Five Stages of Marital Grief

by Camille Posted on August 18, 2010

Before I married Poor Kyle, I had a lot of aversions to marriage in general.

Someday I’ll show you my list of them.

But for now, suffice it to say that I really struggled with the decision of whether or not to get married—not because of Poor Kyle, but because of my preconceived notions of the institution as a whole.

When at last I did decide to marry him, it was because the pros of getting married outweighed the pros of staying single—one big reason in particular sealed the deal for me: I wanted to be with him, and only him, all the time, for forever.

Can’t you see the stars in my naive little eyes?

Imagine my surprise, then, when newly-married me realised that Poor Kyle didn’t necessarily feel the same way.

Oh, sure, he loved me. I had no doubt of that.

But occasionally during that first year of our marriage, I got the feeling that he wanted to…shall we say…escape from me.

He made plans to go out with friends. He needed to stay late at work.

In short, he wanted to do things besides being with me! I was devastated.

Me? I had (slash have) no friends. I had no job. I had nothing to preoccupy my time besides my husband…the selfsame husband who had plenty to preoccupy his time besides me.

In all my anxious list-making about why I should stay single forever, it never occurred to me to add the fact that I would be the loser of our relationship. (I didn’t expect Poor Kyle to be the loser, either. I just naively assumed we would both be winners. {Actually, I never thought about it one way or the other—what woman goes into marriage thinking she might be a loser wife? Worry about retirement, about tax forms, about government paperwork and registries and lingerie and joint accounts and which car to sell? Sure. But husband/wife social rankings? Uh, not really.})

In later months, I began to work through the five stages of grief (grief for the dream I lost—the dream of being the only thing my husband would ever need aside from food, water, shelter, and Apple, Inc.).

First, there was denial:

I’m overreacting; no way could this be real. He does want to spend every spare minute with me—it’s just that he has to do other stuff. If he’s staying late at work a couple times a week, it’s because he’s really involved in some project, not because he’s shooting the breeze in the break room with his buddies. He would never waste his time with those guys when he could be with me.

Then, anger:

WTF??? He really doesn’t want to spend every spare minute with me? What a freaking joke—I marry this jerk, move a million miles away from home to be with him in this frozen barren wasteland tundra insane-o place, and then he gets mad at me when I get mad at him for not coming straight home at 5:00? Unbelievable. UNBE-DADGUM-LIEVABLE.

Bargaining was next:

Maybe if I lost five pounds, he would need me as much as I need him. Maybe if I shaved my armpits more regularly? If I could only make him see what a catch I am, I know he would want to spend more time with me.

And then depression:

How did I get so pathetic? There was a time in my life when I could’ve dated any guy I wanted [not really, that was just the depression talking]. And now look at me—I’m washed up. A has-been. My own husband has a closer relationship with his phone than he does with me. He would rather spend his time learning HTML with his friends than drying the dishes next to me in the kitchen or rubbing my shoulders.

But now, at long last, after nearly three years of being married, I’ve finally found acceptance:

He loves me; I know he loves me. Maybe he’s not as clingy as I would prefer or had imagined, but it’s going to be okay. My dreams are lost, never to return, but the reality is not so bad, not really.

And do you want to know the funny thing? Now that I’ve come to terms with my reality, Poor Kyle seems to want to hang out with me more than he ever did before.

Too bad he blew his chance ages ago. I’m self-actualized now. I don’t need him around all the time to make me feel complete. I’ve got school, I’ve got (the prospect of) a job, I’ve got short hair, I’ve become a feminist, and I’m free from old insecurities. That’ll teach him to forget how awesome I am.

WHO’S THE LAME SPOUSE NOW, PK?

Posted in Married Life | 17 Comments

Awkwardness at BlogHer (Reliving the Misery)—Part 5 of 5

by Camille Posted on August 18, 2010

This is post #5 in a five-part series about how awkward I was at BlogHer ’10 in New York last week. Here are the first and second and third and fourth installments if you’re interested.

Join me, if you will, on a full (five) days of reminiscing how horribly awkward I felt (and really was) at the blogging conference everyone’s been talking about. Every few hours days weekends I’ll post another humiliating experience so I can relive my shame in the hopes of getting it out of my system.

I have a whole year to fine-tune my cool.

Somehow I don’t think it’ll be long enough.

******************************

Awkward of All Awkwards. #1. For Obvious Reasons.

