Mmm, word vomit. Dee-lish.
I am not the most relaxed traveller. Well, to be more specific, I'm not the most relaxed traveller when it comes to the preparation process. Once my plane is in the air, I'm good to go. It's the laundry and packing and gathering of identification and checking and re-checking and re-re-checking of the itinerary and memorization of the hotel address and never really believing that I've counted my socks and underwear correctly.
I can count to five. Just not when I'm packing, apparently.
Also, I will be rooming with a bunch of other women, my fabulous Aiming Low co-writers, and I don't own pajamas. I come from a family of naked sleepers, and I am a naked sleeper from way back except, for that period during which I insisted on wearing white tube socks to bed for fear of vampire bats and dark angels touching my feet. I don't know what I thought vampire bats and dark angels, whatever those are, would be doing hanging around an eight-year-old's bedroom in Saskatchewan, but I was certain for about six months that they had a distinct interest in my feet, and if there's anything I know, wearing white tube socks to bed will scare away just about anything that is interested in you. So, now I am cobbling together sleeping attire out of the most casual end of my wardrobe to save my co-writers the trauma of seeing a woman with all of her natural body hair in the buff.
I am also pretty much convinced every time I fly anywhere that my plane is going to just drop right out of the sky, and so I make sure to enter my next of kin with the airline and make sure that the Palinode's iPhone is full of juice and give all the cats their last ever Schmutzie cuddle and try make peace with my short life before I death march my way onto the airplane, close my eyes, and arrest my soul to whatever Great Divine might be out there. For someone who's made her peace with herself and arrested her soul to the Great Divine on several occasions, you'd think I would be a little more relaxed about the whole flying thing, but no, I am not, because DEATH IS EVER SCARY, YO.
Right now, I'm wondering when I will stop writing like I'm a fifteen-year-old. NEVAR.
Anyway, on with my travel neuroses.
One thing that is going to make this trip difficult is that the ever-calming Palinode is not travelling with me, and I am one of the fairly newly sober, so I can't order a drink on the plane to calm my jangly jangling nerves, which will leave me no choice but to do this calming thing I do where I massage my left thumb a lot, because I believe that somehow all the tension in my body can be released through concentrated thumb massage. While this calms me, this does not necessarily calm my co-passengers, because it doesn't make me look calm. It makes me look twitchy, and nobody likes twitchy people on airplanes these days. Funny, that.
I've been doing my best to nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnj STOP A FECKING CAT FROM MEANDERING ACROSS MY KEYBOARD.
I bought a new pair of jeans at the Gap for the conference, because it always amps up my confidence a bit if my butt looks good.
I think these jeans do the trick, but the next photo doesn't highlight the positive. It does, though, do the neat trick of showing a really unattractive picture of my butt ad infinitum. Infinite Schmutzie butt:
At least, my butt would be infinite if the picture were more clear. Humanity's been robbed. Robbed, I say!
So, by all this I mean to say that I am going to Blissdom! And I am going to be one of the event photographers there! If you see me with a camera glued to my face standing on chairs or creeping around on the floor as I am wont to do when I am photographing people, tap me on the shoulder and say hello. We can exchange cards and hugs and probably the conference flu, which seems to be catching at every conference I have ever attended.
I promise to take nice pictures of your butt.