I was at a virtual group last night and met someone I wasn't sure whether I had met before. (That sentence is going to get my writer card revoked, but you know what I mean.) The first thing I said to her was, "Have we met before? Because I have an occupational hazard in that I can never remember anyone's name."

This is not my attempt to be a douchenozzle. I would love for the world to know that. I could have a three-hour conversation with you in the back of a limousine and depending on how many other people I had talked to that day and whether or not it was super loud and maybe dark and whether or not you might not look anything like your avatar on Twitter, I may or may not recognize you when you walk up to me at 8 am under bright lights. I've had people get really upset with me to my face for this sort of thing. I'm sure people have also said things behind my back. (Some probably deserved, I mean, hey, everyone screws up sometimes.) But I hope nobody ever gets seriously mad at me because I can't remember his or her name, because that problem is mine, not anyone else's. And all this existential angst over my cognition shortfalls kicked in totally last night.

I've read a ton of tricks for memory-jogging. And I've tried, really I've tried, to associate people's faces with a fruit or a color or anything that will help, and instead of remembering the person's name, I end up wondering if the character name "Walter White" on Breaking Bad is ironic or not, because he's a jerk.

Here's the thing: Remembering names and faces is an innate skill, kind of like being a fast runner. Some people are super fast without even trying, and others might train for years and still get their ass kicked by a fat dog. But nobody, NOBODY ever accuses the slow runner of being a snob for being a slow runner. So why do we do that with people who can't remember names?

I should say that nobody called me a snob recently or last night -- it's just horrifyingly embarrassing to have to start conversations with bloggers in this way because I am paranoid that I actually have met this new person three or four times before or emailed with them or commented on their blog or they commented on mine and they might have a real name and a blog name and a different Twitter handle and yet still I am embarrassed if I don't have instant name recognition.

Who are all these people who say they never forget a face? And can they help me? Please?

PS: I never expect anyone to remember meeting me, seriously. For this very reason. 

Yesterday I called my publisher to order books for BlogHer. I ordered 150 of them. About half of the contributors are going to BlogHer this year, and we'll be signing and selling these books (cash only -- special BlogHer price $10, no hollah) on Saturday night on the 7th floor of Macy's at the ending cocktail party right after the closing keynote. (!!)  If you would've told me two years ago that I would be signing my own book on the 7th floor of Macy's in San Francisco in 2008, I would've punched you in frustration, you lying liar from Liarsville.

Because the book isn't officially in bookstores yet, I had to front the money, which even with an author discount, was pretty painful.  I'm hoping I didn't overshoot myself and order too many, especially considering I had to pay to ship them out there and will be lugging or shipping anything left over home.  But even the pain of handing over my business account number didn't overshadow the excitement I felt when the book guy told me the books had arrived in the warehouse that afternoon. 

That means it exists.  The book is sitting somewhere in the world, right now, not an advance review galley, not a PDF, but a real, Dewey Decimal system book. 

I e-mailed the contributors to let them know, and Grace wrote me back this totally lovely e-mail, which made me realize I should stop fluttering around thinking about the receipt book I need to buy and calling my accountant to ask how to file a sales tax return and just enjoy the moment.  The book is in the warehouse.  That means that in a few weeks, I'll be able to hold it in my hands and maybe lick it.  And love it and squeeze it and call it George. And take it home and give it a bath, and sleep with it every night for a week.

I'm so not kidding here, people.  That is how much I love this collection.  I won't lie and say I don't love seeing my name on the cover next to Stacy Morrison's (because she is so real and so cool that I just can't believe she's the editor of a major women's magazine, because I thought you had to be Miranda Priestly to pull that shit off).  But I also really love the writing, and the writing is the reason I got the idea in the first place -- because I adore the writing I read as often as possible on the Internet as much as I adore the writing I read on the printed page.  The talent of the blogosphere blows my mind on a regular basis.  I've always known a lot of great talent goes unpublished because the business of publishing has unbelievably slim margins, but I'm relieved to live in an age when writers can self-publish their work so easily and to so many. 

But alas, laptops don't go easily into the bathtub, and they're kind of clunky in an airport or car, and frankly, they look like shit on my bookshelf.  Nothing, for me, will ever replace a bound book, so despite the fact that I read online all the time, I'm excited to have some of the strongest work from these writers all wrapped up in 200-odd pages that I can pop in my purse.  And also, I'm glad to know that even if the technology changes and something goes horribly wrong and one of the writers loses her entire blog, I'll still have those words safe on my bookshelf.  It's comforting.

And it's exciting.  I can't wait.

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Pamela won herself some free jeans for her embarrassing jeans story over at Surrender, Dorothy: Reviews.