Chirky

I still cannot enter a dark bathroom, stand in front of the mirror, and say out loud three times:

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When I was little, I watched countless episodes of Wheel of Fortune with my grandma. She loved Wheel of Fortune (as I've discovered numerous elderly people do), crossword puzzles, and cooking.

Last night, Roger and I went to the last taping in Dallas of Wheel of Fortune – Family Week. I was given VIP tickets by a friend, which meant (a) we didn't have to stand in line with all the losers other folks waiting to get in, (b) we were ushered directly to our seats and (c) we had GREAT seats.

Before the gameshow started, the film crew used the arm-crane-extension-thing to float the cameras above the crowd and shoot us while we clapped and cheered and acted as though we were excited to be there. We all pretended that Vanna and Pat were coming out on stage while the crew forced us to clap and cheer and act enthusiastic for a full ten minutes. In case you've never clapped and cheered in a continuous pattern for ten minutes, I should tell you that it gets old after about twenty seconds.

And then they came out, and we cheered again, except not as loud (nor as long) because we were all worn out. Especially the elderly people.

I didn't have high expectations for Vanna White because I think her head is disarmingly large for her body. Apparently that's just how she appears on camera though, because in person? She is heavenly. And I want to wear all her clothes. Seriously. She's got some style!

Or, more accurately, all the designers who send her free clothes to wear? THEY have style. We weren't allowed to bring camera or cell phones into the studio, so I drew a picture of her wearing my favorite dress. (Vanna and Pat changed in the middle of the taping to make it seem like it was the next day. And the only good part about that? We didn't have to clap for an eternity when they came back on stage again.)

At one point an enormous camera was directly to the side of Roger and me, filming us clapping. Roger was great. And me? Gah. I was a moron. I started nervously laughing and looking at the camera only every so often, trying to pretend as though it wasn't there, one inch from my face. And then I would look away and continue pretending to clap, because by then my palms were sore and bruised and I could no longer press my palms together without a look of anguish coming across my face, and that look just wouldn’t be pretty for the camera.

After he stopped filming us, I got upset with myself because THAT WAS MY MOMENT TO BE DISCOVERED. Why didn’t I ham it up? Why didn't I flirt with the camera and blow it kisses? Why did I ignore it and pretend it wasn't there?

AM STUPID. THAT'S WHY.

I, however, was very pleased with my performance compared to the woman who was caught picking her nose, ON CAMERA. And after several seconds of digging, when she finally figured out that everyone was howling with laughter at her and watching in horror as she unknowingly humiliated herself, she blushed and hid her face.

Yes, sir. Here in Dallas we's got usself some fiiiinnnee folks.

I would do more than blush if I was caught on national TV picking my nose. I would call a plastic surgeon and schedule a facial reconstruction. No amount of hiding can redeem that act.

We'll be on the air November 16-17, 2006. Go get your grandma and watch for us. We'll be the ones in blue, ignoring the camera and pretending to clap.

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"Bashura is Asian for "trash"."

Two thoughts:
1. Basura is Spanish for "trash."
2. Asian is not a language.

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When I was single, I promised myself that when I was married there would be certain things my husband would never know:

1. He wouldn't know that I bleach the little hairs on my upper lip.
   
2. He wouldn't know sometimes smelly gases escape my body.
   
3. He wouldn't know that, when I'm sick, I stuff tissues up my nose and let them hang there because I'm tired of blowing my runny nose.
   
4. He certainly wouldn't know that, in moments of desperation, I revert to my mom's secret ingredient: apple cider vinegar.

My mom is convinced that either baking soda or apple cider vinegar will fix or clean almost anything. When I was a teenager, she would mix a concoction of water and the vinegar, dab it onto a cotton ball, and sometimes chase me around the house trying to help me "dry up those pimples."

For the past two and a half years I've been using ProActiv, which has kept my skin clear and beautiful and which might be deserving of a review by the Beauty Editor.

However.

For the past two days I've been dealing with a stress zit. The kind that isn't so much of a zit – it's more of its own solar system attached to my cheekbone. The center looks inflated and juicy, and puffs out its proud display of puss. It has a half-inch radius of faint redness on all sides, and is so tender that it hurts even when I smile. (Or smirk. Or grimace. Whichever.)

