Sigh… On Friday I’m off to Washington, DC, for a four-day conference for work (yes, Fluff will be taking the trip too). My job while I’m there is to be the nicest, most friendly person on the planet. One major facet of my position is author relations, and this conference is my big gig. I will be at a booth for ten hours a day, making sure that authors meet with the appropriate people and feel like an important part of our house. In addition, I am also hosting our cocktail party for 150 people, plus grad student crashers.
I am so good at this part of my job that it terrifies me. Until three years ago I had no idea I had an inner schmoozer. Sure I’m warm and friendly, and I’m certainly a talker once someone gets to know me, but I’m not one of those people at parties who knows absolutely everyone in five minutes. Or I didn’t think I was. Well, I have since learned that little Sassy Schmoozer resides within me. In just a few days, she’s going to come out to play.
Everyone loves little Sassy Schmoozer. I would like to state for the record that I hate little Sassy Schmoozer. Little Sassy Schmoozer can mollify assholes who need a dope slap more than they need someone to coddle their fragile egos. Little Sassy Schmoozer smiles all the time. Little Sassy Schmoozer is professional, witty, and very, very nice. Little Sassy Schmoozer exhausts me. Little Sassy Schmoozer drives me to drink.
By this time next week, I will officially hate the human race. And then I get to go home for Thanksgiving. No wonder I’m depressed.