So there I was on my last night at BlogHer, having made it through the weekend relatively unscathed (except for all those times I was so very scathed, but never mind).

Of all the events at the conference, I was most excited for Saturday night’s CheeseburgHer party, having seen photos of all my favourite bloggers at said event for the past three summers. If you are unfamiliar with CheeseburgHer, I will change your life enlighten you: It is a party where swarms of bloggers, high on life and the networking they’ve just completed let loose and eat cheeseburgers (catered by McDonald’s, of course) and wear paper bags as hats.

In other words, it sounded like just my sort of party.

(In retrospect, however, may I always remember that any time the words “my sort of party” come out of my mouth, I should proceed with extreme caution; for, invariably, my very best sort of party is the one I don’t attend. It’s really better that way.)


(It’s also, apparently, the sort of party that turns people purple.)

Anyway, I was looking forward to free cheeseburgers, so I dragged my poor friend Chelsie there after Promises, Promises.

But as soon as we entered the room, we were instantly on our guard.

Music blaring, lights flashing, the place was total chaos. Someone had moved a couple of beds to the middle of the dance floor—you can see the pillows in the above photo for proof. (Thankfully, people were just dancing and lounging on the beds, fully clothed. But really? Beds? The first thing I thought when I saw them was ORGY TIME!)

We sort of hovered near the bar for a few minutes, trying to find our bearings (not knowing that bearings are not invited to CheeseburgHer), when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted her.

Who?

Her.

Who?

BOSSY.

Yes, my friends, THAT Bossy—the very one, in the flesh—at CheeseburgHer.

Bossy, whose blog was one of the first I read, long before I started a blog of my own.

Bossy, who travels coast to coast to coast sponsored by Ford™ and Saturn™ and Burger King™ on road trips of epic blogging proportions.

Bossy, whose hilarity I only halfway meet, and even then only in my dreams.

That Bossy.

But then—THEN—she caught my eye and smiled.

Oh, the horror. Having learned from experience that I am not to be trusted in social situations, especially in such situations where I am starstruck, my mind was screaming, “RUN AWAY! YOU’RE NOT READY! YOU’LL NEVER SURVIVE!” But instead of running, I just stood there and watched while Bossy meandered over to where Chels and I were standing.

I wasn’t prepared; seconds before Bossy got within conversational range, I thought to myself, “This is going to be bad.” And if ever I uttered a self-fulfilling prophecy, it was there at CheeseburgHer three seconds before Bossy came to say hello.

See, here’s how my relationship with Bossy is:

Nonexistent. Because white is the absence of relationship. (Or is it black? I get so confused with my made up adages.)

What I mean is, it’s one-sided. Because I know all about who Bossy is, but she has no clue who I am. Here’s how it went down:

Bossy: Hi!

Me: Hi! Oh my gosh, you’re Bossy! You’re the best! I read your blog (Uh, hello? It’s a blogging conference—everybody reads her blog.) and you’re the greatest! I love you!

Bossy (leaning over to peer at our name tags): Thanks…who are you?

Me: Oh, duh, of course. I’m Camille. You don’t know me, but one time you commented on a post of mine and you said it was better than Dooce.

[Note: Of all the things to say, why did I say that? I sounded like I really believed I was better than Dooce, which of course I don’t because I’m not. I knew that as I said that, Bossy was thinking, “Better than Dooce, eh? Fat chance.” I regretted my conversation topic immediately.]

Bossy: (Weak smile.)

Camille: But of course I didn’t believe you. (Clears throat.) That would be ridiculous.

Bossy (to Chelsie, no doubt hoping for livelier conversation): And who are you?

Chelsie: Oh, I’m Chelsie. But I don’t have a blog. [She does though.]

Bossy: Oh. Hi.

Awkward silence.

Me (practically exploding because if there’s one thing a socially backward person fears it’s awkward silence): CAN I TAKE A PICTURE WITH YOU PLEASE?

Bossy: Sure.

Some fumbling ensued while we sorted out whether I should hold the camera myself or Chelsie should take it for us.

Here’s that picture.

Me (putting my camera away): Thanks.

Bossy: No problem.

Awkward silence.

Bossy: How did it turn out?

Me (getting my camera back out and showing her): It’s great.

Bossy: No, it’s bad. I have a stupid face. Let’s do a different one.