Last night after Roger went to bed, I decided to poke at it a little - I like to do what I can to help my blemishes along in their short lives. I poked and prodded and then washed my face and poked some more. And then it started bleeding, without so much as a warning. I thought it would be a perfect time to apply my mom's homemade remedy, so the apple cider vinegar could actually get under my skin to the bacteria, instead of just being swiped on top of my skin.

And then it occurred to me: if apple cider vinegar works when it is diluted by water, it will work even better at full-strength. And if it works when swiped, certainly it will have lasting power if I hold it on top of my blemish for a long period of time. Like, all night.

I dabbed a cotton square with the apple cider vinegar and folded it in thirds. It seemed to me that the only way I could keep it on my face all night would be to tape it there, so I got out a band-aid, placed the folded cotton square in the center, and smushed it directly on top of my pimple.

And then I stared at myself in the mirror because: I just taped a vinegar-soaked cottonball to my face. On purpose.

I ran in to our dark bedroom, jumped in bed, and laid there while my face marinated in vinegar. And lo, it was smelly.

This morning as Roger was leaving for work, he leaned over to give me a kiss. I thrust my head into my pillow and wailed, "Noooo! I'm trying to protect you!" (?)

Don't ask. I was still sort of sleeping.

He amiably said, "It's okay if your breath doesn't smell good, sweetie."

My eyes popped open and I gave him The Look. Ugh! He's talking about my breath and I was talking about the stench from the apple cider vinegar. Whatever.

After he left, I crawled out of bed and stood in front of the mirror, inspecting my band-aid. It was still secure and successfully holding my cotton square in place. I carefully peeled it off and leaned in closer to the mirror. It was still red and puffy and sore, but the center (where the puss had once been) had formed a concave scab.

Now that I'm at work, my blush is masking the redness and puffiness, but my scab is so dark that I look like I have a carcinogenic mole on my cheekbone. Which is fine, if (a) everyone sees me from a distance for the rest of the week and (b) people at work had never seen me before and didn't know any better.

Obviously, ProActiv isn't working so well for me anymore.


Technorati: home remedies, apple cider vinegar, pimples, acne, skin care

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For as long as I can remember (that's a really, really ridiculously long time), Eddo has been compiling a list of reasons women should marry him. Presumptuous? Maybe. But the reasons are insightful, original and (sometimes) hilarious. His new coffee table book is available now - get yours fresh from the press!

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Seriously: at what point is my skin going to just melt off my body? At what point will my organs begin to cook? I think I’m currently medium rare.

You know you’ve arrived in life when you spend your Friday night in this way:

Giddily assembling the new Swiffer WetJet that you just bought at the grocery store, where you also labored over what type of peanut butter to purchase. Choosy moms choose Jif. I’m not a mom yet, but I have baby fever, and it’s certain that I’ll make a great mama (or at least a choosy one) because Jif is my favorite brand.

I not only chose Jif. I’m anal enough to choose the kind with 33% less sugar. And with low sodium. And with less calories.



So while you were twisting about on a dance floor, or shrieking about snakes on a plane, or prancing around in a tiara, I was sitting on my kitchen floor attempting to assemble something without first reading the instructions, which goes against every bone in my body since my college degree is entirely based upon being the person that wrote those instructions. (I will admit that after the assembly, I read the entire instruction booklet. The guilt was unbearable within me.)



And in-between assembling the three parts to the Swiffer (really? It wasn’t that difficult. I didn’t have that many options to screw it up.), I ate giant handfuls of caramel popcorn.



I eyed the packaging suspiciously when I read, “Cleans tough, greasy dirt & dried-on stains!” Has anyone tried the WetJet formula on their clothes? Say, a chef perhaps? Or a car mechanic? Someone with lots of stains and greasy dirt on their clothes? Because I may just forgo Tide in favor of WetJet next time I do laundry.



Also, is anyone else the least bit bothered that the WetJet cleaning cloths look oddly like giant maxi pads? They totally stole the stay-dry technology from Always. I’d recognize it anywhere.



