updates.

Lisa: Next time instead of a dog, get a pet pig.  That way when he overdoses you can have pork chops instead of having to dig a hole in the backyard. The hallucinations from all the heroin he shot up will just be like a bonus.  WAIT A MINUTE! You actually buried him yourself and aren’t injured?  No missing toes from a not-so-well aimed shovel?  No rattlesnake bites?  I’m not buying it.  Barnaby Jones isn’t even dead, is he? This is all a ploy so you can convince Victor to get you a pig isn’t it?  Well played. May I suggest the name ‘Dr. Reverse Kevorkian’, then he can “magically” bring BJP back from the grave.  You can call him RV, because within a year he will be the size of a mobile home.

Me: I broke two nails pulling up rocks to make a deep enough grave but the ground is 95% rock and I guess I didn’t dig deep enough because THOSE FUCKING CRACK FOXES DUG HIM UP.  Then I spent an hour crying and running around my yard with a machete trying to murder vultures.  This is how I spent my Saturday. I called mom and dad to ask what to do and daddy said to dig him back up myself (um…no) and mom said to just let the vultures eat him like some kinda fucked-up circle-of-life Tibetan Air Burial.  WTF? Mom is the worst Atheist ever.

Lisa: Now I can’t get The Lion King’s “Circle of Life” out of my head. Thanks for that.  You have a freezer you know, just push the Toaster Pastries to the side and toss him in there.  The next time Mom and Daddy come down they can take him home with them and Daddy can stuff him.  I think he would look super cute in a tiny leather jacket, riding a motorcycle.  Oh, or Zombie Barnaby Jones!  So there’s my vote.  Oh, and now, I totally need some Toaster Pastries.

Me: I just looked up “how to dispose of a corpse” on the internet so now I’m totally fucked if Victor turns up murdered.  Hey, did you know that quicklime doesn’t actually destroy a body?  Because I do.  Now.

I’ve called 10 animal removal/cremation places and none of them work over the weekend.  This is like when you can’t find a plumber on a Sunday, except worse because my dog is dead.

Lisa: Evidently you aren’t supposed to off your pet on the weekends.  Did you try taking him down to Frank’s Bait and Tacos?  I’m sure they would know what to do with him.  I’m only 1/2 way joking here.

Me: Oh! And the cat knocked over Hailey’s frog tank and killed them all.  So I’ve managed to kill 3 out of 5 pets in 24 hours.  That’s like the worst record ever.

Lisa: So did the fish die because the cat knocked over the tank and ate them, or did they just reverse drown?  They always say that deaths come in 3′s, so you should be good.

Me: I think they reverse drowned.  The cat’s not hungry, just…sort of evil.  I found one of the frogs my bathroom and it was desiccated but intact.  God knows where the other one is.  I’m sure the cat is probably saving it to put on Hailey’s pillow because this week just hasn’t been shitty enough.

PS.  Now I’ll never eat toaster pasteries again.  Awesome.

Lisa: More Toaster Pastries for meeeeeeeeeeee! Also, without the ‘Pickles’ at the end, his initials were BJ, and I just now figured that out.

me: This is all getting blogged.

Lisa: Cool. It’ll be kind of like an obituary, but with more frozen goodness.  (For the record, I’m referring to the Toaster Pastries, not Barnaby Jones.)

Me: Noted.

Yesterday Barnaby Jones died.  I left him outside on his dog run when I went to pick up Hailey from daycare and when I came back he was dead.  His face was swollen and it looked like he’d had a seizure but there were no puncture wounds so we suspect he had an allergic reaction from a bee or wasp sting.  I hope he died quickly and painlessly and I’ll never forgive myself for not being here.  Victor is out of town so I put a movie on for Hailey so she wouldn’t notice and then I carried him down to the valley on our property and I buried him and cried until I couldn’t cry anymore.  Victor said I should have waited until he was back home so he could do it but I just needed it to be over.  We debated on the phone about what to tell Hailey and finally decided to tell her the truth.  We cried and slept together on the couch and every few hours she’d wake me up to ask me if it was just a bad dream.  Then she cried and asked if we could go buy another pug and call him Barnaby Jones and just pretend he never died.  I told her that maybe one day we could get another dog but the truth is that I can’t handle this again.  I will never own another dog.

This morning we went for a walk and I reminded Hailey that Barnaby was still with us in our hearts and was probably running around in dog heaven.  Then she looked up at the clouds and said quite seriously that whenever it rained it would probably be Barnaby Jones peeing.  Then she yelled “MOMMY!  I FELT A DROP!  I THINK BARNABY JONES JUST PEED ON ME!” and she smiled for the first time since it happened.  And I smiled too.  And it was good.

