Yes, I know that it has been a freaking month now, and I have not yet written about Blogher 09.

In my defense, here is a list of excuses.  Please pick and choose from them the ones which you find most pleasing:

• I am not really a human being; I am a robot and I have been programmed not to write my opinions on conferences I attend in a timely manner. This is making it really hard to, you know, write my opinions on conferences I attend… in a timely manner. Like Blogher 09, for example.  If you are a robot programmer, please get in touch with me. I need your help.

• Blame Alcohol.  I had so much to drink that weekend that really, people, come ON.  I might as well just write: Got to The Chicago Sheraton. Heard ear splitting squeees echoing off of the walls in all directions as people saw one another. Stuffed swag bags. Party. Drinks. Party. Drinks. Naked woman? Wow. Stumble, stumble, sleep.  Sessions. People! Party! Someone handed me a drink. And another. Another. Another? Sure! WHY NOT. Etc. *drink train ensued* Blur blur, Party, Dancing, blur blur, static, room spinning, I’m falling, oh God, I’m falling. What is that? Slur slur slur. Static. Someone cut me off, Good Lord why is no one cutting me off? I think I just ate my own hair. Is that a moose?  Blur blur. Laughter, sleep of some sort, passing out? Blackness.  Dog turds in my mouth. Hangover. Hangover. Hangover. Hangover. Bowling? Sleep.  I got on the plane with perfume bitch and came home. But that wasn’t very fun to read, now was it?

• Jim and Loralee were SO DAMN CUTE hiding under the table that I can’t remember how to type.

• Swag Issues are to blame.

a) When I tried to enter The People’s Party, the crushing sea of people almost did me in, but somehow I survived! Unfortunately, then someone elbowed me in the head while they were trying to OMG GET THEIR FREE SHIT HURRY BEFORE IT’S ALL GONE AHHHHH, and I forgot everything that happened. (and well, no, that didn’t really happen. not to me, anyway.)

OR

b) While manning the Room 704 Party opener, handing out drink tickets with Dawn, Victoria, Leslie, and Heather, multiple women killed me with their death stares of angry entitlement and hatred (I’m not bitter about this, I’m NOT.) because I (we) wouldn’t give them their swag imm-effing-ediately (free vibrators bring out the best in us all!) and dead people CAN’T EVEN WRITE BLOGS, PEOPLE.

• Your mom.

• Every time I try to write about the conference I get all verklempt and I can’t even get halfway into anything decent because my Emo tears are rocking me to sleep.  I think about all the wonderful people I finally got to see in person.  I spent time (not enough, never, never enough) with so many wonderful people over the weekend of the Blogher 09 Con and I can’t believe that it flew by so quickly.  I didn’t get to talk to all the people I wanted to talk with.  I didn’t get to spend enough time with those I did get to talk with.  I missed out on doing some things with certain people over the weekend, and I kick myself and/or spank myself with a rolled up piece of paper (oh, baby) almost every day now because of it. (By the way, there is a nasty bruise now and it hurts, oh man it hurts.  You should be thoroughly ashamed that you didn’t try harder to get me in on that stuff. Yes. YOU.)  But overall, the chance to see so many people I know, admire, respect, and want to hump enjoy talking with was so awesome that I have a hard time putting it into words.  I got to touch people who live inside my computer!  I got to touch them and know that YOU GUYS REALLY ARE REAL (so there! to everyone I know in real life, my “computer friends” are NOT just deranged guys in prison trying to trick me into sending them my nudes. They are just the real people they SAY they are… trying to trick me into sending them my nudes. I totally win. You must be so embarrassed.  Hahaha. Losers.)  Also, now that I am home again I MISS YOU ASSHOLES.  So, yeah.  It is all too emotional for me to recount for you, and when I try to, I cry in the way that the unpopular kid on the playground who got pushed down in the dirt for the eleventy-seventh time this week cries.  Yes, with sand in my eyes and a booger on my face.  But then I pour myself a drink, put on some black nail polish and write poems deep into the night, until the meaning of all things becomes so clear that I don’t even understand who I am anymore.  And at that point, I can’t be writing blog posts about blogging conferences.  I am deeper than that.