While I was busy Swiffering and gorging myself on deliciously sweetened popcorn, Roger was sorting through the mail we’ve received over the past four months. And then he began cleaning out the storage boxes full of mail. And guess what he found? MAIL. FROM. APRIL. 1996. That was ten years ago. In April 1996, I was still in high school, cruising the main strip until my ten o’clock curfew.

Gah. I was so cool. Obviously, not much has changed. I can stay out later now, but why would I when instead, I can assemble mopping devices on my kitchen floor at home?

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I'm totally into VeryZen now. Her voice gave me chills, and I found myself listening to her over and over and over again. I finally gave in to the tractorbeam and posted her video here, but you should visit her site and leave commenty love.

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I had my eyes dilated this morning. I kicked myself for not having my camera. As such, you are subject to my drawings today:

(Also, I apparently have very bushy man-brows, no neck, a crooked jaw and unruly, airy hair. I also have bald eyes, a nose that disappears into my face, and a perpetually open mouth. This doesn't do much for my self-esteem. And, gaahhh: the eyebrows. Have you ever seen such a thing?)

Three hours ago, they told me my eyes would return to normal in one hour. Obviously, they lied. I know this because I just looked in the mirror to inspect my pupils. They are very big and very dark and very uneven and floating around inside my head.

Technorati: dilation, eyes, doctor, drawing, Illustration

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I've been disillusioned with the Internet lately. I am bored with my routine. Everyday I check email, and then check my other email account, and then I check my other email account. I monitor my Travian accounts. (How much of a nerd does this make me?) I open a blank Word document and stare at the blinking cursor, purse my lips, and think.

I look at my blank wall, hoping it will inspire me. Nothing.

Of course, this hasn't stopped me from dreaming up new ideas for new websites and what I would write on the imaginary websites. It hasn't even stopped me from spending hours creating and narrowing down domain names for the imaginary websites. And admittedly, it hasn't stopped me from buying those domain names.

I am now the proud owner of several domain names that I can't remember, and three that I can remember. Kris, please don't email me to tell me how many I really have. Let's keep it a secret. That way, I feel less guilty for buying domains when there are starving children who need my money more than the Internet does.

Even though I maintain chirky.com, and even though I write a career blog for JobsInThaCity.com, I have somehow convinced myself that I still have time to write other blogs. And to have a full time job. And to volunteer. And to attend two different weekly meetings for two different groups in the Dallas area.

You'd think that with all this busyness, I'd have more to write about. For example: that Homeless Man two days ago who stood on the side of the street, ten feet from my car, and whipped out his goodies to pee on the ground. IN DOWNTOWN DALLAS. DURING RUSH HOUR. It was wildly funny to me, and I regretted at that moment that I don't have a camera phone.

I am sure that you don't regret that I don’t have a camera phone, or else I would have subjected you to blurred, out of kilter images of the dirty drawers and whimsical peeing. And perhaps that's just not acceptable blogging fodder.

Technorati: internet, blogging, Dallas, writing, homeless, taboo

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It's not often that I laugh until I cry and then cramp up in pain because I am at work, presumably working. I cannot laugh out loud. I MUST NOT LAUGH OUT LOUD. Instead, I flung my head down and half-covered my face with my right hand as my entire body began to violently, uncontrollably shake.

My abs hurt. I minimized my Firefox window and calmed myself. I breathed in long, deep breaths. And then I went back to working, thinking to myself, "I'll have to finish this at lunch."

Several minutes later, I opened my Firefox window and began reading once more, only to minimize the window within seconds, again. I repeated the process of trying to calm myself, this time by digging my elbows into my desk and tightening each muscle in my body to prevent myself from laughing aloud.

It didn't work.

