Why I haven’t written my Blogher 09 Recap.

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.

Nashville For Dummies

Who Also Happen To Be Lovestruck, Underage, and Extremely Gullible

So, Lotus clearly hates you and wants you to be miserable, and I know this because she asked me* to guest post for her. I only agreed because I actually have some valuable information to share with you, her devoted readers. You see, I remembered that there is some blog get-together thingy going on in Nashville in February, and I realized that many of you dear Sarcastic Mom readers will probably be going to that, if for no other reason than to get a view of The Rack close up. Something you don’t know is that I am The World’s Leading Authority on visiting Nashville.

Because I did.

Once.

So naturally, I am more than obliged to provide you all my expert advice on navigating through Lotus’ hometown and getting yourself good and married in 17 easy steps. Prepare to be dazzled.

Fall head over heels in love with your bald, fat, 9 years older than you restaurant manager before you even come close to your twenties.

Let him take wild advantage of you, your car, your ability to both drive legally and go more than 17.39 seconds without snorting anything up your nose.

Hunt him down over the course of 18 months after he takes off from Denver to Nashville with little more than a “So long and thanks for all the fish” mumbled in your general direction one day.

Drive 23 hours straight through the pouring rain to spend two long, glorious weeks winning him back. In Nashville. That’s the key to this whole thing working.

Get to his apartment after getting totally turned around trying to go straight through on the 65 only to end up on some horrible, middle of the night, lost and alone goosechase that lands you on the 40, which is weird only because the 65 and the 40 don’t exactly hit each other even remotely closely to where you wanted to be in the first place.

After finally arriving, have the most awkward make up sex the world has ever known, or ever will know, and watch as he over the span of four hours goes from professing his undying love and suggesting marriage to forgetting you ever existed in the first place. Make sure this happens within your first 24 hours there, so you’re certain to have 13 more days to be stuck waiting for your next paycheck to be deposited so you can get the hell out of there already.

Get fed up 10 days into your 14 day stay because you’ve been stuck in his apartment with his roommate that you don’t even know, you’ve read all your books, and it’s still raining all around you. Realize you are a rain god.

Get into your car and drive. ANYWHERE. End up dead smack in the middle of downtown Nashville, totally on accident. Park and walk. ANYWHERE. Check out Vanderbilt. Follow the river for a ways and end up in some back alley bar with a fabulous live band and a fabulous random guy more than willing to buy you drinks all night.

Get said guy’s number.

Call said guy in front of dipshit ex-boss.

Get taken out by jealous ex-boss to a company function, get introduced as “the bff” and later that night get asked to move to Nashville with him. WITH him.

Drive 23 hours back to Denver, straight, and start packing your life up. If you survive the Kansas stretch.

Get a call at work two weeks later from the man you’re planning to spend the rest of your life with saying he’s just met the woman he plans to spend the rest of his life with.

Die.

Get the hot guy at work shit-faced drunk and nail him in your car to make it all go away.

Marry hot guy from work.

Thank god for small favours. And Jack Daniels.

*Me would be Mr Lady, which is of absolutely no relevance whatsoever to the post.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Mr. Lady is an amazing writer, a hell of a strong woman, and a damn sexy broad. She authors Whiskey In My Sippy Cup. Not being subscribed to her website is like waking up in the morning and finding out someone has removed both of your lungs. (Have you ever woken up dead? Don’t start tomorrow… visit her today.)

Besides.  There’s a half-naked photo of her on her sidebar, for crying out loud! Go.Now.

PS: She asked me not to blurb her because it makes her uncomfortable, but I like it when hot chicks squirm.

He’s the guy with the mustache and the huge wang.

Theme for March 1st, 2008: “Party”

Today’s theme made me think of a few things.

First thing I thought of was this:

It’s really the most important party I’ve been to recently. In fact, it’s the most important party I’ve ever been to. You can read about it here, if you missed it when it happened.

But then I thought a little longer. And I remembered things like this:

Beer sampler in the middle of the day!

Drunk at the airport! It’s a wonder they allowed me on the plane.

Weee!!! Huh? What’s focus? Oh… the camera goes which way??

These photos depict a different type of party. These are the tame memories (in the photos). The not so tame ones creep into my mind sometimes, too. Having been completely sober for a year now, I cringe at those memories, just a little. Sometimes just a lot. I’m hoping nobody still has pictures of those….

And while I’m on the subject of partying, I should mention that when I talked about Ron Jeremy during last week’s PhotoHunt, I got several comments indicating either that people didn’t know who he was, or indicating that it was “interesting” that I knew who he was. You know, “interesting,” like, “you must watch a lot of porn, you perv!”