• Mishelle snored so loudly next to me that one night that the contents of my brain were wiped clean.  Good thing she’s such a doll. It was totally worth getting to sleep next to her.

photo courtesy of Angie

• I am a seriously lazy douche, and there is just no way I can ever really get anything done that I’m supposed to get done.  I even have a tattoo on my forehead as a disclaimer, so you can’t exactly be mad about it, can you?  I mean, did you even take the time to look at my forehead?  If not, then you are really to blame for all of this, aren’t you?  AREN’T YOU?  You can’t even admit it, can you?  When did things get so messed up between us that you can’t even tell me the truth?  How did we get here? I don’t even know you anymore. *sobbing*

• When I got to the airport in Chicago, I not only got to have an Airport Hump Date with Angie, Shash, and Mel, but I also ran into Elizabeth and Lindsay at the baggage carousel.  I had never met Lindsay before, even though we live in the same town.  So I shook her hand and told her I was happy to finally meet her in person, since this was the first time.  She exclaimed, “But I know your BEWWWWBSSS!!!”  The old woman to my right made SUCH a foul face that her head almost fell off.  In hindsight I should have just shown them to her, so that she would GET IT. Can’t resist the power of Bewbs.  I am not smart in real time, though, and instead, it turns out that she’s a Gypsy and she put a curse on me that delays all writings about Blogging Conferences.  This is really going to slow things down for me After Type A Mom Con, too.  (Am I going to that? I forget.) So just go ahead and expect it.  Damn Gypsy curses are the worst.  I’m actually jealous of that guy from Thinner.  Not only did his curse cause him to lose weight without trying, but he earned it by getting a Road Blow.  And no one at the airport even OFFERED to blow me.  The Universe hates me.

• I did write it, I published it, you all read it already and it was AWESOME.  It was SO AWESOME. What? You don’t remember? WTH is wrong with you? It might be a tumor.  You need to have that checked.

• I passed out over the Blogher 09 Weekend, so drunk that I didn’t even make it back to my room before the black curtain of no return fell inside my head. Though I was in the care of people who don’t write “PENIS!” on your face in black Sharpie while you’re sleeping, or even take pictures of you, while you are blacked out, with genitals somewhere in the shot near your general face area and then send them to Post Secret or post them to TwitPic, I still feel really, really stupid and OMG I don’t want to talk about it at all. Because the next day people were all OMFG LOTUS IS DEAD and APBs were going out over Twitter to find out if I really was dead or if I was just sitting in jail with a black eye and ripped fishnet stockings because I was whoring on the streets of Chicago to earn extra money for meals (you have to eat when you drink that much, people) and the pimp was all “Bitch better have my money!” and I didn’t. Which of course ensued in a public beating where I was loudly screaming, “Get your Pimp Hand off of me!” And the cops were not sympathetic to the whore because she said, “Where’s my free drink, Pig, THIS IS BLOGHER WEEKEND, DON’T YOU KNOW YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO GIVE ME FREE DRINKS?”  But luckily it wasn’t either of those things (I’m no whore) and I had to get up in the morning and apologize to Twitter and then tell my husband I wasn’t dead/in prison for hookin’, take a shower to wash away the shame of being such a miserable loser, clean the dog turds out of my mouth and sleep all day.  And I really don’t want to tell you guys about any of that, so I’m not going to write about Blogher.

• I had such a fabulous time that I can’t imagine waiting a whole year to do it again, so instead, I’m going to keep talking about how I’m JUST ABOUT to write my recap, because if I keep being JUST ABOUT to write my recap, then maybe it will seem like no time has passed at all and even a year later, I’ll be all, OMG I JUST GOT HOME FROM BLOGHER AND HAVE NOT EVEN WRITTEN MY RECAP YET BUT IT’S ALREADY TIME TO GO AGAIN!? SCORE!

• You should be paying me for my opinions on things like this and NONE of you has posted your payment to my PayPal account yet.  Really, this whole delay is your fault, and honestly, I don’t appreciate it one bit.

• Over the course of the weekend, I actually had my ass smacked more times than I had my bewbs grabbed. (Just in case you were wondering, women at blogging conferences are HANDSY.)  Which is kind of perplexing to me. I didn’t know how to approach that fact in the whole retelling of things. Does this mean my ass is way hotter than my bewbs? Or that bewbs are just way less hot than I thought they were?