Emily, the author of Not That You Asked (whose domain is named after her dog, Hambone), is not just a captivating writer. She is like a sister I've never met – and by that, I mean our lives since childhood are disturbingly similar. Hers is one of my favorite blogs, and yesterday's entry is a perfect example why. An excerpt that, as of yet, hasn't failed to produce in me an encore of giggles:

"What wasn’t so nice to hear was what Dave said when he returned from retrieving a few things from the car that I was physically unable to get for myself because not only did it mean I would have to revisit the scene of the crime but also because my eyes were swollen shut from all the crying: “Wow, there’s an awful lot of dog hair stuck in the back window.” Which made me start hyperventilating all over again because HELLO! DOG HAIR STUCK IN THE WINDOW, a reminder that it’s not like he went out of it WILLINGLY!"

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As a self-proclaimed beauty editor - I'm sacrificing myself to bring you authentic reviews of various products, just because I love you so. Got one you want me to review? Email me - I have received in the mail a fair amount of lotions (okay, fine - I've received two) to review so far.

I want to know where the fun products are, like glitter. Or lip gloss. I suppose everyone needs to start somewhere, and soft, moisturized skin is as good a place as any to begin reviewing products. Especially if they are free. (Lotion is particularly a good place to start if you are like me, because my skin is nearly as ashy as the roof of my parents' car after Mt. St. Helens exploded). I realize how horrible an analogy that is, because: really? I don't have three inches of ash suctioned to my skin. Still, I can't even remember the last time I put lotion on my legs.

Today I used the Smooth Sensation lotion produced by the Nivea body care line. The Nivea website has this to say about it:

Specifically formulated for Dry Skin, Smooth Sensation delivers intensive moisturization in a unique light, fast absorbing formula. Enriched with Gingko Extract, Shea Butter and Vitamin E, it provides Triple Action moisturization for the most touchable skin you’ve ever imagined:

• Smoothes and nourishes the skin
• Revitalizes the skin
• Absorbs quickly into the skin

Nivea's marketing department gets two thumbs up. If I found this product in the store and read the description, I might actually buy a bottle of it for myself.

Unfortunately, it would only be possible for the description of this lotion to be more of a lie if they promised it would help fat cells disappear in a matter of seconds, or that my skin would change to a lovely golden tan, sans streaks, or that the pitch of my voice wouldn't falter when I try to sing a cappella.

Personally, I like lotion to be thick and creamy so that I have to work at rubbing it in my skin. At least make me feel like I'm achieving a result by using the lotion.

Smooth Sensation by Nivea was a bit watery for my taste, and felt like it was just being smeared around on my skin rather than absorbing and moisturizing my delicate pores. And while it did a fabulous job of ridding the skin on my legs of its ashy appearance, I wanted a towel to dry myself off after applying it.

I think the following bullet points need to be added to the description:

• For use on body only, not hands
• Pungently perfumed, not lightly scented
• Will leave user either (a) afraid to touch face with hands because of the fear of transferring greasiness from palm to face; (b) repeatedly wiping palms on slacks or (c) running to the bathroom for soap and water

Have you tried this lotion? What did you think?

Technorati tags: beauty, beauty products, lotion, Nivea

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When I was younger, I begrudgingly went shopping with my mom at yard sales. I likened it to hell because of the hot, burning sun boring down on the roof of the car, in which I undeniably slumped my body and crossed my arms in protest. I would stare out the window, watching my mother, hoping she would see how miserable and pathetic I was. I secretly hoped she would come to my rescue and say, "You don't want to do this, honey? Let's go to the movies instead!"

Rather, she would come to the window, knock on it, and crouch down to tell me in a sweet, motherly tone that I should at least roll the window down so I would have fresh air. She would invite me to come look around if only to get out of the hot car – had I known that was a ploy of hers to get me shopping, I certainly wouldn't have done it – and I would undoubtedly find a couple books or a skirt or some decorative item for my room.

When I was little, I hated those days. Now that I'm older, I cherish my memories of them. I still (albeit rarely) go yard sale hopping with my mom and I love watching her milling around, looking at someone else's belongings, whittling the price of a Pottery Barn mirror (great condition, original tag still affixed on the back of it: $69) down from the marked price of $10 to a mere $4.

From my mother, I learned the skill of bargaining. She is the reason that I prefer to shop the sale racks at the mall: if I only have $100 to spend, wouldn't I rather have 3 shirts, a new skirt and a couple pairs of slacks from the racks in preference to the one pair of jeans I could buy otherwise?

