Dear internets, it’s once again time for my mandatory Blogher post. I’ll make it short, I swear.
If you aren’t going to the Blogher conference, no worries. I spend most of my time hiding in my room or in a public bathroom so technically you could just hide in your bedroom at home and simulate the whole thing. Except that to make it a true experience you need to share one bed with several other girls and you have to pretend that you’re always happy and that you never have to poop. That’s basically the whole conference. Plus booze. Also, my roomie Laura and I were comparing all of the private parties that we didn’t get invited to and we decided that we would host an imaginary private party so that when you see people tweeting about some awesome party you weren’t invited to you can make them jealous with your own personal party tweets and we will totally back you up. If you claim to see me throwing flaming furniture out of a hotel room inexplicably filled with rare Brazilian lizards I won’t deny it because that’s pretty much exactly the kind of thing you expect to see at #vaginapalooza10. You’ve just been invited. No vagina necessary.
If you are at Blogher then come find me because I spend most of my time alone in bathrooms. I’m co-hosting the People’s Party again this year but as usual I probably won’t see the inside of the party and will most likely be in a bathroom outside of the party hanging out with the irresponsible people who didn’t RSVP on time. On Friday I’m doing “performance art” at the Kirtsy party and popping into the Serenity Suite when I get too overwhelmed. Then Saturday I’m speaking about when it’s okay to lie (summary: It’s not) and then Saturday night I’ll be at the Volstead and at the SexIs party at the Warwick. (Both of those are totally open to non-blogher attendees, btw. No RSVP necessary. Just come if you want.) As always, I will be a mess and cannot be held responsible for anything that I say or do and I apologize in advance for whatever ill-advised thing I convince you to do. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking.
Also, every year I wear a confidence wig (or two) because I’m scared of people and it helps me pretend that I’m someone else but this year my friend Karen insisted that I need to stop wearing confidence wigs because I need to just be myself with my own bad hair but I’m pretty sure she’s just saying that because she’s never had bad hair but I’m taking her advice and this year I’m making a compromise.
CONFIDENCE PONYTAIL.
Baby-steps, y’all.
PS. I just did spell-check and it told me that “Blogher” isn’t a real word but that “#vaginapalooza10″ totally was. Awesome. Spellcheck’s totally coming to the party.
Comment of the day: In order to compensate for not being a cool BlogHer type lady I’m going to spend the weekend pooping as much as I possibly can. ~ Erica
This isn’t a real post. It’s just a statement that won’t fit on twitter.
My friend at Twitarded just pointed out that Judy Garland is stealing my look on her new lotto ticket and I think that’s probably not entirely true since Judy Garland died before I was born so it’s kind of impossible that she’s stealing my look unless maybe she had a time machine, which is possible because she had lots of money for science and also she died in her 40′s somewhat mysteriously and I assume it’s because of time-travel-related injuries because you know that back then time-travel probably caused cancer. Everything cause cancer back then. Even red m&m’s. True story.
This post would be funnier but Victor is yelling at me to get off the computer so we can drive 40 minutes to the Dairy Queen because we miss civilization. This is my new life, y’all.
Comment of the day: Maybe you ARE a time-travelling, amnesiac Judy Garland. You must team up with latter-day Mickey Rooney to find out for sure. And sing songs. And maybe fight crime. This is going to be a terrible movie. ~ Mairead
You know what’s awesome? When you move into a new (to you) house and you smell something musty and so you call someone to look at what you really hope isn’t black mold in the bathroom and they’re all “Shit, lady. You’re fucked” and then a scientist comes out to take lab samples and then the mold guys come back into your bedroom and they’re all “You haven’t been sleeping near this room have you?” and they seal the whole section of that house off and put a zipper in it so that the mold doesn’t escape and then they get dressed up in the exact same outfits that the FBI people wore when they accidentally almost killed E.T. and they rip out sheetrock and cabinets and you want to take pictures but they won’t let you in unless you’re dressed in protective gear and then they’re all “No ma’am, feetie pajamas are not going to cut it” and then the scientist keeps coming back to take more air samples and you try to sneak into the bathroom to get your toothpaste but you trip over the opening because it’s almost impossible to walk into a room that has a zipper for a door and you bump your head and it hurts so much you forget that you aren’t supposed to breathe and so you take a breath of what will probably kill you and then you start to feel sick but then you remind yourself that you’ve been showering in that room for the last week so you probably already have tuberculosis anyway and you’re not going to have enough money for hospitalization because you’re already having to spend money on air samples and lab techs and supporting the people who probably killed E.T. and then you go lay down and cry for a minute and the mold guys are all “You know, you really shouldn’t use this room” and you’re all “Well, I’d go hide in your office but you can’t because I CAN’T AFFORD WALLS”?
Yeah. That’s awesome.
PS. By “awesome” I mean “I’d like to go hide under the house but I suspect that’s where all the scorpions live”.
PPS. I need money. You need ads. Or maybe you don’t. But probably you do. $75 gets you 30 days of text ads and a detailed description of what tuberculosis feels like. Hint: It feels like a concussion.
PPPS. Victor says I don’t have tuberculosis or a concussion. Victor is very unsupportive.
PPPPS. The scientist guy just called and said that it’s definitely not black mold. Or he said that it definitely is black mold. It’s hard to keep the details straight with this concussion.
PPPPPS. Yes, of course I have pictures:
It's like living in a camping tent if the tent was filled with murderous spores that could kill you.
- This is how the mold guys look when you sneak up on them. Also, they might hit you with a board. But not on purpose. Just reflexes probably.
"I killed your alien and stuffed him in this bag. I'll leave you alone with him so you can cry and bring him back to life. Also I just ruined E.T. for you. Spoiler alert."
PPPPPPPS. Please send a doctor.
Comment of the day: Wow. Your zipper door is so magical. It’s glowing, like how I imagine the Virgin Mary’s Cesarean scar looks like in heaven. I can only assume she had a Cesarean, because she was a virgin, and I heard if you used a tampon it ruined your virginity, so passing Jesus through your birth canal probably does, too. So, you’re probably going to be OK, because it’s like when someone gets a grilled cheese at the diner and Mary’s face appears and then they win $500 at bingo night. Only it’s Mary’s heavenly abdomen and you winning no mold. ~ Sarah p
