This is supposed to be a big entry full of linky squee, but I just. Can’t. Do. It. I even took the short-cut of grabbing all of the html code off the Journalcon attendees page.
So Journalcon. Sigh.
At t-minus 5 hours to departure, I was freaking out. I mean, more than my normal pre-trip anxiety attacks. I didn’t even want to go at all and I realized that I was sort of putting off the packing because I knew that it would make me freak out even more, so instead I was busying myself with printing labels with my Chubby Tink on them (which got lost and have still not been found) instead of making sure that I had enough socks (which I didn’t, and thank you, Mary Kaye, for essentially giving me a pair of yours). At some point on Wednesday, my phone rang and I answered it in my professional sounding phone voice ‘This is Weetabix’ and Chauffi replied ‘How are you doing?’ and I shot back ‘I am FREAKING THE FUCK OUT!’ and he responded ‘I KNEW YOU WERE! That’s why I called! I just left work to call you because I kept thinking that you were probably freaking out right now!’ And so it was. Freaking out. And apparently taking to Level 2: The Fuck.
I’m not even sure why that is, exactly. It’s moved from cute quirky thing to borderline neurotic. I think all of my little control freak tendencies that I keep under wraps during my every day life all rush to the surface and the resulting traffic jam leaves me fetal in the corner, rocking myself and slashing at my wrists with my credit card. I’m going to have to pay attention to that in the future and think about alternative, I don’t know, meditation or soy drinks or alien abduction or something.
Of course, it didn’t help that I was also PMSing like hell and a tad irrational. So when on Thursday, Esteban dropped me off at the Green Bay airport and I went to check my bags and then did a double-check in my laptop bag, my cell phone wasn’t there. It had to have been in my purse, which was in my suitcase, but no. And what is more, my friend Mary Kaye didn’t even know if she was supposed to pick me up at the airport or not and I was going to confirm with her on my cell phone during my layover. I got on the plane and decided that maybe, just maybe, I really had stuck it into my laptop bag and it was just in one of the many compartments, but I would scour through when we landed. I’ve done that before, lose something that wasn’t really lost. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. Finally, I decided that I’d just deal if she wasn’t there, as I am a 33-year-old woman and believe it or not, people have traveled successfully without cellular phones. This made sense in my brain, except that my brain was being distracted by pretty colors and Lucky magazine and had handed over the keys of my psyche to a screeching howler monkey that was throwing feces at people. This was all just a symbol of things to come. If I forgot something as important as my phone, what else did I forget? My wallet? My Clinique Moisture Surge Eye Gel to reduce puffiness? The tiaras? My shoes? My god, my god, did I bring shoes? Shoes? What are shoes again?
But I did make it through the flight and was relieved to see Mary Kaye waiting for me on the other side of security. So relieved in fact that I almost burst into tears and shouted ‘I lost my phone so I couldn’t call you.’ She smiled and shouted back ‘I know! Esteban has your phone! He’s overnighting it to the Helix!’ And it was right then that I knew everything was going to be ok, remembering her soothing email of the morning which reminded me to not freak out and that no matter what happened I had family in DC who would take care of me. And if it wasn’t ok, then we could just laugh about it later.
MK and I went to dinner near the Hotel so that I could see where it was. We were waited on by the sexy muscled Chad, who was from Brooklyn (and made a heart-pounding gesture as he said ‘For Reals’ that became Gesture #1 in our Snobby Whore Gang handbook, along with the two hands pointing to the crotch in the ‘I Heart Bush’ gesture, and floppy ear hands which meant ‘Good Girl, Good Girl!’). We got tipsy on a pitcher of margaritas, made our way back through old town Alexandria (‘I feel like we should be searching for a blacksmith to mend our horse’s shoe or something. Oh, are we going to see any hookers? Ye Olde Hookers?’)