I'll miss your rabbity face.

PS.  If you have a pet, please go hug them extra tight today.

I don't even know what to say here, y'all.

I’m not gonna approve it, but I am giving him points for creativity.

Walked to a public party at the Volstead.  Hid in the bathroom, as usual.  Was invaded by a group of women putting on impromptu KISS make-up.  The usual.  I left with them because you know that pretty much everything that happens at a party after people randomly put on KISS makeup is going to be anticlimactic.

I'm with the band. Sort of.

Then I walked to another public party for SexIs where women were encouraged to decorate dildos.  Then I looked out the window and wondered to myself what must be going on at the exclusive private parties and I hoped for the sake of the attendees that it was the exact same thing as the public parties but with more swag.

**********

My inner thighs are chaffed from walking so much.  And from being fat.

**********

Went to the panel I was speaking at 10 minutes before it started and there were like 6 people there.  Tweeted “My session starts in 10 minutes and it’s fucking PACKED” along with a picture of the audience:

Also, the chick at the back was just there to check the microphones.

A number of people complimented me on a full house of bloggers who must also be ninjas but most of them just tweeted back stuff like “Of course it’s packed! You’re a rock star!” because I guess those people don’t know how to open my pictures.  15 minutes later though it was fairly full and I think it went really well but all I can really remember from the session is someone in the audience not being able to remember the name of an esoteric gay p0rn star that she didn’t want to name her son after and another woman in the audience helpfully yelling it out to her.  I’ve found my tribe, y’all.

**********

(Photo by Justin Hackworth)

Just intentionally crossed a do-not-cross police line on purpose, so I can totally cross that off my life list now.  Except that that wasn’t actually on my life list.  But it is now because it makes me feel like I accomplished something if I can check something off of a list.  Except that I haven’t actually written my life list yet so now I technically feel worse about myself than before.  I should start a life-list in reverse order and just write down shit I already did so that I’m always done with it.  Like “Button a shirt: Check“.  ”Don’t murder kittens: Check“.  ”Get gingivitis: Check.”  Oh my God, I am awesome at this.

**********

In airport security heading home.  Apparently this is a problem:

Huh.

**********

Handed the chick in the airport bookstore a copy of the Twilight Bree Tanner book and a copy of True Blood and asked her which one was less awful.  She was all “Well, they’re both pretty bad”.  I went with True Blood because the cover had more stuff on it.  Then I clarified to the clerk that I own many, many non-stupid books.  She totally didn’t believe me.  (Note to self:  When my memoirs come out, put lots of stuff on the cover.  Stuff like naked vampires.  Also, meet some naked vampires so I can put them in my memoirs.)

**********

I was mentioned in the London Times but my name was misspelled so I’m not sure if that counts as being mentioned as all.  Victor says he understands because the same thing happens to him everyday when the newspapers write about him but use the wrong name and write about shit that never actually happened to him.  Victor is very good at keeping me grounded.  And by “grounded” I mean “stabby”.

**********

The end.

**********

I’ll stop now.

I usually do my weekly wrap-up of shit-I-did-when-I-wasn’t-here on Sunday but I forgot because I thought yesterday was Saturday.  Which was quite a rude shock when I woke up this morning, I assure you.

This week on Ask the Bloggess:

• Cyber-bullies are dicks.

This week on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a douche-canoe):

• “I considered doing something with glitter and feathers but really all I could think was that the fake penises looked really naked and that they needed clothes.”
• “God made vaginas too small and he’s looking for a scapegoat.”

This week on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

• It’s kindergarten all over again.  Literally.

This week on the internets:

• This kind of marketing and my house still hasn’t sold.  WTF, housing market?  Get your shit together.
• I convinced Karen to do this.

This week on shit-I-didn’t-come-up-with-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

• You’ve got something on your hood there.
• “No,” I said.  “I am not okay.”
• And then I just never stopped crying.
• A puppy for Bradyn.

I was asked to do a cooking competition at Blogher and I would have said no except that they said that I could create whatever I wanted and that the judge would be Padma from Top Chef so of course I was all “I’m in”.  Everyone I was competing against in my heat made stuff like “stuffed artichoke areola some-thing-or-another” but I figured if I’m going to do this I should totally carb-load the sandwich because Padma needs to eat something, y’all.

I'm the one playing on my phone.

My sandwich ingredients were white bread, ham, chocolate fudge, gummi bears, m&m’s, whipped cream, more chocolate fudge (for bonding), caramel corn and packets of sweet-and-low stolen from the hotel.

