Tomorrow, bright and blurry, I leave to go to our nation’s capitol. Which, I was shocked to learn, was not in Washington STATE, but actually on the East Coast. This was nearly as big a snafu as the time I claimed vehemently that Kansas City was a state. I was about to resort to blows to win my argument until The Twitter pointed out that, in fact, I was wrong.
The Twitter ruins all my fist-fights.
Anyway, so I’m headed for our nation’s capitol, not to learn more about history or anything, because UGH, but because I am going to a convention. A convention about Internet Culture, which, unlike the VaginaStocks I normally go to (read: BlogHer), it will be full of dudes.
Which leads me to this point: what does one wear to a convention full of slightly (read: very) geeky guys? I simply do not know. I don’t own a “Chicks Dig Unix” shirt nor do I own a shirt that says, “There’s No Place Like 127.0.0.1″ because really, I’m not even sure that’s English. I don’t speak binary nor do I intend to. Hell, I barely speak English.
So I’ve spent most of the week trying to figure out what, precisely, one wears to a convention full of nerds.
The answer?
Pants.
Ascertaining that makes me feel loads better.
I’d almost forgotten I was speaking there until I got an email reminding me I’d been signed up to speak on a panel called, ‘Why Mommy Wants Vodka.” Alone.
Now, I can bullshit for an hour (or more!) if needed, but I’m desperately at a loss for what, precisely, it is one should say on this panel. If, in fact, anyone wants to listen to me answer that eternal question of the ages: Why Mommy Wants Vodka.
Frankly, I don’t know.
Perhaps I should bring cocktails so anything I say sounds desperately hilarious.
Any suggestions, Pranksters?
Dear Skype:
The first time I was asked if I could “Skype,” I believed that I was either being invited into some exclusive club OR being insulted by some bizarre Russian Army; likely the same army that bombards my site with pen1s enlargement pill ads. Imagine my surprise when I learned that you, Skype, were like a phone…ONLY WORSE.
Dutifully, I signed up for you, Skype, because, well, I think I was doing an interview with a cat or something. Or at least, that’s what he sounded like, Skype. If he wasn’t a cat, well, Skype, then you done fucked up.
AGAIN.
(how I feel when I use Skype)
Because for every word I understood, Skype, there were at least twenty I did not. Twenty to one, Skype. Those are particularly disappointing odds, Skype, especially since I can get the same type of blurry reception from my i(can’t)Phone WITHOUT having to sit on my computer, yelling WHAT!? into my screen.
(which, Skype, let’s be honest, is what happens every time I can’t find one of my dancing cactus videos.)
This weekend, Skype, I was counting on you to Do Better. I knew you had it in you, Skype, and yet, there you were, in the middle of my first non-profit board meeting for Band Back Together, five board members chatting through the miracle of the computer. With artificial flickering disco lights. And frozen pictures. And buzzing words.
Skype, you ruined my call.
Possibly, my life.
Don’t make me pull a John C. Mayer on you, Skype. Just. Don’t. You won’t like it, Skype.
Love,
Aunt Becky
P.S. I’m totally pulling a John C. Mayer on you Skype.
