At the end of this month, I’m going to a big blogging convention called BlogHer in Chicago. I thought I would spend the majority of my time at this event drunk dancing on the dais and telling everyone that my name is “Arianna Huffington, don’t forget it, bitch,” but it appears that the game has changed because I’ve been chosen to read one of my posts out loud. To a roomful of people. Without throwing up, freaking out or peeing in my pants. Yikes.
But while it’s a great honor, to be sure, here’s the problem—I don’t sound like anything like this woman:
See, when I wrote this particular piece, the voice in my head was Wanda Sykes’—sassy, sharp and funny. But in real life, my voice is more soft, plain and boring. Sort of like a Sunday School teacher after she’s freebased a few tabs of Valium and a kettle of chamomile tea, then spent the evening listening to New Age music with a lavender pillow over her face. Meaning, I’m not sure I can give the words the punch they so desperately need.
At first I thought the solution would be to hire an acting coach, take a few classes, then get up on stage and be all Method-y and shit. You know, like Eddie Murphy in those big-people-farting movies. (Flatuence + Latex = Laugh Riot.) I soon put the kibosh on that idea, though. I mean, not only did it seem like a lot of work, but once I became an actor, I’d probably have to start hanging out at Les Deux with the Lohans and honestly, who has time to develop a nasty drug habit and have throwdowns with their DJ girlfriend when America’s Got Talent is on eight times a week? Not me, sister.
Next I tried the obvious approach and started reading my piece over and over again while looking into the mirror. That worked up until about line number two, when I got so distracted by my split ends, I had to immediately stop and go put in a 911 hair emergency call to my stylist, Mr. Jimmy (code word: “Kate Gosselin”).
But now my friend Hokgarder (aka Heather) tells me that Wanda is doing a show right here in Austin this week. I know—how perfect is that? After all, if I get her to read my post while I professionally videotape her with my son’s Fisher-Price camcorder, my problem’s solved. No pants-peeing at BlogHer for this loser! Yay! So as of today, I have two tickets to the show, a babysitter on standby, and an amazingly flimsy master plan involving a stolen bellhop’s uniform, an unmarked white van and a hilarious case of mistaken identity.
I think it’s going to work out great.