This was "organic chocolate fudge" so I *technically* this sandwich is considered health food.

Padma looked horrified and not in a good way and I explained that this was a sandwich I made for my daughter all the time and that my kid really likes it although she does have severe diabetes but that I still make it for her because I believe in “tough love” and then Padma looked a little appalled and she was all “Your daughter is diabetic…and you’re making this?” and I’m all “Yep” and then I squirted some whipped cream directly into my mouth to get me to stop talking because at that point even I wanted me to shut up but I overshot and sparklets of whipped cream shot onto Padma and she looked unpleased.

Girl on left is trying to distance herself from me. Girl on right has given up. I offered everyone whip-its and no one wanted them. Probably because they thought I was talking about dogs instead of whipped-cream. I would NEVER offer people dogs in a cooking competition. Because I'm a professional.

You can tell that no one knows me here because they gave me a knife.

Then the sandwiches went for judging and when Padma picked mine up she was all “I’m gonna need a wet wipe” and I turned to the girl next to me and I was all “Hell yeah. My sandwich is so sexy she’s gonna need a wet wipe” and the girl next to me was all “I don’t think that’s what she means” and I decided to ignore her because it’s pretty obvious that she was just trying to psyche me out.

I think the guy on the left was doing the wave for my sandwich. It was that awesome. Also, the girl on the right needs to learn how to hide her emotions better.

But then Padma refused to eat my sandwich and I was all “FUCKING SHENANIGANS!” but she totally ignored me.  But the other judges were all kids so I figured I was totally winning but then the votes were tallied and then Padma called out who was moving on to the next heat and it was EVERYBODY IN THE COMPETITION BUT ME.  I shit you not.

The aftermath. (Technically it was less of a sandwich and more like a chocolate stew that had bread and ham in it.)

And I was all “WTF? I was robbed” but then I was like “Wait, where would they get a bunch of kid judges at an adult conference?” and I decided they were most likely stolen from an orphanage and the orphans probably just weren’t used to that level of love in a sandwich.  Also, I may have given them all diabetes and I think giving diseases to orphans probably counts against you on your sandwich score card and probably in life in general.

PS. All of this is on video, y’all.

PPS.  Photos taken by Karen, then vandalized by me.

PPPS. This is the worst picture of me in the history of the world but I’m including it because it kind of sums up the whole day:

This is my "cooking face". It's also why I don't cook. Also, this is exactly how you should always look when you're standing next to a supermodel anyway because no matter what, you're going to look like shit comparatively so you might as well go all out.

Part 4 of Blogher still to come.  Someone get me some ritalin.

**********

Me: Take a right on Houston Street.

Everyone else in New York:  You mean “Howston Street?”

me:  No, I don’t fucking mean “Howston Street”.  It’s pronounced Houston.  I’m FROM there.

Everyone else in New York:  We know but we’ve been mispronouncing it for years just to fuck with you people.  Oh look!  It’s the Empeer State Bwilding.

me:  Let me out of this taxi.

**********

You know what should be on the job description of taxi drivers?  Knowing where shit is.  It’s Times Square, dude.  Eventually someone’s gonna want to go there. Program that shit into your GPS.

**********

This is what happens when I try to call Kristen of Mommy Needs a Cocktail to come sit with me because I can’t leave my room:

Actually, mommy is just fine. But thanks for asking.

I totally want to show this to everybody but I can’t because I can’t leave my room.  Thanks, anxiety disorder.  You’re ruining it for everyone.

**********

Went to the Voices of the Year Gala and there was a naked picture of me in the lobby, which sounds kinda sexy until I mention that I was holding a plunger and that it’s named “Psycho”.  Hard to argue with that one.  Then I sat in a corner with an antique Smith-Corona typing psychic poetry for people because I was promised free drinks.  The poems were really less poems and more just extra sentences in case you needed one and started out with stuff like “Your eyes explode like roman candles in a starry night.  Also? Nice boobs” and by the end of the night they had degenerated into “I’m tooo drun_k to tyype.  MY fin_ggers hurrt.  Wheres the comma?”

I can't tweet on this thing for shit.

Also, my friend Jordan came to ask if I needed anything and I said I’d like a cocktail but she’s Mormon so she’s never ordered a drink before so the bartender just gave her soda water and she was all “No, add something alcoholic” and he’s all “What kind of alcohol?” and she’s like “I don’t know.  The alcoholic kind” and I don’t know what he put in it but from the taste I’m assuming it was rubbing alcohol but I pretended like it was really delicious because if that shit keeps her out of heaven I wanted her to at least feel like it was worth it.  And this is why you don’t let Mormons get cocktails for you.  Because they aren’t good at it and also because God might think you’re forcing them to sin and then you end up in hell, which is probably filled with a giant bar but only Mormons are allowed to mix the drinks so you end up drinking turpentine-coladas for eternity and also your hair is made of snakes.