A couple weeks ago I submitted my name and home address over the internet and in exchange I am supposed to receive beauty product samples for free. This particular form not only requested my full name and home address, which will probably be sold to "affiliates" who will cram my mailbox with junk, but also asked if I was a "Beauty Editor." I thought about the question: Um, I like beauty products. I have opinions about some of them. And even though I made Bianca look like a prostitute when I practiced doing makeup on her, that was, like, five years ago. I bet I could totally do a better job now." So I checked "yes" and instantly catapulted myself to another world. I became a beauty editor.

This coming from someone who, just this morning in the shower, began conditioning her hair and realized afterward that she had forgotten to wash it first. And didn't care. I just went about my business, thinking about the day ahead of me.

Last night, when I checked the mail I found that two companies had sent me beauty products to test and review. And test I shall, because woe is me: I am officially a Beauty Editor.

Technorati tags: beauty, beauty products, free, shopping

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I am haunted by purchasing feminine care products to such a degree that merely saying the word gives me the creeps: Tampons.

I'm the woman who can't just buy a box at the grocery store - I have to buy other unrelated items, like a pound of asparagus and six apples and 93% lean ground beef and a loaf of freshly-baked sourdough bread and maybe some finely shredded cheddar cheese and a few bottles of contact solution just to make it seem as though I haphazardly found myself on the feminine care aisle and casually threw a box of them into my cart, without so much as checking the price or the brand or the size(s). Gross.

I feel like vomiting now, just admitting that.

That's also why I freaked out in the DFW airport two weeks ago when I realized I needed one of those little suckers and had accidentally checked them in my luggage. My luggage that had already rolled down the rolly rubber thing (mind went blank: what is that thing called?) on its way to be opened and searched (which, incidentally, is also why I always pack my underwear in plastic Ziploc bags, because I don't want some grubby man's hands in my underwear, knowing that he probably didn't wash his hands after his last restroom break, and please note that I'm trying to trust that he didn't actually open the Ziploc bag to rummage through them).

I frantically searched the airport restrooms, which gave me my second reason for hating the DFW airport. The first reason? Wayfinding. It's just not possible. If you are from out of town, good luck. Even the locals get lost every time we go.

I had only half an hour before my flight began seating passengers, which meant that I had thirty minutes to (a) search the restrooms, (b) find what I needed, (c) make use of what I needed, and (d) find food, because I was hungry and feeling a little grumpy and OMG, feed me right now.

But I couldn't find anything in the restrooms because the DFW airport can charge $10.98 for a pint of ice cream but it can't stock a few tampons in the restrooms and sell 'em for a couple buck. Seriously. I would have paid two dollars just for one. As it was, I did purchase tampons, plural: tampons. A whole box of them: the only choice available in the entire airport, which I purchased from a male, after standing in a long line of other people, mostly male, who were snickering at me.

Then I realized that the airport sales team is smarter than me, because when they've got someone as desperate as me, there is no difference between the words want and need. You don't mind standing in that line to pay $4.59 for a tiny box of whatever is available.

The chocolate? I can't decide if I bought it because it was necessary, or simply because I couldn't stand to purchase a box of tampons alone.

Technorati: blogher, travel, chocolate, period, dallas

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I've spent a good portion of the last couple of weeks as hungry as a famished pigmy shrew stalking its next prey. In public I have to force myself to stop eating, instead holding one hand in the other and squeeeeeeezing, hoping the pain will take the focus off of my growling stomach.

I don't understand why I suddenly have such a voracious appetite, but I've decided to start blaming it on a tapeworm. As such, I've created a list of many things I can blame on my tapeworm, because I'm always looking for something else to blame rather than my own lack of discipline.