And while I do watch a lot of porn (Generally, that’s what Braden and I do for the better part of most days. Then we snort some blow.), it’s mostly Asian Porn, and Ron Jeremy is not Asian, so I’ve never seen his work firsthand.

So how do I know who he is? He’s a Pop Culture Icon, people!   I mean, I also know who Jenna Jameson is and nope, she’s not Asian either!  See?

And can I just say that I’ve always been all, “Ew, why would anyone even want to see that guy naked?” because I’ve only ever seen photos of him that looked something like this:

And just found this one, so case in point:

But during my search for an appropriate link to him for information for the last post, I found this picture:

Wow, dude.

Super Mario got nuthin’ on that.

Tagged Like Gangbusters

It’s Thanksgiving… are you sitting in front of the computer with your pants unbuttoned, trying not to fall asleep from Food Coma or are you still dreaming of Gorging To Come? I hope your guts are/will be overflowing with turkey and gravy and such. If you’re gassy, open a window, I don’t want you stinking the place up.

That’s my job.

To say I was tagged for the “7 Random Things About You” Meme would be an understatement. It would, in fact, be like saying that Britney Spears is just a lil’ bit skanky.

(When I wrote that, I thought, “She’s a lil’ bit Skank-try, she’s a lil’ bit Rock ‘n Whore.” I amuse myself greatly.)

I was lovingly tagged by:

Christine @ Sippy Cupys and Blackberries

Anitra @ I Love a Kiwi

MountainMama @ Careful What You Wish For

Michelle @ Creative Treasures

Suzanne @ Suzanne Says

Emily @ E Flo

Adena @ Mother Thoughts

Elissa @ Random Ramblings From E

Siri @ Siri’s Corner

Michelle @ Babbling and Mumbling From an Otherwise Cognitive Crafter

Dawn @ Alex Year One

Yolanda @ Callipygian Chronicle

Grand Weepers and Grim Reapers

Christi @ Blah Blah Blog

Alison @ RDH Mom

1. My hands and fingers peel when the seasons change. I am not making this up. I have NO IDEA WHY. But it always happens. Maybe there’s snake somewhere in my lineage.

2. I have an inverted uterus. It’s all flipped the wrong way inside me. Kinky!

3. English was not solely my first language. I spoke both Swiss-German and English when I began talking. A first sentence was, “Muetti hat ein kopf!” Translation? “Mommy has a head!” Newsflash: I’ve always been a moron.

4. I used to be a hopeless drunk. I gave up drinking for good in February 2007.

5. I have actually become so enraged that I punched myself in the head to avoid hitting anyone else. I’m a genius like that.

6. I believe in God, and I don’t think He minds the fact that I don’t pretend to be perfect.

7. I have a disgusting mole on my lower back that grows hair. It might even have a leg by now. I am going to have it removed and get a tatoo of a lotus flower, once I’ve had all my babies. Problem is, I don’t know how many babies I want anymore!

I was also tagged for a “5 Things” meme by Kelly @ Kellyology, so I’ll just tack those on here.

8. I’ve been missing my husband A LOT this month. He’s been gone “making the donuts” more than usual.

9. My home has been INSANELY dirty and disorganized lately. It’s seriously been worse than it has ever been, and this entire past week it has literally been making me feel sick. I can’t seem to find the energy to get it in gear and clean the mother up.

The thing that’s growing out of the pile of junk in my bedroom keeps making sexual innuendos at me, too, and I just don’t feel safe sleeping in there unless John’s home.

10. My face is quite asymmetrical. See?

11. I have seen a golf cart fly over a hill and down into a pond in the middle of the night. I have had to jump out of it before it completed the journey. I have rolled down the hill, watching the cart fly to its final destination. I have looked at the faces of the others, and laughed so hard I thought I would die. I have been ashamed and yet proud of this story.

12. My real first name is Lotus. It’s a flower. My real middle name is Siva. It’s a Hindu God. My real maiden name is Wuensch. It means “wish.” I am a candidate for “Most Freaking Hippy Name In The Universe.”

And to make this qualify for Thursday Thirteen! (I am so delighfully cunning!):

13. If you would love to read even more useless trivia relating to me, I actually did a Meme very similar to this one back on September 14. It was my very first “tag” event, actually. It’s a “10 Things” Meme, and it’s HERE.

And I’m going to risk pissing off the internet gods of the blogging world by *gasp* NOT TAGGING ANYONE (consider this your Thanksgiving present, likely suspects).

Besides, I have no idea if there is even anyone left who hasn’t done this one. This meme has run rampant through the blogging world during NowBlowSomeGoats kind of like stupidity and apathy does in the general population on any given day. What?

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. Peace Out.

Wanna see more Thursday Thirteen?