Oh, you thought I was done gabbing about my fun weekend escape to Sacramento, didn't you? Well, it would seem you thought wrong! Hey, if food gets an entire post devoted to it, some of the coolest ladies I've ever met deserve at least the same.
I wish there was a real way to do this post justice without 1) making the entire Internet roll its eyes in unison and 2) using plenty of adverbs and adjectives and EXCLAMATION! POINTS! And, look, you're rolling your eyes again.
We all blog because we enjoy the outlet, we enjoy the community, we really enjoy putting something somewhat vulnerable and personal into the abyss of CSS code and hearing back, "Yes, I feel the exact same way." It's downright cool to meet someone who lives in Sacramento or Vermont or even the same small Texas town you live in solely because of a wireless connection and a URL address. It's beautiful to have your son go through something pretty scary and be met with resounding support from people who care about your kid. That's ... that's really something.
It's also really something to sit around a moonlit tablescape with a dozen or more bloggers, most of whom you've never met, throwing back wine like its water and realizing, Yeah, it's pretty warm out right now, but I have goosebumps. And I'm laughing so hard, I can't breathe.
The Blathering was magical, and not because we all clicked and became instant friends -- although that was cool, yes -- but because we all walked through Elizabeth's front door feeling welcome and wanted. We didn't feel silly about being there or like we walked in on someone else's inside joke. We felt like we were all invited, no matter how many comments we bring in on our blog or how many Twitter followers we've racked up. There were no pretensions. We were ourselves and it was enough. Yes, it was magical.
Saturday night we had a fancy dinner, then drinks and then a stop in a gay bar. Now, we all come from different walks of life and we all properly warned each other that some ladies were raging liberals and some were, um, not raging liberals, but each woman got out on that dance floor and shook their ass to Michael Jackson's "Bad" and no one felt self-conscious or silly or judged. We all threw our arms up together, and we danced like we were friends.
By then, we all were.
Let me show you:
The day I got home, I was already thinking about where we'd meet up next year. The day I got home, I texted and twittered and e-mailed and missed those women.
We will be meeting up next year, oh yes, and I hope you'll come, too. I can promise, we're all excited to meet you.