I owe my niece a blog post. She had a massive wedding months ago, and it was beautiful and perfect and came with a 10-page instruction manual for the groomsmen and 2-page timelines spanning 15 hours for all involved in the proceedings and crazy relatives and fireworks and ice cream, and I promised her I’d write about it because it really was wonderful. I’ve written about her brother here, apparently, but not her and she keeps texting me at weird hours and reminding me and I will get around to it, Lulu, I SWEAR TO YOU. Just not today.
I could tell a lifetime’s worth of stories about living with my mother across two counties while building a house that was supposed to be done in August, but when I told the builder I didn’t want to hear the “N-word” (meaning November), he came right back with “It’s better than the D-word” and I nearly punched him in the throat right there. Needless to say, we’re living with my mother and building a house and it’s tremendous fun and more than a little stress and it is never going to be done.
I need to write up the tail {insert rimshot here} of my black & tan Cavalier King Charles, Rhett, who’s nearly bald because after 4 years of chronic, mysterious skin issues, it got bad enough a few weeks ago that we were sure we’d have to put him down, but the new vet in the new town directed us to a new doggie dermatologist who put the dog on 6 different meds to try to get the lesions that covered him literally from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail under control, only to end up doing a skin biopsy 2 weeks later which led us to the discovery that OH HAI, nothing can ever be simple, and he doesn’t just have lupus but all three kinds of canine lupus. Now he’s on new meds and the scabs and hair are falling off like little mini scalps all over the place, but he is doing so much better and we’re no longer afraid we will have to put him down in the next few days, which is such a relief.
There’s all kinds of things I could sit here and tell you in impossibly long and horribly constructed run-on sentences, but all I really have to say is that I’m exhausted. So exhausted I’m practically a zombie. But that’s perfect because I’m in Atlanta nerding out this weekend at Walker Stalker Con. It started out as me coming down for one night to finally meet and hang-out with The Greatest E of All and turned into TechPapa saying, “That sounds like it could be fun! We should go!” so we’re here for three days (or four or five depending on how you’re counting).
I went today to pick up our tickets and casually asked the lady behind the counter how many people they were expecting. I don’t know what I was expecting her to say, but it sure as heck wasn’t “I think around 20,000 people.”
Wait. WHAT? 20,000 people? TWENTY. THOUSAND??? I get claustrophobic when fifty people are fighting for Aunt Jackie’s chicken n’ dumplins at Thanksgiving. Seriously? TWENTY THOUSAND PEOPLE??
No. Check that. Twenty thousand fans of The Walking Dead. Twenty thousand sci-fi fans. Twenty thousand zombies ZOMG THESE ARE MY PEOPLE. So maybe I won’t die of anxiety? Maybe?
This is an entirely new experience for me. I’ve never been to a con or anything like a con before. The closest I’ve come was a Deidre Hall event in an elementary school cafeteria in Virginia Beach, but I’m pretty sure those couple of hundred people ain’t gonna have nothing on these folks although I could be surprised – the crazy was heavy in VA Beach.
I’m not cosplaying or doing make-up or anything like that. That all takes too much effort. But I’m armed with my camera and a healthy readiness to peoplewatch like a madwoman. For once, I won’t have to worry about being the weirdest or quirkiest person in the room, and I am stoked about that.
A few weeks ago, Earl was trying to convince me to dress up like a zombie cheerleader. “I’ll even do your make-up!” she said. “That’s okay. I’ll be fine,” I said. “But it’ll be FUN!” she said. “No, I’m good,” I said. She thought for a moment before shrugging her shoulders, “Yeah, you’re right. Just don’t wear make-up and you’ll look just like a zombie.”
That’s all the excuse I need to go barefaced!
Hold on. Do zombies wear bras??
Carol spraker
always love your posts. Admit less love of walking dead than living…walking or not. You will posts pics, right?
So be safe. When in doubt, run very fast. Check out that hotdog before you eat it.