**********

Went to the New York Library with Alice so that we could hunt for ghosts but it took awhile to get in because we couldn’t figure out how doors work. True story.  Then we got in and they searched our bags because I guess there are a lot of shootings that go down in the library?  We asked a librarian where we needed to go to see where Ghostbusters was filmed and she seemed flustered and told us that most people want to know where the Sex and the City scenes were shot.

me:  How gauche. We’re much too sophisticated for that.  Where was Slimer captured?

Librarian:  I…let me look that up for you.

me:  Have you ever seen any ghosts in the library?

Librarian:  Well, I only work from 1 to 4 on Thursdays and Fridays.

me:  Ah. So maybe they work on different hours.

Alice:  Actually, I looked this place up on the internet and couldn’t find anything about this place being haunted.

me:  No, I’m fairly certain Ghostbusters was a documentary.

Then we explored the library and we didn’t see any ghosts but we did see the “Quiet Zone” which was unnerving and looks like a lot of people in time-out.  Then we considered how sad it was that no one had ever been murdered there because that would make the building so much more fascinating and we thought about murdering someone in the bathroom just to help out the library but we decided not to because it’s illegal and also because we both have poor upper-body strength.  Then I took a picture of Alice in the library and we totally got a ghost in the picture who was so real that you couldn’t even tell that she was a ghost.

So yeah, it was pretty bad-ass.

**********

Went to a hipster hotel coffee bar because I needed a diet coke.  Barista with mutton-chops and a beret was all “Oh.  We don’t do that here” like I’d just asked if I where they do the illegal dog fights.  Then I pointed out that there was “soda” on the menu and he was all “That’s sparkling Italian soda.  We don’t do diet coke” and I just stood there staring at him and Alice gave me this look like “Is there going to be a problem here?  Because I will run away if so” and Mutton-Chops was all “You want the sparkling Italian soda.  Trust me” and I was all “Are you trying to save me from being too pedestrian?  Because I don’t need your pity“.  But then I paid $5 for a sparkling Italian soda because I was thirsty.  BUT THEN(!) Alice and I were wandering the halls of the hipster hotel and there was a cart fucking FILLED with diet cokes and I was all “You have GOT to be shitting me” and so I stole them because seriously?  Not cool, hipsters. But then it turns out that you have to have an old-fashioned bottle opener to open the damn things so I ended up just staring at them for two days like they were installation art.  Which is probably what hipsters do with them too, now that I think about it.

You win this round, Mutton-Chops.

**********

Part 3 comes out tomorrow unless I get distracted by somethi

**********

I’m not allowed on a plane unchaperoned so I spent the night at Chookooloonks‘ (aka Karen) house where I was serenaded with live ukulele music and we exchanged stories of passing out in ditches.  Then I went to wash my hair but I forgot to bring shampoo so I used her “Uncle Funky’s Daughter Shampoo For Kinky Curly Hair” which is not really made for white girls but when I came out of the bathroom I told Karen that it was awesome because I felt very multi-cultural and also now I know what it feels like to be black.  Except without all the history and repression.  Then my hair dried and it looked exactly the same as before, which was disappointing but I’m pretty sure I was changed inside forever, like the day you lose your virginity except better because no cops came and it didn’t happen in a truck.  Then Karen gave me the “Girl, you are not right” look which looks a lot like the “Girl, you need a sandwich” face and so I agreed because either way she was right and I really wanted a sandwich.

It's basically this look but with more raised eyebrow.

**********

Landed in LaGuardia airport.  Hey, you know what would be a good idea?  If you didn’t put the runway on a pier IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING OCEAN.  Or if maybe the captain came on and said something like “Oh, by the way, it’s about to look like we’re crashing into the water but at the last second the runway will appear and we’ve never had any giant squid reach out their tentacles to grab us even though we look EXACTLY LIKE A FISHING LURE SKIMMING THE SURFACE.  No worries.  Stop crying, girl in row 8.”  That would have been helpful.  But it didn’t happen, probably because they totally had been grabbed by a squid tentacle before and now they can’t legally make that disclaimer and then I may have hyperventilated a little and then Karen gave me that look again which was weird because I totally wasn’t in the mood for a sandwich and she’s usually very intuitive about that sort of thing.

