dear dooce.
i'm sorry that i gave you a really cool t shirt that you'll find is likely a size too small. i know, i know you're tall. but truthfully, for some reason, i thought your boobs were smaller! it's that self deprecating attitude of yours that fooled me. then i met you and all i could think was, oh no, her boobs are WAY bigger than i thought!
dear dooce.
i'm sorry i didn't tell you that about the boobs as conversation when i went to say goodbye instead of saying all those things i promised not to say like, "i read your blog everyday", "i feel like you're my friend/i know you" "isn't this blogging/celebrity thing so weird?" "wow, what a beautiful day it was today". that dragged on way to long while my eyes couldn't stop rolling at myself.
i must have been hungry for my foot in my mouth. good times.
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addendum.
the cute little girl that i spent TWO hours with marveling at what losers we were to stand in line to meet someone when they'd already run out of books for the signing anyway....emailed me these ridiculous photos that sum up exactly how awkward this whole affair was.
the only comforting thing about this photo is how both of us look completely and equally insane.
a note of explanation, as you may be confused that we're standing on the sidewalk in brooklyn. i had joked that they'd cut the line right before me--and they did precisely that. the fire marshals got upset or something that too many white girls were lined up in one spot, and kicked us to the curb.
and here I give dooce a bit of a tourist thrill, a welcome to brooklyn handshake where i make like i'm about to attack her. and she recoils in fear. like i said, totally smooth sailing.
