Yesterday I plunked down two hundred and two dollars AND ninety five cents to attend BlogHer 2010. And as excited as I am to have another bedaucherous weekend with my girls...And as excited as I am to possibly meet some new bloggers who I admire from afar...And as excited as I am to be in my hometown with my family and dear friends a few days before I turn the big THREE-FIVE (Hello Mom and Dad: Please save the date of Sunday August 8th to take me out for an over the top birthday dinner complete with dancing girls, ponies, an illusionist, a spoon bender, a diamond tennis bracelet and an 18-layer cake. Or - I'll settle for a shopping spree at Bloomie's and overpriced Chinese at Mr. K's.)...
Well, for one thing, I am not in a position to spend two hundred and two dollars (and ninety five fucking cents) on anything not related to my mortgage, groceries, gas for my car or wine i.e. the essentials. There's a good chance that by August I will have made some headway in this area, but for now, every time I pull out my credit card, I vomit a little in my mouth. And two hundred and two dollars (and ninety five fucking cents) is just for the BlogHer ticket. That doesn't factor in plane fare. Or a hotel room (because let's face it: while I could totally stay with mom and dad, when BlogHer registration asked me if I minded if sponsors put free shit in my room, I was all SWAG ME UP BABY! Also? I might be imbibing more than an average quantity of alcohol and there's nothing more awkward then drunk stumbling into your parents' apartment when you're almost 35. Trust me. I know of what I speak.). Or taxis in NYC. Or dinner. Or drinks. It goes on and on and on. I know because I am still paying off the tab from my trip home in January. (Cue mouth vomit)
But more than the money, most of the time I don't really consider myself a real blogger. I don't have the traffic. I don't generate the comments. I don't have corporate America breathing up my inbox and asking me to whore myself out. And even if I did, do people really give a crap what I think about (fill in the blank whory product here)? Not that I would whore myself out. Because I am so not that girl. But I'd like to be asked - ya know?
When I started blogging a gazillion years ago (on a different blog, under a different pseudonymn), my goal was not to make money or cultivate readers. Blogging was merely an easy vehicle to communicate to friends and family en masse all of my "city-girl-moves-to-the-country-fish-out-of-water" experiences. But somewhere along the way I picked up readers who weren't related to me by blood. And somewhere along the way I started caring about traffic. And page views. And hits.
But more importantly, somewhere along the way I realized that I loved blogging because it allowed me to write. I am a writer. I always have been. So what if my attempt to dethrone Sophie Kinsella as the Queen of Chick Lit rots on my hard drive, 66% complete (And frankly? It's so sucky it needs to be burned...) So what if my memoir slash cookbook detailing a lifetime of struggling with food and body issues and weight and eating disorders (and which at one point actually had the attention of a real live agent) rots on my hard drive, 58% complete? So what if the epiphany I had over last summer while getting pedis with Dr. Diva for an honest to goodness real life awesome NEW chick lit novel that isn't total crap sits locked in my overtaxed brain? Who has TIME to write a book? Besides - you know - people who are actually PAID to write books for a living?
So yeah - this wee little blog allows me to fulfill my dream on some small, paltry level. And I relish in it. Roll around in it sometimes like satin sheets. Soak in it like a - OMG I am writing crappy analogies. Do you see what's happened to me? Actually - I am rather stabby tonight because women's figure skating is on but NBC is a giant bunch of asshats and they've chosen to air more important events like women's skicross and bobsledding and Dear NBC: No one gives a moose's ass about anything other than figure skating so stop dressing Bob Costas like a douchehose (no man should EVER wear a mock turtleneck) and fix your programming STAT before I stomp all over your head IN MY FIGURE SKATES. That is all.
Where was I?
Oh yeah. Writing. I love writing. And I love blogging. And I love THIS blog. This blog ESPECIALLY represents so much about what is good in my life and what I am proud of. Yes. I am proud of my wee little blog. But when I pause and measure myself against people who do this professionally or even quasi professionally...well, once again - cue mouth vomit.
Still. August will find me in NYC attending BlogHer. Perhaps it was peer pressure (When I mentioned that I was on the fence about the whole thing AndreAnna told me to "remove that piece of picket from your ass and buy the tickets." I mean - how do you say "No" to that?). Perhaps it was simply a chance for another awesome weekend. Or maybe going to BlogHer means that I am actually taking this whole blog thing seriously {*gulp*} and maybe I'll learn a thing or two to help me elevate my game
What I won't be doing is meeting my Internet crush because she she'll be off camping somewhere. This would be tragic but if I go visit her in Texas I get to eat Whattaburger taquitos with sausage, egg and cheese (at 2am of course) and so that's kind of a win-win for everyone. Except my ass.
More importantly: Are YOU going to BlogHer because OMG if so, I totally want to meet you. For serious.
I desperately want to go. I would probably feel awkward and totally out of place, but I really really really (can you tell how much?) want to be able to go. But like you, the thought of pulling out my credit card and plonking down that much money just on the ticket makes me feel physically ill. And I would probably have a panic attack being away from the baby (OMG she'll be nine months old by then!) and being in NYC by myself. I'm telling myself: maybe next year.
Cause I really really want to go. Really.