1. Constant hunger, like, right now
2. Forgetfulness
3. IBS (Is this too much information?)
4. Constantly hungry. Seriously.
5. Gas, because I don't have a dog to blame.
6. Bloating: Surely I haven't gained weight. No, I think I'm just bloated.
7. Sleepiness: so sleepy. I want to curl up under my desk and bask in the warmth of my space heater.
8. Constantly hungry (Oh my gosh, I just ate lunch - an entire meal of meats and starches and vegetables, and I feel like I haven't eaten in four days.)
9. The bridge of my nose is itchy, and scratching it doesn't help.
10. Bad hair day with flyaways and frizziness and a pony tail that looks like I just woke up and threw it back and came to work. (Or, perhaps it looks like that because that's exactly what I did.)
11. Polish chipping off the tips of my fingernails, which totally has something to do with the tapeworm.
12. Distractability: the Internet pulls me like a moth to a flame.
13. The hunger. it's insatiable.

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I just read a movie review and started sweating and swearing. My stomach leapt toward my heart and my hands were shaking. It is rare that I become so emotionally involved in reading something that I actually get mad - but in this case, it took only one sentence: "[Hounddog]...written and directed by Deborah Kampmeier...calls for [Dakota] Fanning's character to be raped in one explicit scene and to appear naked or clad only in "underpants" in several other horrifying moments."

I read elsewhere that both Dakota Fanning's mother and her agent are urging her to do this movie because they both believe it is "Oscar worthy." I also read that Dakota was somewhat traumatized by the role. Why do the reviews of this film not mention the outcome: does the movie at all address the psychological affect upon the victim of such a crime? And at what point do we make a stand for morals rather than escalate our own fame and wealth?

The premise of Hounddog resonates deeply with me. I don't discuss much of my past on this site, but now seems to be a fitting time for me to speak out against our culture's apathy toward sexual, emotional and physical violence.

Eight and a half years ago, I was raped. It was a time of fear, of embarrassment, of not knowing exactly what to do with myself. I felt shame. I felt responsibility. My best friend - someone that I trusted at the time and who made a grave mistake in the advice she gave me, advice which still makes me hot with anger - told me that "it happens to a lot of girls, it's not a big deal or something to get upset about."

It was in the wee hours of the morning when it happened, and it wasn't until about 5am that I was able to leave. I was certain that if I went home, my dad would wake up and he would just know. I was too ashamed to tell anyone else what had happened. I drove around in circles and then parked in the mall parking lot for four hours that morning, waiting for the mall to open so I could go to work.

The entire day I was consumed by how dirty and disgusting I felt. It was a Christmas seasonal job - my first day on the job - and all day long the freshness of the night before and the sight of the clothes I was still wearing forced me to remain raw and on edge. To make matters the tiniest bit worse, I was working in a Victoria's Secret store – a brand synonymous with sex.

When I finally went home that afternoon, I turned the shower on and sat in the tub, each drop of the scalding water pricking my skin like a needle. I scrubbed until my skin was red and irritated and raw. I hated myself. I hated what he had done to me. And internally, I was screaming in anger at God.

Some may disagree with me, but I truly believe that God did protect me that night. I know plenty of women whose stories involve that which I was spared: I wasn’t beaten. I didn’t die. I didn’t get pregnant or contract an STD.

I've spent the past eight and a half years recovering from that night, recovering from subsequent nights that sent me off the deep-end, recovering from a similar incident in which I later recognized that I had been drugged.

I've been in private counseling.
I've been in group therapy.
I've spoken with scores of women.
I’ve found a passion.
I've found my voice.

And I'm disgusted by both Hollywood and this film. I’m horrified that directors and producers are so callous regarding this issue. I’m appalled that I’ve had to leave the theater in the middle of more than one movie; I’ve flipped channels or turned the TV off entirely because of the explicit and violent scenes both implying and depicting rape. It’s everywhere.

I’m revolted when someone I know sits through an entire abuse scene without being affected – even though I know they are not as torn by it as I am. I’m sickened that we, as a human race, turn our heads and ostensibly accept the content of movies and jokes and plays and life without batting an eyelash.

So this is my question: would you allow your daughter to play this role? Do you think that 12-year-old Dakota Fanning will be (or already has been) affected by what she is portraying? How do you feel about fans who say, “I hope that she is raped truthfully…”: what does that mean? Should there be a minimum age of those who watch this movie? And will that only serve to guarantee that pedophiles will be in the audience?

I’ve found my voice.
I want to hear yours.