Me: Okay. (Thinking, “Why are you still here? There are so many cooler people you could be talking to! I wasn’t expecting you to stick around—I don’t have enough material to talk to anyone longer than twelve seconds!”)

And here’s that photo.

Bossy: Was that one better?

Me: Yes, YES, it’s PERFECT, now just please leave so I can go kill myself already! Yeah, it looks good.

Bossy: No it’s not, my mouth is open.

Me: YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING. Why don’t you just take your cool famous self and leave already so I can stand here some more and lick my awkward wounds in peace?

Bossy: Let’s take one more.

And here’s that photo. Note how my face gets progressively more desperate in each picture, culminating with this final deer-in-the-headlights look in my eyes. Also note my blurry hand: that’s on account to the fact that I was pumping it up and down in an attempt to fast forward through that moment in my life.

Me: Okay, thanks.

Bossy: … (Still standing there, mind you, fully amiable and seeming perfectly content to hang out with us all night.)

Me: ‘Bye.

Bossy (looking confused): ‘Bye.

And after a few more unbearable seconds, she finally walked away.

Of course Chelsie and I left immediately for fear of seeing Bossy again. In the elevator on our way back to our room, I had what can only be described as a nervous breakdown: what I really wanted to do was cry, but who cries about being awkward in front of a celebrity blogger, so instead I laughed, which turned out to be a failure because I laughed so hard that in the end I cried anyway.

Also I peed myself.

******************

Here are the rest of the posts in this series:

Part the First

Part the Second

Part the Third

Part the Fourth

Posted in failures, fiascos, oh brother what next, woe is me | Tagged | 16 Comments

Saturday Steals—BlogHer Swag and a Little Business on the Side

by Camille Posted on August 13, 2010

Hello, and welcome to another rousing round of Saturday Steals!

To participate, simply:

1) Steal a steal.

2) Write a post about it on your blog, mentioning that you’re participating in Saturday Steals (you can steal the above image if you so desire), and

3. Add the link to said post to the list at the bottom of THIS post.

*****************

My steal of the week is (surprise!) all the swag I got at BlogHer last week (wow, it seems like a month ago already that I was in New York).

(Also, I realise that the BlogHer talk probably got old, oh, about ten posts ago. I’m sorry about that. I’m gonna quit soon, I promise.)

(Till this time next year, that is.)

I got so much crap there I can’t even begin to tell you what it all is, but here’s a picture of my double bed filled to the brim with it all:

Above is a prime example of my Type F (F as in Failure) personality: Anonymous My Sister would have arranged her stash in order of size, colour, usefulness, and fair market value before she took a photo for all the world to see.

Among my favourite freebies: Eye mask, lavender candle, White House Black Market bag, fancy toothbrush, and a pair of not-Spanx-but-the-same-concept-as-Spanx. Oh, and Mission tortillas—can you spot them? Think of where those tortillas have been! From wherever they were made (California? China? Who knows?) to New York, to Salt Lake, to Great Falls, to Mayberry, and I used one for my breakfast burrito just today. Awesome.

The thing about BlogHer is there are a million and one sponsors of the event, and all of them hawk their wares on the attendees like a GIRLS*GIRLS*GIRLS flyer-flicker on the streets of Vegas.

And I was a willing recipient.

Considering my duffel bag full—FULL—of free stuff, and combine it with the fact that for once in my life being a university student did me a solid and allowed me to get reduced-price admission for both full days of the conference (meals, snacks, drinks, everything) for $78 TOTAL…

…it was a steal.

Plus I figure I can recoup a good chunk of the cost of my plane ticket just by selling all the crap I don’t need kicking around my house.

Quesedillas, anyone?

****************************

And now it’s your turn! Add your steal to the link list below. It will be open from now until Sunday at 11:59 p.m.


Posted in Saturday Steals | Tagged | 5 Comments

Awkwardness at BlogHer (Reliving the Misery)—Part 4 of 5

by Camille Posted on August 13, 2010

**Updated to add: Lorrie posted about the time we met and included a photo, which I immediately stole and added to my blog for proof of having actually met her.**

This is post #4 in a five-part series about how awkward I was at BlogHer ’10 in New York last week. Here are the first and second and third installments if you’re interested.

Join me, if you will, on a full (two) days of reminiscing how horribly awkward I felt (and really was) at the blogging conference everyone’s been talking about. Every few hours I’ll post another humiliating experience so I can relive my shame in the hopes of getting it out of my system.

