Listen. I’ve already paused the Roseanne marathon. I’ve canceled my plans to work out with Jo, the unofficial roommate. And I’m trying to set down my caramel apple spice long enough to type this, but considering it tastes like Christmas morning exploded in my mouth, I can’t make any promises.
Why am I going to such extremes, you ask? Or didn’t. I’m just assuming that you’re an engaged reader.
Wait, did someone say engaged? Cus I almost got claustrophobic.
So why am I climbing the highest peaks, crossing the deepest valleys and trudging through the murkiest swamps to write this post today? Because I heard through the grapevine that I went on a BlogDate in Chicago last week, and you are dying to hear all about it! If that isn’t true, then I blame the women of the world. Blasted gossipers.
So how did this alleged BlogDate even come about? Everyone take a seat on the mat, I feel a coming-of-age story coming on!
Alright, boys and girls. Someday when you get older, and you have a blog of your own, you will start to get comments. Once in a while, you might notice a particularly witty comment that grabs your specific attention. You will then set out on a journey to explore that commentor’s blog. Don’t rush this -it will just come naturally, when the time is right. When you’ve met the right blog, you will find it to be equally as entertaining as the comments were, which will come as a pleasant surprise on some rainy Tuesday. I’m not going to set unrealistic expectations, but butterflies are a possibility.
At some point you will begin to wonder if this person has an actual face. One of you will harmlessly stalk the other and find them via a social networking site. In the event they do not have a social networking site, nor do they have a bio picture on their blog, it is safe to say that your BlogDate will never happen.
Should you both happen to not be repulsed by the sight of one another, you will start blowing up eachother’s Facebook pages. Then, in a random twist of fate, one of you will come up with a ridiculous excuse to give out your digits. [ In my case it was: “This might be my number. If you text me something that makes me laugh, I might introduce you to Oprah.” A couple hours later I received this text: “I am sending this from my diamond encrusted pager.” ]
And before you know it, a boy from New York is on a plane to Chicago to go on a BlogDate with you.
Now, as awesome as this may seem, there comes a point where you finally come to grips with what you’re actually doing. For me, that moment came while I was on the train to Chicago. I will demonstrate my thought process with you in the following storyboard:
1. This wasn’t a thought process, but it was the largest Sangria I’ve ever seen. Luckily, Uncorked met up with me for some of these before I went to the airport.
2. WTF do my nails look purple in this light?! I swear, they looked black in my house! Why do I insist on living in an environment with no natural light? What am I a BAT?
3. Really? You could die today.
4. Eh, if I’m gonna die, at least it was in the name of journalism. Maybe Geraldo Rivera can do a reading at my funeral.
5. Way to burn your forehead with the curling iron this morning. Typical.
6. Family emergency so I can’t make it? Food poisoning? My hip locked up and I can’t walk? There was a bio-nuclear attack on the rail system? These all sound legit to me.
So we met. After twenty minutes I realized I wasn’t lying in a garbage bag in the back of a trunk, so my nerves let up a little bit. We went to Second City, which is a must for any visitor, followed by drinks at one of my favorite places. The next day, Chicago tried to break a record for hottest/most humid day in September ever. After sweating off a few pounds, we decided to find an indoor activity: The Art Institute of Chicago. BlogBoyfriend did his best impression of my favorite tortured artist, Van Gogh. They exchanged pleasantries and tried to one-up each other on who was more of a tortured artist. Blah, blah. I told them it’s all fun and games till someone loses an ear.
Careful, don’t laugh. DON’T! Then I got him some real pizza. None of this anorexic, Kate Moss crap that New York likes to think is pizza.
All in all, I had as great of a time as you can possibly have with a complete stranger that you thought might want to kill you. But, he didn’t. In fact, he made me a mixtape. You may wonder, why oh why are there no pictures of you? Or the two of you? Well, I will now use my extensive Salvation Army Barbie collection to answer your question. Guys, Salvation Army. Expecting them to be clothed is asking a lot. And frankly, snobbish.
So surely, you understand.
But, when I visit New York, my hair will cooperate, I won’t burn my forehead, it won’t be a 100 degrees, I won’t have a panic attack, I won’t receive very bad news that morning, and there will be pictures!
Go forth, risk your life, and get your BlogDate on.