The next morning, we managed to locate the American History building of the Smithsonian at precisely the same time as the lovely Mopie (who had been crazily calling my lost cell phone, wondering why I wasn’t picking up) and Elizabeth, who rushed off to pick up Rob, leaving us to make sad faces at Mr. Roger’s sweater, ‘She sleeps with EEEVIL’ comments at the Laura Bush portions of the First Ladies exhibit, and secret choked up tears at the refurbishment of the original Star Spangled Banner (ok, I got choked up, but I don’t know if MK or Mo did). We then trudged through what might well have been a wall of humidity outside to do a Hope Diamond drive-by at the Natural History museum (and at which time Mo happened to run into the delightful Mare and the equally delightful Stellacat in the bathroom) and we cursed the fact that the jewels weren’t actually for sale (because of course we all had millions of dollars stashed in our carry-ons), we attempted to drive by the White House. However, when we tried to drive straight on Pennsylvania Avenue, we found it blocked and the light turning red, so MK did a quick left turn, which irritated the police officer she almost hit (word to the wise: try not to make creative driving choices when near the White House. It has a very high Police To Civilian ratio) who immediately pulled us over. She explained that we had gotten confused. He replied dryly that he was GOING to write us a $75 ticket (dramatic pause’. Dramatic pause’. Dramatic pause giving birth to another dramatic pause) but it was Friday and his payday (and he just got laid, we think) so he wouldn’t. He asked us what the confusion had been and MK replied, ‘We were trying to find the White House.’ He pointed over the Rose Garden and said, ‘It’s over there. Been there for 200 years. Anything else I can help you with?’ Of course, it wasn’t polite to laugh right then but we did very much appreciate his humor and his sense of drama. And we had another hand gesture. It’s over there. Or just point to the Bush with a big dramatic pause.
MK dropped us off at the Helix (which was so insanely hipper-than-thou that I started delighting in seeing flaws and absolutely cackled when I found out that it had once been a HoJo’s) and we made our way up to my suite. My suite that was larger than my first apartment and bright even with the light off. I made a silent oath to fill it with laughing people before the night was through. Mo took a nap under a furred bedcover that immediately was renamed the Muppet while I went downstairs, right as Chauffi and what seemed like a million other people were checking in. We dumped his luggage into his room and then watched Judge Judy and the Case of the Mysterious White Trash Forehead Bandage until Mo woke and we went downstairs to mingle. And mingle. And mingle. Including but not limited to La The Sage (fabulous and I’m sorry if I blathered to you in the lounge that morning’ as you can tell, I am psychologically incapable of telling a short story), Sassy and Sock-Girlie (who both get bonus points for reporting that their undergarments matched their clothing), Science-Girl (whom I admire not only for her cool demeanor but also the fact that she knows what to pack for a Journalcon and isn’t afraid to share) and her fellow Canon-lover husband, Skydive-life, Russiagirl (who gave me a lovely leopard print scarf from Russia), the delightful Cosmicrayola, Summer-Gale (who has the greatest giggle), adorable Jenne1017, enthusiastic Molly, hilarious Mollykath, Mike (who was the first person to say anything to me in the Hospitality Suite and which I appreciate very much), the absolutely breathtaking Kismet, the Spoken Word-a-rific Corina (whom I know has a journal, but I’m too exhausted by all of this linky mclinksalot to find it!), and finally finally FINALLY talked to fellow Soap Enthusiast Tyger in person after missing her in Austin, as well as reconnecting with past acquaintances and old friends Chiara (who humped my leg, but also made me want to hump hers when she balanced a Nerd Rope on her head and did a shimmy to the damned floor without dropping it. Shee-it, that was hot), Biensoul (my little sister in so many ways), Hez (Least snobby of the snobby whores), Angeline (who always brings me lovely prezzies), Karen (who shares my appreciation of a good camel race), Petrouchka (minus the purple hair and the black suit this time), and the inimitable sultry TranceJen.
Houston, we have reached dangerous levels of Linky Squee. I repeat. Code Orange on the Linky Squee.
Ahem.
Chauffi and I went to dinner nearby and then scoured Whole Foods (tres convenient!) for Pom and Odwalla and mixers to go with the 48 pounds of alcohol and candy (yeah, I said it) for the Sweet Suite party. In the suite, we were joined by many folks for much hilarity and Hot Sex and then when they went up to their respective rooms to fall into diabetic comas, we were delighted by Round 2 with a fresh cache of visitors. Apparently some of whom were picking souvenirs out of my trash. (Thanks for making me feel like a rock star, SG!) I had Hot Sex with them too. It was all Sex and Candy in the Suiteabix. As it always should be.