I have a whole year to fine-tune my cool.

Yet somehow I don’t think it’ll be long enough.

********************************

Awkward of All Awkwards #2

Amazingly enough, I made it through the first morning of the conference (Friday) without committing any major social faux pas.

Don’t worry, though, there’s always lunchtime to make me look like a total idiot.

Chelsie and I (by the way, are you getting the idea that Chelsie was a totally awesome wingman on my trip to BlogHer?) loaded up our plates at lunch on Friday afternoon and bee-lined it straight to the first empty table we saw so we could begin stuffing our faces without incident.

It’s not that we were trying to be antisocial…it’s just that we, being BlogHer virgins, had not yet mastered the fine art of plopping down at a pre-claimed table and making friends with strangers over ham sandwiches and pasta salad. So we claimed an empty table to avoid any difficulty (I try to avoid difficult situations if at all possible, it’s my motto).

LUCKILY (yes, I do mean luckily) not all women at BlogHer were as silly as me and Chelsie. Some of them actually wanted to socialise and network and who knows, maybe just meet some new friends. Before we knew it, we’d welcomed a couple new ladies to our table and were having a lovely time chatting with them.

One girl in particular was really nice. I told her I liked her shirt (it was this cute bohemian look, and we all know how I’m currently in the process of trying to channel my own inner bohéme). She said thanks. I asked her how she was liking the conference so far. She said she was enjoying it.

A moment later, Chelsie excused herself to go get more ice for her Diet Pepsi.

(This should be a warning to you: bad things happen to me, socially, when my wingpeople leave my pathetic side.)

Without Chelsie there to make me not an idiot, I turned to the girl I’d been chatting with and just…peered at her. She looked so familiar. She looked a lot, in fact, like the genius behind the blog called Token Fat Girl. Only her hair was different than the picture on said blog, and I couldn’t be sure it was her.

So I asked.

Me: Are you Token Fat Girl?

She: Uhhh…no.

Me: Oh. Oops. Sorry. I didn’t mean…uh, I didn’t mean to imply…umm…oy.

OKAY, BACK UP, I DID NOT DO THAT.

Thankfully I have SOME (not much, but some) sense of decorum, and I did realise that you can’t just go around a blogging conference asking women if they’re the Token Fat Girl. It’s just not very nice, you know?

Instead, I asked my new friend what her name was—Lorrie, she said—and this, being the name of the Token Fat Girl (whose blog, by the way, I love and have been following for at least a year), still didn’t give me enough courage to ask if she was the Token Fat Girl. Instead, I just asked her what her blog was.

TOKEN FAT GIRL, lo and behold! (And now we’re getting to the awkward part, because you’d better believe that if I avoid awkwardness at the beginning of a conversation, I more than make up for it by the end.)

OH MY GOSH YOU’RE TOKEN FAT GIRL! I squealed. YOU’RE FAMOUS! (Seriously, what is with me and famous people? Desperate much?) OHMYGOSH I LOVE YOU AND I AM A HUGE FAN OF YOUR BLOG AND I READ IT ALLTHETIME, HOORAY! It’s like, I see someone in real life who is famous online and all of a sudden I have no filter anymore. Guh.

In my defense, this was the first famous blogger I had met who I didn’t run away from and who I’d been following for longer than a month, so I really didn’t know quite how to react.

Obviously.

Poor Lorrie smiled and thanked me, but I noticed she sort of…inched her plate a little further away from my side of the table.

Not that I blame her, I’d’ve done the same thing if I’d been accosted by a psychohosbeast blogger with spinach in her teeth and a hidden social-climbing agenda.

When we were wrapping up our meal, Lorrie asked to grab a picture with me, most likely so she could take it home and show all her friends how nuts this one girl at BlogHer was, but it didn’t matter—fame-whore that I am, I was delighted to hop in a photo with my favourite weight-loss blogger. I got one with my camera, too, but it was dark and blurry and you’d never believe it was even humans, let alone me and Lorrie (me and Lorrie I say, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for me and Lorrie to be hangin’ out) at lunch.

If she ever does upload the photos, you’ll hear about it from me.

But was there ever any doubt of that?

Poor Lorrie. Poor me. Maybe someday I’ll learn how to be cool and sophisticated in the presence of awesomeness so much greater than my own.