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I’ve been in New York for one hour and already I’m being detained by the NYPD.  Apparently it’s illegal to get a pedicab the way we did which was by stabbing the people about to get in the cab and then forcing the cab driver to commit robberies for us.  Kidding.  Actually we were just standing in an illegal place to hail a cab and so we got pulled over directly in front of a hotel full of bloggers.  I tweeted that if you looked outside the hotel right now you could see Laura and I being detained for 20 minutes by the NYPD but no one did, probably because everyone inside was too busy doing opium and pulling used kidneys out of murdered hookers.  Way to pick your battles, NYPD.  Also, last time I was out of town with Laura we almost got arrested as well so I blame her.  It’s pretty much the worst tradition ever.

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My friend Grace just asked me how many drink tickets I got.  I have no idea what she’s talking about.  She pulled out the perforated badge sheet that should have had drink tickets printed on it and it was entirely blank. Awesome. Blogher thinks I’m an alcoholic.

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Went to the Social Luxe party and got snubbed by everyone I’ve ever met.  Except that I’m almost sure that it was just because I looked so different in my phony-tail.  Or maybe they’re just assholes.  Probably the first one.  Then I won the “Funniest Blog” award and when I went on stage everyone was all “Huh” and that’s kind of what I thought too.  Then I think I got fitted for lingerie but I’m not sure if that was part of the party or if I was just being molested so I just went with it.  And that’s basically how Blogher is.  Also, FYI?  The award is a glass paperweight and if you go through security with it on the way home they will assume you have a bomb and they will bring out security and then when they finally pull it out and read it they’ll say “What’s a blog?” and that’s how you know you’re in the real world again.

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Called Victor to tell him I won an award.

Victor:  Awesome.  I already have a trophy for you at home.

me:  Is it “World’s Greatest Grampa”?

Victor:  I scratched out the “Grampa”.

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Hosted the annual People’s Party with a bottle of screw-top wine that I stole from the mini-bar.  As usual, I went to the actual party for 1.9 minutes then spent the entire rest of the night hiding in the bathroom.  It was a lot like a normal party except that people make you wear their shoes so they can swallow them and someone makes an art installation of play-doh on the sink but you don’t even notice it because a group of girls dressed in full Girl Genius costume just came to pour drinks.  The bathrooms of Blogher are a lot like Burning Man, but with slightly less nudity.

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Back in the hotel room.  Just stuck my head out of the bathroom to clarify to my roomate that I’m using an electric toothbrush in here and not a vibrator.  She looked less relieved than I expected.  This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to talk to people after 10 PM.

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Part two comes tomorrow.  I need a nap.

I can only hope like the “Traveling Pants”, the “Traveling Red Dress” is magic enough to make it fit my size 18 self by mere magic. Honestly, being able to see it.. to touch it and be near it will be enough to prove I will be living my own Red Dress moment. I’m going to Blogher! I’m going to fly (!!!) to New York in 70 days and I’m completely and utterly terrified. But I’m doing it anyway dammit! This is a nerve-racking trip for most people, but for me? It’s so much more than that. For me, this trip will be a catalyst to take my life back from the ruthless clutches of agoraphobia. Sort of extreme exposure therapy. Today I can’t drive to the next town on my own, I can’t be alone at home, I can’t even take my daughter to the beach. I’m so much better than the housebound puddle I was 10 years ago, but I’m stuck. I’m so tired of CAN’T. In 70 days though (god help me), I CAN and I WILL.

That red dress? Home plate. The finish line. And also new beginning.

Thank you. ~ Karen

And this weekend I went to Blogher.

And I met Karen.

And we sat in my hotel room with her two friends and she slipped on the traveling red dress.

And it was amazing.

That’s what blogging is about for me.  The shared journeys.  The people.  The hope. The little victories that aren’t really so little at all.  The stories of our lives that entangle and cause strangers to suddenly become a community and a lifeline.

And as Karen stared out the window onto the teeming New York sidewalk below she took a deep, ragged breath and held her head a little higher and then she cried.  Not the cry of someone crippled by fear but the cry of someone seeing the sun for the first time in far too long.

And we cried along with her.  And it was good.

Karen

Thank you for inviting me into your stories.  And for listening to mine.

Comment of the day: Jenny, thank you so much for sharing such a beautiful moment.  And Karen, thank you so much for reminding me that we all can find the courage to confront our fears. You’ve inspired me to tackle a lingering one of my own head-on, starting now. And you should know that that red dress looked like it was designed with you in mind. You were, and are, gorgeous. For what it’s worth, a stranger half way around the world is very proud of you. ~ Alpha Wumpus