The Bloggess is not paying me to write this, unless she would like to. To which I would say “if you insist” and graciously accept her payment before she comes to her senses and changes her mind.
Because, really, I should probably be paying her to advertise her book. It only seems fair.
Yesterday, I went to Jenny Lawson’s (she’s the Bloggess’s alter ego) book signing. It was a forty minute drive, which conveniently gave my mom and me the excuse to finally use that restaurant Groupon she’d bought last year, so even if the event sold out upon my arrival, our efforts would still have been well worth it. And I would’ve bought a set of binoculars, anyway.
1:30 PM, T minus 1.5 hours
The Half Price Books Flagship store is enormous. I approximate the ratio of books to people to be around six million to one. Just the way I like it.
I am notified that the event will be held in the west side of the building. Shooting a totally-know-where-I’m-going smile at the lady up front, I walk off in a random direction lest she figure out that I missed the memo to bring my own compass. Or that my internal compass is a state of horrific disrepair.
Tall bookcases loom up ahead, and I stop. Someone once told me the trick to escaping mazes is to keep turning left. Although, now that I think of it, doing that could technically get you anywhere, provided you have unlimited time and limited intelligence.
1:33 PM, T minus I’m-blogging-and-not-doing-math-homework-for-a-reason hours
Turns out left was right. We reach the room and stand in front of the event table for an awkward second.
“It’s just me,” I say. The employees laugh and hand me a book.
Mom directs me over to a table nearby. “Good luck,” she says with a hug like she’s sending me off to war.
2:16 PM, T minus something
Someone’s grandma, who has been sitting next to me for the past couple of minutes, realizes that there is actually a line to get into the conference room and the people in front have just been staring at our ignorant selves for the past half an hour without even saying anything. Probably wondering when we would notice on our own—which, had I been by myself, would have been never.
2:40 PM, T minus .2 hours
The people in line are some of the friendliest souls I have ever met, probably because none of them are my age. We’ve discussed Jenny, cats, novels, the economy, college apps, raccoons, tattoos, and, somehow, Doctor Who (I don’t even watch the show) before we are allowed to enter the room.
Jenny walks in, and the heavens alight.
My Glorious Conversation with the Bloggess, as she signs my book
Jenny: Hi, how—
Me: Thank you so much for replying my email!
Me: *continues to word-vomit*
The Bloggess thinks I rock. THE BLOGGESS THINKS I ROCK. Yes, she probably writes that in everyone’s book, but you know what? Maybe we all rock.
I actually see myself in the picture she took of the event. I know I don’t sound as excited about that as I should be; I ventured outside my room a couple minutes ago to announce my newfound Internet fame to my cat, only to find that she’d just digested a pile of ants.
So you’ll have to excuse me.
I realize that I probably should’ve clarified who exactly the Bloggess is before writing all this. Pardon me for assuming you’d clicked on the link at the beginning and fallen in love with her blog and stopped reading this post. I wouldn’t have blamed you, honestly.
What are you waiting for? If you don’t know where to start, try this one: And that’s why you should learn to pick your battles