Yeah right.

******************

Here are the rest of the posts in this series:

Part the First

Part the Second

Part the Third

Part the Fifth

Posted in blogger finger, failures, fiascos, mediocrity, oh brother what next, woe is me | Tagged | 9 Comments

Awkwardness at BlogHer (Reliving the Misery)—Part 3 of 5

by Camille Posted on August 11, 2010

This is post #3 in a five-part series about how awkward I was at BlogHer ’10 in New York last week. Here are the first and second installments if you’re interested.

Join me, if you will, on a full (two) days of reminiscing how horribly awkward I felt (and really was) at the blogging conference everyone’s been talking about. Every few hours I’ll post another humiliating experience so I can relive my shame in the hopes of getting it out of my system.

I have a whole year to fine-tune my cool.

Yet somehow I don’t think it’ll be long enough.

**********************************

Awkward of All Awkwards #3

Chelsie and I got student rush tickets to see Promises, Promises on Broadway. (Review to follow sometime next week.)

After the show, we waited outside to see Kristin Chenoweth (and Sean Hayes, that flamboyant guy from Will and Grace; he was awesome too, but it was really Kristin we were waiting to see).

And wait we did.

When she finally came out after 2o minutes, I was giddy (apparently I have a major celebrity complex). I was standing at the back of the crowd, but I’m six feet tall and I knew everything would be okay. As KC made her way toward my side of the throng, a French guy sidled up next to me wondering what all the fuss was about:

“Who eez zees pear-sohn?” he asked.

“It’s Kristin Chenoweth,” was my reply. I elbowed him to scoot over, never taking my eyes off the screen of my iPhone, despite my tremendous obsession with French people—I just love Kristin more, you see.

“I do not know zees name,” he persisted.

“Dude, Pierre, that ain’t my problem! Go to the library and look it up, buddy, and then get out of my way because SHE’S COMING” I said.

Not really. I just thought that. What I really said was, “She’s amazing.”

Then another guy in the crowd piped in, probably sensing that I wasn’t giving KC enough praise, and said, “If you’ve ever seen RV, she’s in that.”

And I said, “Really, buddy? RV? Of all the incredibly brilliant roles Kristin Chenoweth has played, you’re telling Frenchie over here about her redneck trailer trash mama role in RV? What about Wicked? What about Glee? What about freaking anything but RV? You’re an idiot.”

No, what I really said was nothing, because KRISTIN WAS NIGH!

Lucky for you, I got this whole exchange on video. Watch how, at :08, when it seems as though the camera is already raised as high above the crowd as it can get to catch a glimpse of Kristin Chenoweth, I JUST STRETCH OUT A LITTLE BIT TALLER, because that’s the kind of fan I am. My calves were sore for the next three days from the charlie horses I incurred, but it was worth it for this footage:

(Also, at 1:42, listen to the fan who tells Kristin Chenoweth that she’s with a friend who’s 4′ 10.5″ [half an inch shorter than Kristin herself] and that she is worried Kristin can’t see her. “I do see you,” says Kristin Chenoweth. I was just beside myself with adoration of the sweetness of that woman.)

Such a devoted fan am I that I even forgive Kristin Chenoweth for being, at least in this two-minute clip, an out-of-control gum smacker.

*********

Here are the rest of the posts in this series:

Part the First

Part the Second

Part the Fourth

Part the Fifth

Posted in awesome., fiascos, It's All Good, oh brother what next, Travel | Tagged , , , , | 11 Comments

Awkwardness at BlogHer (Reliving the Misery)—Part 2 of 5

by Camille Posted on August 11, 2010

This is post #2 in a five-part series about how awkward I was at BlogHer ’10 in New York last week. Here’s the first installment if you’re interested.

Join me, if you will, on a full day of reminiscing how horribly awkward I felt (and really was) at the blogging conference everyone’s been talking about. Every few hours I’ll post another humiliating experience so I can relive my shame in the hopes of getting it out of my system.

I have a whole year to fine-tune my cool.

Yet somehow I don’t think it’ll be long enough.

**********************

Awkward of All Awkwards #4

I have lived and relived this moment a million times since it happened, searching desperately for how I could’ve done it differently. Oh, how awesome my life would be if only I had—

Well, let me set the scene:

Saturday, early afternoon, last breakout session of the day.

