I’m a shy gal. Oh, I know, I talk a good game, but when push comes to shove, I am nothing but that stringy haired, knobby kneed little girl who is afraid to be picked last for a game of kick ball at recess.

With that in mind, I was trying really hard to block out the fact that flying across the country to meet a group of bloggers, most of whom I have never met before, was kind of like a big blind date.

A blind date where you stand around looking for the man with a rose who doesn’t show up, leaving you to go home and drown your sorrows in a pint of ice cream while trying to shake the feeling that nobody wanted you on for that imaginary game of kick ball.

Ya. Can you tell I won the Miss Confidence crown somewhere along the path of growing up?

Heh.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have been so nervous if I hadn’t pressed snooze a million times and only had time to quickly shower and grab my bags before making the long drive to the airport.

Perhaps my confidence would have been bolstered if, while in the public restroom of the airport trying to slap on some makeup, the lady next to me stood washing her hands didn’t comment about how large the bags underneath my eyes were and how it must be hard to find a good concealer to hide them.

Be-yotch.

So I got off to a rocky start on my Redneck road trip.

I knew things were going to start looking up the moment I was in the air. I could feel it. At least that’s what I kept chanting to myself as I approached the security gates.

BEEP.

Shit. I set off the metal detector. The security officer looked at me, sighed and waved his magic wand over my body.

BEEP.

“Ma’am, please go back and walk through the detector again.”

BEEP.

“It’s my jeans. They have metal buttons on them,” I half explained, half pleaded, while trying not to sweat through my shirt. I could feel the eyes of all the annoyed passengers on me as the security dude waved his wand up and down my body again.

BEEP. BEEP.

“I’m going to have to pat you down,” he told me as he started to molest me. By this time, I had visions of being stripped searched in the bathroom and could hear the snap of the ole rubber gloves.

The security dude carefully examined my shoes and my legs and was satisfied I wasn’t packing any bombs or guns in my denim and stood up to wave the wand on my upper body.

BEEP.

Oh shit. My tits, I thought as the crowd started to get more annoyed with me.

“I have a few well placed body piercings,” I stammered as he kept waving the wand over my chest.

BEEP. BEEP.

“I’m going to have to, um, pat you down,” he apologized as he set his wand down.

Great. The most action I have had in weeks and it’s by some dude who speaks broken english and didn’t even buy me dinner first. I love my life.

Just then, the guy standing behind me waiting to clear the detectors piped up, “I’ll pat her down for you if you don’t want too!”

Titters rippled through the crowd and I turned around to shoot him a death look. Freaking pervert.

The security dude quickly patted my chest while not making eye contact and then satisfied with my er, guns, he waved me through.

Bending down to retrieve my shoes, I looked at him and asked him if it was as good for him as it was for me.

He didn’t laugh.

And so began my trip to Toronto.

After being elbowed in the ribs a dozen or more times by the dude sitting next to me on the plane, I was ready to let the good times roll.

Good times which included getting lost in the airport for 45 minutes, wandering around looking for an exit and freaking the fack out that I wouldn’t recognize Mama Tulip, who had offered to pick me up.

i just about cried with relief when suddenly she appeared in the crowded masses and saved me from going home with some scary looking man who had just offered to “show me the best Toronto had to offer.”

Aside from the pouring rain, the constant smell of cat pee (love a big city) and my jangled nerves, I was so excited to start my tour. Mama Tulip soothed me with her sexy voice and beautiful smile. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing her boobs. The thought of her kicking me out of her car and me having to live under a bridge and become a squee-gee kid kept me in line.

We found our way to Metro Mama’s home and I worried if my country bumpkin status was showing when I couldn’t stop cooing over her fabulous hip and urban home.

“Gosh dang it, we don’t have such fancy thangs out west,” I repeated in awe as I was dazzled with big city life and her beautiful home. “I can’t believe how purdee the streets are. Back home, a pile of moose poop qualifies as yard decorations.” I am sooo sophisticated. I just couldn’t seem to shut.the.hell.up.

Her husband, McHotty was probably wondering what turnip truck I fell off and how his wife managed to find me.

As the hour crept closer to the big blogger meet up, my nervous twitch became more pronounced. Tulip began to wonder if I had Turrets and Metro was worried I may make a run for the border.

Nothing like walking into a fancy bar wearing a ten dollar shirt and a pair of baggy jeans to bolster one’s self-confidence.

My heart threatened to beat right out of my chest as I made my way into our private lounge. Twenty-five sets of eyes turned to look at me just as I felt my underwear wedge up my ass.

Good times.

Thankfully, God invented beer.

Even better, God invented great bloggers. I had a blast despite being jet-lagged, over-emotional and sporting the worst wedgie I’ve ever known.

It was an amazing experience to put faces to the words I have read, and for blogs to suddenly become people . It was worth the public molestation, the rain and my nervous twitch.

These people were no longer readers or commenters or writers; they became my friends. Offline and in real life. Friends I know I will cherish always.

That alone was worth the suffering through the wedgie that wanted to floss it’s way up to my navel.

I can’t wait to do it again.

But next time, I’m going commando.