Post the Fourteenth: In Which I Propose To A Hero

Today’s post will be more uplifting, I swear, Gentle Reader. I’m going to tell you about a little day trip I made last summer with an old friend.

I hadn’t been able to see S. for years – there was antique drama with mutual acquaintances, and she had been trapped in an unhappy marriage. Once she broke free (and inspired my etiquette book), we were able to talk a great deal more. We were constantly helping each other with our crazy, joking about the strangest things, and just generally being equally bizarre. I was thrilled to reconnect, even if it was almost exclusively online (we’ve been known to have multiple conversations across a variety of platforms, all at once).

Now, we’re both moderately obsessed with the Bloggess. If you don’t know who she is, go read her blog right now – she’s much funnier than I am. At any rate, the Bloggess had just released her best-selling novel, and was going on tour. And would be coming to Seattle. Fuck. There was no way we were going to miss that. Despite crippling social anxieties, it would have been impossible not to go.

Bloggess

S. then introduced me to a wonderful group/cult formed around The Bloggess – they’re really kind people, all over the world, and form a support group for one another, with all our various problems. We were the only two “Lawsbians” (from the Bloggess’s surname) that we knew would be going, so on behalf of the group, we’d bring tribute gifts. I was persuaded to craft a tiara out of twine, for reasons; we also brought a wine glass, and home-made wine – the wine is the whole reason the tour went through Seattle, incidentally.

Bloggess2

At long last, the day arrived; we got into S.’s car and began our long trek. We arrived early, and were able to secure seats. The bookstore was ridiculously crowded, there was a throng of women in red ballgowns sitting on tables, and as many people who could crowd in, did. We saw, via twitter, that the Bloggess was in the wrong room, and was fighting her own anxiety to be able to speak to us. She did. I … I was rapt. When the time for signing arrived, the line stretched out the door. Luckily -as S.’s anxiety was kicking in, and she was barely keeping it together- we were among the first in line.

When we met Herself, I gushed like a schoolboy. I handed her a shark’s jaw, asked her to sign it, and babbled: If Victor ever dies, I would really like to be first in line to marry you and is that really Copernicus? He looks less homicidal in person and here is a wineglass and I have a matching one so maybe sometime we’ll be drinking wine at the same time from matching glasses and I’ll be talking to you on Twitter and it’ll be like we’re hanging out and will you sign this as well? That’s the abridged version. It was ridiculous. S. was much calmer, and generally very respectful.

Things signed, S. gripped my arm and frogmarched me out of there, because she had done what she came to do, and was on the edge of the cliff. As we walked back to her car, I lit a cigarette, and she breathed a sigh of relief. We got into the car, aiming into the night, towards a late night diner, where we could discuss meeting an idol, a guiding light who dispenses hope and humour to millions, and who is all the more human for being vulnerable herself.
True Love

Advertisements

About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s