There was a very serious conversation. During which, I said in complete seriousness – perhaps with a sigh, because how could she not know – "Scar is Mufasa's brother. Scar has a gaggle of hyenas that follow him. Scar wants to be the King, but instead Simba becomes the king. So Scar kills Mufasa" so on and so forth, until I busted out in a fit of (Pilsner induced) laughter.
Beyond the earnest talk of what exactly Pumba is (a warthog if you're wondering), there was the usual gossip (you know you do it too), whether or not I should take Robbie's last name or leave it as is (you know that my boys kick ass), and well blogging (which, you know you do it too).
I've met a lot of other bloggers and it's something that I no longer find odd nor do I think that one of them has an intricate plan to off me, including – but not limited to – shoving me in a wood chipper a la Fargo. Most of those, whom I have met, are now my "real friends." Far too often, I put my foot in my mouth and say "well my real friends" etc. But they understand what I mean. The line has been blurred far too many times on my part as to my 'real' life and my 'blogging' life. It's just my life and nothing strikes me as weird about it and yet for some reason I shy away from discussing it with…well…my 'real friends' because I fear what they might think of me and the situation in general. It was difficult enough explaining to coworkers and others why I suddenly fancied San Jose as a vacation destination. Details were needed and yet I could give none. Basically when it comes to discussing blogging, I become elusive as hell and I've run out of excuses for how I know "My friend Joe" from some small ass obscure town of which only residents of that state are aware. It's awkward; mostly because saying that I 'know' someone from the internet, sounds so odd. And I'm odd enough as it is, we really need not throw in that I find meeting people that I don't know, somewhat...gasp...enjoyable.
During marathon babysitting last weekend (which, I'm really not complaining, I adore the kids I babysat for last week, even when they scream loudly in my ear, because the microwave isn't performing as quickly as they would like), one family asked about the other family I babysit for – what they did, how I met them - and as usual I hemmed and hawed and possibly likened the parents to a novelist and food critic. I shit you not. Thankfully it was left at that, and no mention of the lovely email I sent them stating that I would love to babysit their unborn child (at the time) and I know where they live. Which is fucking weird. But we're totally past that and it's hysterical now, but to tell that to a 'regular' person makes me look like I should be wearing a white straight jacket type contraption and/or strapped to a table until my valium kicks in.
There's also the age old persona question. Am I being real or fake? Is my name really Heather? Do I really drink that much and spend that much on alcohol? Real. Yes. And no. I was speaking with another blogger and he alluded to me being of a 'higher echelon' than him, because of my constant talk of wine, Kate Spade or Coach and Martha's Vineyard. Which, HA! Really, do I come off as that pretentious? I'm sitting here typing this in a pair of five year old black gap pants that are way too big and tomorrow I might rock the skirt I bought for my 8th grade graduation. Because hello world! I am so very, very cheap. I buy expensive bags on sale and only because they will last for-fucking-ever. Other than that, I still think that Old Navy is the best place ever. Though yes, I am pretentious about the make up because it goes on my face. My. Face. I suppose I'm harping on that, because I'm always taken aback by what people think of me. Beyond me possibly being pretentious, I am like this – neurotic, narcissistic, annoying, drunk, wholly unfunny, and liberal – in real life. I talk a lot of shit, I say fuck way too much and I call my mother Peg, but mostly in public to get her over the cacophony of 'MOM' being yelled out in Nieman Marcus. Kidding, I meant Saks.
Anyway, there was my drinking companion. If you met Lizzie in real life, she's become your drinking companion as well. Fuck, if you met 99.9% of the bloggers I've met in real life, you'd be moved to lick them and pinch their cheeks as well. They are just that spectacular. And hopefully one day I'll be a little less timid about saying how I met them: Especially when speaking of the bloggers that encourage me to get drunk and then proceed to steal condiments from cheap ass bars.