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Attending the BlogHer workshops confirmed to me that what I’m doing at work, while I enjoy it, is not my passion. My passion is writing and connecting with others – building a community where people can meet and share their lives. I’ve always known that my talents center around hospitality. I think blog communities are a great way for me to exercise that talent.

I have several ideas storming for new community websites, but am overwhelmed by my own ambition.

Several of you have asked me who I met at BlogHer. My answer? Everyone. Almost. There is no way I could ever give a recap of my thoughts on the people I did meet (but Miss Zoot did an excellent job of doing just that) - there were too many to name.

I met women whom I admire. I met women who made me laugh. I met women who are brilliant. I met women that I wished I had taken longer to talk with.

I learned a lot from the different sessions that were held on Day One and Day Two. But more than anything, I learned so much about myself. And perhaps that is the best thing that I could have taken from the conference.

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I haven’t barhopped since my freshman year of college, when I was underage and only had access to the wine coolers and beer at fraternity parties, so I am fairly ignorant about mixed drinks. Throw in a limited bar that doesn’t carry my standard Midori or Amaretto (Sour), and this is what you might hear me order:

”Um, can you just make me a drink that is maybe a little sweet?” “But I don’t want it to taste at all like alcohol.” “Oh - and can it be pink?”

And then I smile sweetly and flutter my eyelashes for good measure. I usually just get a blank stare or furrowed brow in return, but the bartender at BlogHer on Friday night must have felt pity for me because he grabbed a glass, poured a suicide of liquid into it, presented it to me sans the cute paper umbrella and named it a Pink Nympho.

I think it's fair to say that this proves my theory that men are thinking about sex 70% of the time.

I grabbed "dinner" – a few cubes of chicken and some crackers & cheese - and walked around gabbing with women who quelled my intimidation and brought forth my inner nerd. I somehow found myself verbally vomiting all over Alice of Finslippy, and for that I am infinitely sorry. I promised myself I wouldn't talk to her the rest of the conference because: I think she was a bit scared of the crazy talky person who cannot shut up and just talks, talks, talks until everyone is staring at her wondering why she is still talking. Heh. Hi.

Instead, I just took her picture and then quickly turned away when I saw the zany, wild eyes she was giving me, as if to say, "Yes, I'm nice and easy to talk to and I have very soft skin, but you are scary and maybe I will cut you with a very dull blade if you say one more word or take one more picture, especially because you are pretending to not take my picture, but I think that we both know what is happening here." Or, that's how I interpreted it.

One of the sponsors for BlogHer was a wine company, and they set up several stations around the pool where they gave away free wine and beer for us to sample. I am neither a wine nor a beer drinker, but that didn't stop me because IT WAS FREE and I felt obligated to partake because I am my mother's daughter and if something is free, or even on sale, we get it (which, incidentally, is also the reason we each have several bottles of capers in our respective pantries). This is also the reason that I gleefully accepted from BlogHer the swag they gave each of us, like bibs and books and new online accounts for services I probably won't use and t-shirts advertising condoms that I probably won't ever wear (neither the tshirt nor the condom, mind you).

The Pink Nympho and the wine and the lack of a proper meal proved too much for my digestive system, and I realized I was drunk before the sun even set. At first I thought that it would be fun to have a tape recorder because: drunk conversations! And then I was glad I didn't have a tape recorder because: drunk conversations.

It wasn't until I got back to my room on Friday night that I began to feel sick – which I suppose is appropriate because if you're going to be sick? Please don't be sick in public – I was dizzy and holding on to the wall and I was amazed that I made it back to my room with my camera and wallet and room key.

It was in that brief moment that I knew the toilet and I would be bonding over the next six hours. And I vomited. Eight times. Not much was there except red wine, which oddly, was kind of a pretty color in the toilet. Or so I recall in my (Mom: it was totally accidental) state of drunkenness.

Now that I'm home, I'm (a) mourning the end of BlogHer and (b) recalling Friday night with dread. Suddenly, I've remembered why I stopped barhopping in the first place. I'm also remembering that I had been podcasted during some of those drunk conversations. And then I remembered the content of those conversations. And then I died.

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