I’m not very good at anything that has to do with people. As my son just pointed out yesterday, if you have to argue that you are not that awkward, then you probably are.
A couple of years ago, my husband and I and some friends went to Texas Frightmare Weekend. It’s this awesome horror convention and if you haven’t been, you should definitely go. I mean, if you like zombies. Or porn. Or zombie porn. We had a booth to sell t-shirts so it was kind of an awesome vacation/work trip.
I was super excited because Norman Reedus and Michael Rooker were there. DARYL AND MERLE DIXON, YOU GUYS! And don’t even get me started on Boondock Saints, or I might not stop.
So anyway, we drove like six or eight hours to get there, and then set up and wandered around and worked some and I, of course, eyeballed the long line forming at Norman’s table. The line where people were paying 30 bucks for a picture and an autograph. My husband was not having any part of me paying money for a picture before we’d even made any money. So I did the next best thing, made a new friend, and headed up to the room to drink.
I’d only been gone about
3 shots of whiskey 30 minutes when my brother-in-law called me. “Norman Reedus wants a shirt. Get your ass down here if you want to give it to him.”
Say whaaa? From this point on, I mainly only spoke in squeaks. It seems that Mr. Reedus saw one of the guys go by wearing an awesome shirt (see my adorable husband above. That shirt.) and he asked for one. And because the guys LOVE me, they let me deliver it.
Now, my husband was no doubt thinking how AWESOME it was that Norman liked his design, and how GREAT it would be to have his picture on our website with one of our shirts!
I was thinking, “Sqweeeee! OMG! EEEEK! DARYL!”
So I take the shirt to him, and he was very, very nice and gave me a lovely hug, and even held the shirt up to himself, presumably so I could take a picture. This is the picture I got:
In my defense, the shirt is in the picture. See it? It’s right there, clenched in my fist. I promise it’s there. (If you ever see Norman Reedus wearing a shirt with two fish on it, I need a picture of that real, real bad.)
The fun didn’t end there. Oh no, I was just getting started. After babbling something incomprehensible about “the stupid fucking rope,” I made my way back to our booth.
For some reason, my husband left me in charge; I don’t know, I guess because I had shown such stellar marketing skills thus far. So there I sit, a little drunk, a lot happy, just watching the madness that is a horror convention, when who walks up to our booth but MERLE.
I shit you not. I was kind of scared, but I couldn’t stop grinning like a damn fool, and he was grinning back, and I knew I should say something, but I swear I just squeaked. Again. Then I said, “Ummm…doyouwannasticker?” He accepted it very graciously. Do you remember that scene in dirty dancing where Baby says, “I carried a watermelon”? It was just like that, only with a bloody zombie sticker.
So, anyway, my husband is totally going to put me in charge of promotions and customer service. Because I am really not that awkward.