  Blogher Bewbs

  This has been keeping me up at night. It is very important to consider. I can’t think of anything else in the world that is more important than this, actually.  Until I get this figured out, I can’t write the recap.

• Every time I try to type my Blogher09 post into my WP Text Editor, the whole system crashes and I get locked out of my own website.  Apparently, the quota for Blogher Recaps has been met for 2009 and trying to write another one causes a fatal error.  (This lockout is also why I haven’t been writing much else.  It’s not just because I suck and don’t deliver quality content on a regular basis.)

• I have to get really drunk to write about the times when I have been really drunk, because being in the same state of mind allows you to recall information much more accurately.  And I have been completely sober ever since I left Chicago. In fact, I’m definitely not drunk right now.  Really.  I swear.

• If you question me again, I will cut you, bitch.

• Twitter.

• Your mom.

• Canada.

• My bewbs.

• Other random nonsense. Like popsicles, bumble bees, and Andy Samberg.

• Mmmmm. Andy Samberg.

• What?

• Also, while I was at Bowlher being all “I’m still hungover even though it’s the next night, so I’m going to go hide on this couch in the back of the building, in the dark, and eat chicken on a STEEEEEK while I drink Mr. Pibb,” these people (a nice couple) came and sat down next to me.  (side note: every time I tried to order Dr. Pepper in Chicago, I got one of two responses:

1. “We have Mr. Pibb.” (Implied: “dumbass.”)
2. *look of disgust and hate* “You are not in the south anymore, you damn HICK. Just leave.  Leave now.”

For the record. SCREW MR. PIBB. Uneducated bastard.)

So, anyway they (the couple) were nice and all, but they were on a completely different plane than I was at that time, like, marketing and business and stuff.  And, to reiterate, I was all I AM STILL HUNGOVER, WHERE CAN I HIDE? And so, anyway, when I was asked about what kind of things I do, and I talked about the photography part, I said “I am not a professional photographer, but I have a real passion for photography and I thoroughly enjoy sharing that.” And the guy was all, “You shouldn’t say you’re not a professional, you should just say that you are a passionate photographer…” (and some other stuff, but I don’t remember, because in my head at that point I was all “Are you fucking serious?”) And when he stopped talking I was just like, “Oh. Well. Thing is. I’m not a professional photographer, but I have a real passion for photography and I thoroughly enjoy sharing that.” And then I just looked at him.  (Here’s where some people will roll their eyes and be all “You are such a bitch and why are you so mean to people? Whore.” To which I have a two-part response:

1. I abhor to be told what I should say or do when it’s really not anyone else’s business and I didn’t ask. He was a perfectly nice guy, really, but he was just in a totally different state of mind about all this with the marketing and such, and I get that. But overall?  I was over here (hand gesture) and he was over there (hand gesture way far away from first hand gesture) and I had no desire to build a bridge.
2. I am not a whore. I’ve never been paid. I’m a slut. So there.

What does this story have to do with the reason why I haven’t written a recap yet?  Well.  It’s because I knew I would have to tell this story and I’M SENSITIVE TO BEING CALLED A WHORE AND LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID.

• While I was at the pretty damn awesome Nikon’s Night Out Party, I got to have my photo taken with Carson Kressley.photo courtesy of Angie

  Now, this is not embarrassing for ME but for HIM, and out of respect, I didn’t want to hash it up again by writing the recap.

• Anissa also licked my bewb while I was at that Nikon party.  But it really has nothing to do with why I haven’t written my recap. I JUST WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU ALL KNEW. Because I’m proud of that.  Don’t act like you’re not impressed.

• My pen is out of ink.  What? Nobody else writes all their posts with an ink quill first and then transfers them to the computer?  WHEN DID YOU ALL LOSE YOUR SENSE OF ART AND BEAUTY?  When did you lose your appreciation for the elegance of the CREATIVE PROCESS!? I am ashamed of all of you.  You don’t even DESERVE my recap.

• The drugs. And the booze. And the mental infirmity.

• The sheer fact that this is the kind of crap I’d be publishing when it was all said and done.

• The large number of you who will probably unsubscribe now. (I can see you, damnit.)

• Your mom.