“I know what you look like, Jenny.” She laughed good-naturedly. “You don’t need a hat for me to recognize you.”
Fuck. Now I’m wondering whether we’ve met before. Which stories have I told her? Have I offended her in the past? Panic. Plus, she said it in a way like “Duh. Of course we’ll know each other,” and so I began just staring at every single girl in the airport with a smile and a fake look of familiarity until they looked away awkwardly. That’s how you know they aren’t looking for a stranger in a hat. Turned out, though, that Susan actually was wearing the trench coat from her bio picture, but I’d walked right past her because it seemed too obvious. Then she yelled out, “JENNY! Where are you going?” I’d failed the first test and it wasn’t even a trick question.
The hotel was small, quaint, and simple, and when we first walked in we were greeted by the owner’s dog from the hotel ad, who had gotten the hotel Frisbee in his mouth. The logo was perfectly lined up and everyone was all, “OMG, he’s so cute!” but all I could think was, “They totally stapled that Frisbee to his tongue so it would stay like that.” Because that’s where my mind goes. I considered putting one of my blog stickers on the Frisbee when the owners weren’t looking, but those things don’t come off easily, and the owners would probably be all, “FUCK. Now we have to staple a new Frisbee to the dog’s mouth.” That’s not even worth the publicity. Mostly because it was a tiny hotel and not many people would see it. And also because stapling advertisements to dogs’ mouths is wrong.
I was wearing the jeans Karen had persuaded me to buy, and a 1930s-style black hat that I’d hoped screamed, “I’m a bohemian vintage shopper.” Then I realized that there was an orange Target price tag stuck to the back that said “Now $7.48.” Awesome. Plus I was very aware how fat my kneecaps looked in these jeans. I needed to lie down.
I spent the next hour meeting girls who seemed very warm and friendly, and I immediately forgot all of their names and personal stories because I was too busy reminding myself to not say something offensive. Then I saw Evany Thomas, and I was fan-girly and gushy because I love her writing, and I heard myself admitting that I have a tiny paper figurine of her that I’d cut out to put on my desk. I suddenly realized that I’d just stepped into “I want to wear your skin for a jacket” territory, but she was totally gracious about it, because she’s just as weird as I am. That’s the good thing about hanging out with bloggers. Most of them are kind of fucked up in the same way you are.
For dinner we ate out of a taco truck. It was delicious, and I turned to the girl next to me to introduce myself. She said her name, but it didn’t sound familiar, because all I had memorized were people’s blog names.
ME: Oh! I know you! You have that great design blog!
HER: No, that’s the other Asian woman here. I write a fashion blog.
ME: Holy crap. I can’t believe I just did that. I am an enormous racist.
HER: No worries. So what do you do?
ME: I write a blog about all the ways I mortify myself in public. This’ll go in there.
HER: I imagine so.
ME: I’d probably put this whole episode on Facebook right now, but I can’t get reception out here. Also, almost all of my clothes are from Target, and I’m aware my knees look fat in these jeans. I feel like I need to just admit that right now. I’m sorry; I can’t tell. Are you judging me?
HER: Well, not on your clothes.
ME: I like you. You’re honest. We will be best friends.
She looked doubtful. I considered telling her I have lots of Asian friends, but I was pretty sure that would make it worse. The sad truth is I couldn’t tell any of the white women apart either. In fact, at that point I’d had way too much to drink and I wasn’t even sure who I was. I dimly hoped I was Evany Thomas. I love that girl.
Pajama-party time. Except it was fucking cold, and I don’t own pajamas. Everyone was in adorable matching sets with robes. Our hostess, Maggie, was wearing a red silky robe over what looked to be a wedding dress, and she had fluffy slippers on. She looked like she’d just come from Wardrobe. I was wearing a muumuu with sweatpants on underneath, a giant men’s hoodie, and my red confidence wig. I’d started wearing a wig in social situations for several reasons: (1) It makes me feel like someone who isn’t terrified of people, and (2) if I really fuck something up I can excuse myself, pull off the wig, and say, “Who was that weird redhead and why was she talking about dildos? They really need to be more cautious about who they let in here.” The wig is a form of protection, a sort of talisman, allowing me to pretend that I’m anyone else who isn’t me. Except that I can’t afford an expensive wig, so mostly I just look like I’m pretending to be a cancer patient.