There I was at the auction again, with not much to report on the matter. I hardly see those people at all anymore, which in most cases is heartening. Of course I had to go with Ruby as her date, and that was fun. My nemesis recycled a dress that was not good the first time around, and I conspired to find out her auction number so I could write it on anything in the silent that vaguely resembled a turnip twaddler.

I have a funny exchange I have to tell you about. When I was taking a break from blogging last spring while I was considering a meatspace career change, I attended the auction and won a place at a book club dinner party, hosted by Ruby. The picture in the corner is of me during clean up. SJ: Bottle Snuggler. The topic was Julie & Julia, which, zzzz for the most part. I confess I skimmed it.

There was a good deal of time allotted to slagging blogging during the party, and who do those people think they are that they feel they must put their know it all trite trite-isms on the internet, those attention whores. After about forty-five minutes of this I made some point by starting with “Well, I have been writing a blog for eight years, and…” GASP. Dropped fork. Awkward. I live for moments like that.

Jump to last night, when I saw a mom there whom I have not seen since the book club.

“Oh are you still writing that mysterious blog of yours,” she said, by way of drunken conversation.

“Yes,” I said, “and I started a new one at the beginning of the new year on Victorian culture.”

“Are you…like…really bored?” she said, perplexed.

“No, I’m a writer,” I said.

“Ohhh.”

Oh well.

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