The next morning, apparently there were actual Journalcon things to be done, but first Chauffi and I both made a prayer of thanks for Skinny Kat’s brilliant Alka Seltzer swag, and then went roaming the ghetto, finally ending up at the Worst Sbux EVER. They schooled me for specifying No Whip on my iced mocha because apparently they don’t put whip on iced drinks, and then they promptly threw whip on my iced mocha (maybe because it wasn’t really a MOCHA, it was some other gross thing which was not improved by the presence of whipped cream). Gah. However, we learned that what DC lacks in baristas, they more than make up with their homeless who are genteel and gracious and wouldn’t even dream of spitting on you. DC: Come for the History, Stay for the Homeless.
After that, we had to go back so that I could change for our panel. Mo coached me through a delicate wardrobe crisis (I was going to wear a pink cardigan with a pink camisole under it, but my camisole had apparently never made it into the suitcase, so instead had a choice of cardigan with nothing under it (wakka chica wakka chica) or a pink button down shirt with my great grandmother’s rhinestone broach (ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner). We ran downstairs, prepped for the panel and then I don’t remember anything but blushing and rudely taking pictures of the audience while Trance and Suzy were talking.
Afterward the panels, we chatted with folks in the lounge, where they were having a drink special on Blue UV and Lemonade (a paltry $5 after the discount). We then proceeded to drink until our alcohol blood level matched our age and also promised to have sex with everyone and I was giving out massages, including finally meeting the lovely Minarae and also randomly asking ‘Where’s the guy with the rabbits’ right when Pratt (sorry I was such a lush, Pratt!) was walking by and then looking at bunny pictures and plotting with Chauffi on how to get Esteban to agree to get me a bunny, and apparently letting my Wisconsin accent slip out on occasion (Braut?) And then we departed to change and I accidentally broke Chauffi and we then laughed for what might have been forty-two hours. And then I got ready, put on my cute Pucci shirt, curled my hair, put on liquid eyeliner, went to karaoke and sang ‘Baby Got Back’ and Erasure’s ‘A Little Respect’ and everyone threw their bedazzled bras at me. Except that I was still lying on the floor laughing, with Chauffi saying ‘Ahhh! Swallowing! Haa haa haa haa haa!’ and apparently the getting ready and the Pucci and the karaoke had yet to happen. And still does, because drunk people should not wield curling irons or liquid eyeliner pens, no matter how easy those bitches at the Lanc’me counter claim it is, and now I can never really listen to Toy Box’s Nelly the Elephant without feeling a little urpy. And then karaoke was karaNoke. We gave up on the empty promise of singing (although, perhaps future organizers should consider just setting up a group dinner in the Con’s hotel and then hiring someone to bring in their karaoke set up for after dinner. That would solve a lot of problems, including the one where everyone feels as though they don’t get a chance to see everyone who is there) and headed to what was supposed to be a great dance bar, except, as with great dance bars which are also gay bars, it had scheduled a drag queen show. We watched for a while, felt like underachievers until our heads were filled with too many questions (seriously, I’m a woman and I don’t look that good nor can I kick my damn leg up over my head. And where do they put their breast implants when they are at their day jobs? Huh?) and then paid a cab a dollar a block to take us back to the hotel.
Sunday was filled with craziness. We had caffeine at the corner Caribou Coffee (MUCH better than the previous Sbux experience) with Sassy and Sock-Girlie, bumped into Petrouchka and Minarae again, and then I packed up the trashed suite, dug through the leftover Country Defenders for additional props for my Slash dioramas (not only are there some handcuffs and a weird stick item with a handle on it, but I also have additional players, not only mustachioed Dirty Sanchez but also a crazed enemy named Bukkake, a grease monkey from the Bronz named Rim Job and a rare officer that I think I will name Commander Tea Bag) and then had to bail on my intended planned lunch so that we would be able to BWI on time. Then to find quick food, we lead a contingent of hung over but enthusiastic folks back to Brasserie Del Chad (‘For Reals’) where we watched the women’s Olympic marathon and chomped on overly crispy hash browns and bubble and squeak (‘What was that again? Squat and Gobble?’) and Chad made me hug him when I left. Good people, those chest thumpers, even though he did kill our margarita buzz earlier in the trip by telling us about his bitch ex-wife and his six month stint in prison for something he didn’t do (‘Oh, I sold drugs every day of my life, but THAT TIME, I didn’t do it!’) Ah Chad. It’s over there. For Reals.
And then MK arrived and we loaded our luggage into her Jetta and endeavored out into a mad capped race to BWI, and when you watch the next Spike Lee Joynt and wonder who that car of confused tourists are, driving through the Mookey shot, that would be us.
