Oh, hi. I'm at BlogHer. It's exhausting. It's awesome. I just had to get talked off a ledge by a really nice lady in the Hilton Package Room, who cheerfully looked at her computer and was all, "Yes, we have three packages waiting for you." And I was like, 'THREE? THAT'S IT? OH SHIT. OH SHIT." And then I yanked out my laptop to show three dozen or so Sparklecorn-related delivery confirmations like, "BUT I HAVE EVIDENCE! LOOK AT ALL THESE FIREFOX TABS!"
And then she assured me that you know what? Their computer system is kind of shit. Everything is there, after all.
As usual, BlogHer is bigger than ever, sponsor-y-er than ever, and more overwhelming than ever. I had one of those panicked moments yesterday when I resorting to Fake Texting on my phone in a hallway just to mask my sudden terror at realizing that there was no one around who I knew, or who knew me, or who seemed relatively open to small talk with a stranger, and I didn't really have anywhere in particular to be and Twitter's gone Fail Whale and OH WOW I FEEL CONSPICUOUS AND AWKWARD.
So I pretended to tap on my phone for awhile. Then I went back up to my room and stared at the wallpaper.
BEHOLD. I AM A WIDELY-READ BLOGGER IN A SMALL SUBSET OF A SPECIALIZED NICHE IN THE FEMALE SEGMENT OF THE BLOGOSPHERE WHO CANNOT FEND FOR HERSELF IN A CONFERENCE HALLWAY.
The only photos I've taken so far:
1) Riding in a rickshaw with Loralee. If someone would like to cast us as the stars in some predictably adorable romantic comedy about two friends starting over in love and life in the Big City, during which we have many wacky adventures that MAY or MAY NOT include figuring out that miniskirts and rickshaws are NOT THE BEST COMBINATION, feel free to use this photo as the promotional poster:
2) Broken blood vessels all across my shoulders from the weight of the swag bags. It's all fun and free shampoo samples until some pasty girl gets hurt:
The best parties so far, as usual, have been the swag-free gatherings, chock-full of many (but never all, or even enough) of my favorite, favorite people. Even the one I got hurt at, when Catherine and I decided to launch into a very elaborate interpretative ballet routine while other Mamapop writers sang Total Eclipse of the Heart on the karaoke machine, which ended with both of us flat on the floor with TREMENDOUS DOWNWARD FORCE, but apparently there is some kind of dance-off planned for later to determine who we get to lay the blame for that particular disaster on, so I guess the full details will have to wait. Plus, I have to pee and you would not believe the lines for the ladies' around these parts, you guys.
P.S. SPARKLECORN COMETH! TONIGHT! 8 PM EAST BALLROOM, WHEREVER THE FUCK THAT IS. OMFG I AM SO EXCITED I COULD PUKE.