The time has come, the Walrus said, to speak of Stephenie Meyer again.
Specifically, the booksigning from hell.
Oh, you remember author Stephenie Meyer. Please don't make me link to her stuff again. Here -- go here instead and you'll see why she aggravates me.
So. The Stephmeister came to town. It was quite a to-do, I should tell you.
Roo-girl and her two BFFs, Susie and Laurie (usually referred to as the single-named SusieandLaurie), were psyched. They got together the night before to make special t-shirts commemorating the event! With puffy paints! And Sharpies! And glitter!
*insert eyeroll here*
So anyway, it was like a well-oiled machine. The girls got out of school, one mom drove them to my office, complete with snacks and water bottles, and I set sail with a car-full of 13-year-old giggling girls and a BOATLOAD of books to be signed.
It was a 50-mile trek through rush-hour traffic to the scene of the crime, but we made good time and the girls entertained themselves with a rousing game of sweet-and-sour.
In fact, in MY opinion, this was the best part of the evening. At one time, they were attempting to get the guy behind us to wave. He kinda bobbed his head a little, but no waves. They persisted. He smiled. They used sign language. He smirked.
Finally, they made a sign and flashed it out the back window: PLEASE WAVE BACK!
The guy burst out laughing and waved. Cheers and whoops of joy echoed in our little vehicle.
Really, it went downhill from there.
The rules of engagement for this gagfest were strict -- and became stricter when they refused to allow cameras into the auditorium.
WHAT??? I trekked 50 miles (not to mention the trip to buy the tickets and the books) and I cannot take a photo of my girlie getting her book signed by her idol? Grrrrrrrrr.
We entered and were swept up in the vortex of enthusiasm. First, you had to be checked to make sure you brought your copy of "The Host" (NOT part of the treasured vampire series). No book? No entry.
Then they gave you a sticky paper with your name on it -- or at least the name of the person you wanted the book autographed to. That ensured no misspellings. A good plan.
Then -- the auditorium of doom.
I was surrounded by bouncing teenybopper girls, wearing t-shirts that expressed their undying devotion to Edward Cullen or Jacob Black (boo). Some were pre-fab but clever ("vegetarian vampire"); some were carefully handcrafted (like the young lady who had covered every square inch of her jeans with declarations of love to Edward and all things "Twilight").
When the Meyermeister was introduced, the screaming was high-pitched, eardrum-shattering and LOUD!!!!!!!!!! These kids were s.e.r.i.o.u.s. in their worship.
And basically, all she did was answer questions that had been submitted on card in advance.
First, "The Host" questions. The girls tolerated it with little squeaks of excitement.
But when Her Twilightness said it was time to talk about ...
The room ERUPTED. I guess I should be grateful that they were screaming for an author -- a rather ordinary-looking woman -- instead of some heavily tattooed, pierced, drug-snorting and black-lipsticked rocker boy. (Um, no offense to those of you with tats, piercings and black lipstick.)
Anyway, she answered her questions -- to much accompanying enthusiasm -- and then the lineup began.
Booksignings. The be-all and end-all of my $10 entrance fee.
Just to tell ya, we were numbers 667, 668, 669 and 670. It went up to 1,000. They called us in numerical order.
It was THREE HOURS before I herded my charges, signed books in hand and ear-to-ear grins on faces, back to the car.
The drive back was less eventful. No one wanted to play sweet-and-sour. They were content to eat their Subway sandwiches (at 10 p.m.) and gush over their hero.
I brought an exhausted Roo back home (there was no school the next day, people -- call off the dogs!) and tucked her into bed.
She threw her arms around my neck and squeezed me tight.
"Thank you sooooo much, Mommy," she whispered in my ear. "That was awesome."
Yes, it is, my baby. Yes, it is.