I’d been needing to use the bathroom since the session before (nearly two hours), but I was loathe to miss out on even a second of BlogHer goodness for fear of not hearing the one tip that could change my blog and make me rich and famous (emphasis on the rich, please). Who wants to sit on the toilet while life passes her by? Not me! I don’t have time for that! I’m a go-getter! YEAH!

Except I’m not, because I finally gave in to the monster in my bladder. Just minutes before the last session of the conference was to begin, I whispered to my friend, “Hey, if I leave my purse here will you watch it for me while I go to the bathroom?”

Of course she agreed, that’s what good friends do.

I snuck out of the rapidly-filling breakout room and dashed down the hall in search of the loo.

Now, I run like an ostrich on the best of days, but when I have to pee? It’s not a pretty sight, let’s just say. So there I was, flip flops flipping, chest flapping (I haven’t had a new bra in three years), hair flying as I ran—RACED—to find a toilet in time to get back and hear the panel that would make my life a success.

And then I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks (imagine how ridiculous THAT looked):

PIONEER WOMAN. IN THE FLESH.

I had heard she would be at BlogHer, but till that very moment I hadn’t seen even a glimpse of the fire red hair. Yet there she was, standing in the hall practically alone while everyone else was mingling in the breakout rooms, which means that SHE WASN’T EVEN SWARMED BY MASSES OF DESPERATE WOMEN! There were only two ladies talking with her, both of whom, I could tell, were fans like me.

As I was processing all this information, I was still standing there in the middle of the hall, still staring, mouth open, at my business-blogging idol, still looking like a fool and still needing to pee.

Finally I worked up the courage to saunter right over there and ask to take a picture with her.

UNTIL I REALISED I HAD LEFT MY PURSE WITH CHELSIE. Complete with my camera, my business cards, and my breath mints (still hadn’t brushed my teeth [just kidding I had by then]).

I was petrified with indecision.

I should talk to her anyway. No, what’s the point? She’ll never remember me. I don’t have anything to tell her! There’s nothing I could say that she hasn’t heard from a bajillion fans already. Gosh, her dimples are fantastic. Of course this would happen during the one—ONE—thirty-second window of the entire weekend that I am without my purse. I wonder if she can go anywhere without people recognising her? I should go introduce myself. No way, not without my business cards.

And then, just like that, I turned around and walked back to my spot at the breakout session.

It was a long walk, let me tell ya. With every step I took, P-dub’s voice got softer and softer. It was like, goodbye, hopes and dreams, I’ll see you NEVER AGAIN.

When I got back to the class I told Chelsie—with tears welling up in my pathetic eyes—what I’d done, how I’d sabotaged my life’s everloving happiness, how I’d never get an opportunity like that again, how tremendously I’d blown my chance.

“Why, Chels?” I asked. “Why did I do that? Why didn’t I just talk to her?”

“It’s because you are always looking for that one perfect moment,” she said, “and you don’t have enough faith that you have the power to create those moments by yourself. You trust Fate too much, and yourself not enough.” (Profound, right? She’s getting ready to be a psychologist, you should all sign up to be her clients.)

I realise this may not seem overly awkward to any of you, but it was. It was a turning point in my life.

What it boils down to is this:

I’m a fool.

I could spend hours (and I have) blaming my idiocy on other influences—it’s Pepsi’s fault for providing so much free soda that I had to pee in the first place; it’s Pioneer Woman’s fault for looking so intimidating; it’s Chelsie’s fault for being nice and agreeing to hold my purse; it’s BlogHer’s fault for choosing a venue with bathrooms so far from where I was at that particular moment; it’s God’s fault for ever creating me in the first place—but when it comes right down to it, I can’t deny that the only fault was mine.

I missed my chance to tell Ree Drummond that the way she runs her blog/business is an inspiration to me.

(I would normally be showing a picture of me with Pioneer Woman, except, well…y’know.)

And I’ve been depressed ever since.

Plus I never even got to pee.

*********

Here are the rest of the posts in this series:

Part the First

Part the Third

Part the Fourth

Part the Fifth

Posted in failures, fiascos, mediocrity, oh brother what next, sad things, woe is me | Tagged | 13 Comments

Awkwardness at BlogHer (Reliving the Misery)—Part 1 of 5

by Camille Posted on August 10, 2010

The first day of the BlogHer conference, I had no idea what to do with myself. I know that wardrobe anxiety is common amongst BlogHer attendees every year, but not for me—I was far less concerned with what to wear than what to be.

