I seriously need to get these things off my chest, because they are burning like the scarlet letter:
I lost my tweezers at some point – maybe I left them in Africa – and then I forgot to buy some new ones before I came to Chicago, and then I didn’t think to go out and buy one once I got to Chicago, so I spent the entire weekend with random black hairs trying to create a unibrow across my normally tamed brow area. I don’t *think* anyone noticed, but there were also a surprising number of times that people in a conversation with me suddenly needed to be somewhere else, which may not be a coincidence.
I am secretly a little glad that I wasn’t allowed into the MamaPop party on Friday night, because it gave me an excuse to go back to my room, shower, watch some TV, and go to bed early. I am, however, sad that I missed out on gastro-intestinally snogging unicorn butt.
I kind of want to offer The Bloggess $50 to be my roommate next year, so that if I have another bout of “Oh my God I can’t go downstairs I can’t even get out of my bed people will laugh at me why am I such a depressed and anxiety-ridden freak of nature?” I will have someone in the room who understands. However, I have this suspicion that offering someone $50 to be my roommate is sort of frowned upon and might be viewed as the kind of desperate need to be loved that causes most people to tactfully suggest seeking professional help.
On the ride from the Sheraton to the airport, I was thinking about the Room 704 party and how they had swag bags with vibrators. And I was thinking of how I had initially been hanging around near the swag bags with some other cool ladies, waiting for the party to start, excited to check out what fun frivolity lay within the brown Bloomingdale’s bags (not because I wanted a vibrator, because actually, I didn’t, but just for the fun and excitement of it). But after a little while, I started to feel like I was at a Who concert, pressed in on all sides by women who were clearly desperate for tiny sex toys in the shape of woodland creatures. So I decided to step out of the way and let others who cared much more than I did be first in line for the vibrators, and I gave up my chance for the bags. And later I saw some of the vibrators they were giving away in the drawing, and they looked like the chocolate bunnies you buy at Easter, and I decided I was glad I didn’t get one, because I don’t want anything near my lady bits that looks like something you would purchase and consume to celebrate a traditional Christian holiday. And I was thinking all of this while riding in the shuttle to O’Hare, and I suddenly realized that I was thinking all of this, and I was scared that the lady next to me was going to try to converse with me, because I just knew that if she asked me something I was going to accidentally blurt out, “VIBRATORS,” in that extra-loud voice like when someone asks you to repeat your name for the third time and you’re trying to be very clear so they won’t ask you a fourth. “Where are you from?” “VIBRATORS.” Or: “What do you do for a living?” “VIBRATORS.” Or, maybe worst of all, “Were you in Chicago for business or pleasure?” “VIBRATORS.” And I just knew that if that happened the whole shuttle – and it was a full shuttle – would get completely silent and the level of extreme discomfort would rise until someone farted to relieve the tension. And the way things were going, that someone would probably have ended up being me and I would have spent the whole ride wondering if the embarrassment of having farted in a van full of weary travelers was or was not a good trade for the embarrassment of having essentially admitted that I was in Chicago for neither business nor pleasure, I was there for VIBRATORS.
Okay, I’m feeling much better now. Anyone else? The confessional is open…