BlogHer: Treat this Guy Like One of the Girls

For those of you who don’t follow me on Twitter (and what’s up with that?), you missed the big announcement the other week that confirms your long-held suspicions:

I will be at the BlogHer ‘10 conference in New York City this week. This puts me among the handful of men there who will not be serving drinks, restocking the buffet or unclogging hair from the hotel sinks.

“But wait,” you say, “you can’t go to BlogHer! You have a penis!”

Hold on.

I’ve checked and, yes, I can confirm that I do indeed have a penis. But please, do not hold it against you.

I mean, against me.

I mean, don’t hold it all.

Don’t even think about my penis.

Stop it.

Stoooop iiiiit.

Good.

Why am I going to a conference so chock full of estrogen that it will make The View seem an editorial board meeting at Maxim magazine?

It’s nearby.

It’s cheap (minimal travel cost, bought my ticket early at a discount and I’m sharing a cardboard box near Rockefeller Center with a few former Lehman Brothers brokers).

It offers many networking possibilities with other bloggers and people who could possibly be conned persuaded into giving me cold hard cash to shill things on my site that I have first-hand experience with, such as feminine hygiene products and disposable underwear.

And finally, My Love said it was OK.

As long as you don’t think about … you know. That thing I have.

She seemed extremely concerned yesterday about the possibility of me being among the 10 percent of the BlogHer attendees with a Y chromosome. In particular, she was worried about me “dancing” with women hopped up on free swag and cheap booze at the BlogHer parties.

“You’ve seen me dance,” I told her, “it’s anyone within a 20-foot radius of me who should be worried, not you. Members of our wedding party still bear scars to this day.”

“Dancing,” it turns out, was a metaphor. Since it went over my head, she threw another one at me.

“It’s like driving,” she explained over a martini as big as an Octomom-Sized bucket of KFC. “It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s the other crazies on the road. I want you to practice Defense Driving.”

I’ve taken Defensive Driving at the behest of the state of Texas – twice -- so let me think … pay attention to your surroundings, maintain adequate distance, both hands on the wheel except when flipping off that idiot with the perpetually blinking left-turn signal.

Ahhhh!

Wow.

Seriously?

Anyway, if you are a woman (go ahead and check – I’ll wait) and you meet me at BlogHer, please put My Love’s mind at ease. Just treat me just like one of the girls. This means you should:

• Compliment me on my hair, cute shoes or choice of purses.
• Complain to me about how your spouse is always wanting to have intimate relations with you then detail all the clever ways you manage to avoid doing so.
• Discuss and compare our muffin-top elimination strategies.
• Tell me why you are either on Team Edward or Team Jacob, and why anyone in her right mind should really care that much about crappy fictional characters.
• And finally, ask me about my problems with bloating.

Exception to the rule: Please – no matter what the circumstance – do not invite me back to your room for a lingerie pillow fight. I’d disappoint you any way. I’m only packing my granny panties.

* * *

All kidding aside, here’s what I’m looking forward to at BlogHer:

Driving to the conference and rooming with the anonymous blue lobster known as TwoBusy, a man who can rip your heart out with his writing about his autistic son, scare you with his knowledge of The Real Housewives of New Jersey and impress you with his large, uh, music collection.

Having beers with Ms. Picket (OK, I’m having beer, she’s having Miller Lite), whose husband and I made a formidable battery back in Little League days, and discussing with her how much coaching kid soccer sucks.

Thanking, in person, some of the people who have been extremely generous with their money, time and blog/Twitter space in helping Cure JM and our fight to find a cure for Thing 1’s autoimmune disease. These include: the amazing Anna Lefler; the prolifically funny VodkaMom; my serial reTweeters Ann’s Rants, Kristine and Panic Room Ryan; the easily persuaded Maggie, Dammit and Miss Britt (sorry about begging on Sunday night) and, I hope, a cast of many others.

Passing out business cards … not mine, but ones that explain what JM is and hopefully, gets many more people to vote for us in the Pepsi Refresh contest for $250,000. (Yes, I know we dropped from No. 4 to No. 175 – the system is screwy because there are also no Nos. 1 to 97 last time I checked. Have faith.)

So, if you are at BlogHer and you see this guy:

You didn’t see me. You saw character actor Skip Hinnant dressed as The Boy from The Electric Company skit, "Love of Chair," from the early 1970s. He only plays me in my avatar and blog header.

But if you see this guy (most likely without Liz aka Mom 101 but probably with a drink):

 
Yep, that’s me. Be gentle, ladies. I already have one damaged X chromosome.

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