I would be meeting a gaggle of women who’d never known me before, and I could be anything I wanted! Should I present myself as quirky? Funny? Sophisticated? Easy-going? Suave? Cool? Mysterious?

Little did I know that my stressing out was all in vain, for I really have no control over how I present myself—my overwhelming social awkwardness leaves little room for character development.

Of the top ten most awkward moments of my life, five of them occurred at BlogHer ’10 in New York last week.

Join me, if you will, on a full day of reminiscing how horribly awkward I felt (and really was) at the blogging conference everyone’s been talking about. Every few hours I’ll post another humiliating experience so I can relive my shame in the hopes of getting it out of my system.

I have a whole year to fine-tune my cool.

Yet somehow I don’t think it’ll be long enough.

*****************************************

Awkward of All Awkwards #5

The first day I arrived in New York, I had arranged to meet up with my internet literary idol, Andrea Boerem (of Harriet’s Pet Pea notoriety). I was stoked. I put together (what I thought was) my most promising outfit:

Here I am taking the subway from the airport to my hotel in said outfit. (By the way, don’t I look ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD in this picture? My face is literally sagging. I have titled it “Downtrodden.” For obvious reasons.)


Here’s a full shot of the get-up. And jazz hands, for good measure.

I combed my hair. I even brushed my teeth (that is a lie, I did not brush my teeth). I was excited for my chance to meet someone famous and eat a doughnut with her. I wanted to put my best foot forward…to make a good impression.

It’s all I ever want, really.

The only problem was I forgot how much I hate skinny jeans. Well, I don’t hate skinny jeans so much as I hate MY one and only pair of skinny jeans. They are low-rise. And I am a mid-rise kinda girl.

I could go on and on about how much I hate my skinny jeans, but I won’t. Suffice it to say that I thought I was being all New York bohemian chic and trendy, but I did not take into account the fact that I would be hiking up my pants every five steps like a dadgum hillbilly. (Also too I forgot that New York in August is a million degrees humid, and skinny jeans have that awful tendency to schwoop! [sound effects] suck me in just about as tight as any 150 pound tub-a-lub can be sucked in, leaving me trapped, sweltering in a straitjacket of spandex and lycra and denim and death.)

The only way it could’ve been worse is if my clothes had started to fall apart in the middle of my meet-up with the ever-illustrious Andrea Boerem.

Oh wait. They did.

On the subway, not ten minutes after meeting Andrea (on our way to the Doughnut Plant—amazing, for the record), one of the decorative buttons on my blouse just…fell off. Plop. Just like that, it tumbled to the floor of the subway car where I was already feeling foolish, not knowing where to put my hands on the railings and wondering if Andrea could tell I hadn’t brushed my teeth since 2 a.m.

I looked down and cursed that button.

“Really?” I asked the button. “Now? You had to fail me NOW? You made it all the way from Canada to Great Falls at two in the morning, from Great Falls to Minneapolis at nine in the morning, Minneapolis to JFK at two p.m., from JFK to the AirTrain to the E Line to the Hilton at four p.m., AND YOU COULDN’T HAVE HELD UP FOR ANOTHER THIRTY MINUTES TO GET ME THROUGH THIS SOCIAL EMERGENCY? Thanks for nothing, you sorry piece of shit.”

I swooped down to rescue the button from a terrible fate as a street person’s treasure (not that the button deserved my mercy, but I figured I could sew it on later).

I stole a stealthy glance at Andrea to see if she’d noticed my gaffe.

She had.

I tried to laugh it off. “That’s what you get when you spend $2 on a shirt from a thrift store,” I muttered, chuckling nervously like I was on a first date (which I kind of was). I couldn’t have been more awkward about it if I had tugged at my collar with a grimace.

Can you believe that this was the LEAST of my most awkward BlogHer experiences? Just you wait. It gets progressively worse.

Andrea was still lovely though. You should all be her friend. Then again, maybe not, because a recommendation from me probably won’t get you into her good graces. Sorry ’bout that.

I knew I should’ve brushed my teeth.

*********

Here are the rest of the posts in this series:

Part the Second

Part the Third

Part the Fourth

Part the Fifth

Posted in failures, fiascos, mediocrity, oh brother what next, sad things, Travel, woe is me | Tagged | 13 Comments