My Kind of Town

I love taking in a new city...and Chicago was a nice surprise.  I'm not really sure what I expected, but it certainly wasn't European architecture, expansive gardens with modern sculptures and cornbread-like pizza crust (honestly, what's up with that, Chicago?).  With the high humidity and abundance of chubby people, I almost felt like I was back home in Houston. I mean sure, I had an unintentional Afro all weekend, but unlike in Denver my chub rub was in good company. There were even times I felt svelte.

The Boy and I flew in to the Windy City for a long weekend before I attended a Marketing conference. This was our first non-family-related vacation and for you eye-rollers out there let me irritate you by saying it was amazing.  I really do think you learn a lot from people based on how they travel...and what Derek learned about me is I can be a tad bit high-maintenance. A smidge.  I suspect this didn't come as a huge shock, but I really did appreciate how good-natured he was about holding my purse, my carry-on bag, my itinerary, my latte, my Nook, my iPad and my Blackberry at various times during our plane-boarding experience. I travel for work quite often and now I have no idea how I've done it without a sherpa. Or at the very least, an alpaca. And I'm pretty sure if I play the heart card, I can arrange for one on future trips. I have special needs, people!

We arrived around midday on Friday and after checking into our hotel and a delightful sheet inspection session, we headed out into a damp and chilly afternoon.  After walking around a bit, we settled in for a late lunch at an Irish gastro pub on Michigan Ave.  Late lunch turned into a second round of totally yummy Dark Horse raspberry ale at the bar and eventually our conversation turned to primate evolution. Obviously.

The Boy got his Masters from Duke in Evolutionary Biology (or as I like to think of it, "Monkeys"), whereas my scientific knowledge is limited to Time magazine cover stories I've partially read.  Don't even get me started on the study of single-celled organisms from the Vendian period-- my grasp of the topic is positively paragraphic!  So perhaps I could be excused for asking Derek if  "Lucy" was the oldest known primate.

Suddenly, he needed a cocktail napkin and a pen... and I knew I was in for something special.  Soon I was being led on an evolutionary romp beginning 50 million years ago with Notharctus running through Neanderthals and ending with Ted Nugent.  Not really that large of a leap, if you ask me.  Seriously, have you seen his brow ridge and the deranged way he runs around the woods killing things?

Oh God, it's just too easy.

You may be incredulous, but my eyes didn't glaze over once!  And I was amazed at how much of the material he remembered. By the time he was finished, 3/4 of the cocktail napkin was covered by a timeline complete with little stick-ape drawings for the non-cranially inclined.  It was clearly my turn to dazzle.

I was a Radio & Television major at the University of Houston and I didn't exactly walk away with an encyclopedic understanding of the subject matter. Still, undaunted, I flipped Derek's cocktail napkin over and began what I hoped to be a comparable lecture on Radio & Television.  I drew a timeline beginning with Marconi inventing the radio and ending with someone (I couldn't quite remember who) inventing the TV. I think I may even have done a horrible impression of Al Jolson somewhere in there.  Man, I'm really lucky I'm hot.

Mammy!



My absolute favorite part of the trip was going to the Field Museum the next day to see Sue.  For you regular folks out there, Sue is the most complete T. rex skeleton ever dug up or unearthed or whatever you call it. Despite the fact that my mother long-believed that dinosaurs (or as I like to call them, "Jesus Horses") were a hoax, I've always been interested in dinosaurs.  And since my friends and family have long-delighted in mocking my T. rex-like arms, for me it was like visiting a long-lost Auntie.

TyrANNIEsaurus rex.  Arms shown actual size.

We soon found ourselves in the museum's wicked awesome evolutionary exhibit where I was able to relive the previous afternoon's discussion, just this time with actual fossils as examples.  I know many of you will think I'm mocking him (okay and maybe I am, just a tad) but seriously, it was amazing to go through an exhibit like that with someone who really understands the science so well. It would be like visiting a White House Black Market museum with me.

Hey, we all have our strengths-- and it's important to recognize them.

We ended our visit in the Whale exhibit, where I made a complete ass of myself by pointing to an X-ray of a human hand and saying "Wow, that looks exactly like a human hand."  I thought it was a flipper.  This is a whale exhibit, Derek.  And then we moved on to things that I know, like pizza, beer and a dive bar where I caused a ruckus by locking the door to the men's room because I was tired of waiting to use the women's.  And where I may or may not have dozed off at the table.  It was late.

So what did I learn about The Boy on this trip?  Well, for starters, he draws horrible stick-apes.  And his intellect is truly dizzying, for another.  And his patience with me knows almost no bounds.  I learned that I love the feel of his hand in mine, the warmth of his breath in my ear as he whispers one Latin word or another, and the look of our reflection in a display case.

And mostly I learned that I still have so much to learn.  I can't wait.

Footloose

In an effort to hone my Marketing Geniosity, last week I attended a conference in Chicago on Sales & Marketing alignment.  The Boy and I flew in for a long weekend prior to the conference start, so I was already in town when my co-workers arrived on Monday. Upon arrival, one of them asked me if the hotel had a nice gym to which I sarcastically replied "how the hell would I know?" I am, in fact, the only person in the entire state of Colorado who does not exercise...and this for some reason makes me strangely proud.  Also, I hate traveling with tennis shoes.  They take up a lot of room that is better served by stiletto-heeled boots that make my ass look more height/weight commensurate-- and besides, tennis shoes typically reek.

Day One of the conference began at 8 a.m.  I am, on principle, against anything (other than sex) that begins at 8 a.m., but my height/weight commensurate butt was firmly planted in a front row seat as things kicked off.  I was feeling pretty good about the cuteness of my outfit:  hunter green riding pants, black sleeveless turtleneck, black military-style jacket and riding boots.  I gamely had my iPad out, all prepared to take copious notes and be a totally awesome employee/Marketing Genius, when I became distracted by the distinct smell of feet. I glanced around at the other attendees, trying to determine the source of the stench, smugly confident that my freshly laundered ensemble was not the issue, appalled that others are so careless  about their personal grooming habits.

As the opening speaker droned on, my sidetracked mind began to wander back to my morning routine and I remembered the distinct dirty tennis shoe smell that I caught a whiff of when I opened my tiny hotel closet that morning. While I had dismissed the smell as soon as I removed my outfit and shut the door, it suddenly occurred to me that the stench may have clung to my clothing...and that I was, in fact, the source of the distracting funk.

Vanity-induced panic set in. Could other people smell it? Would they, based on just how awful my humidity-ruined hair looked, suspect that I was the malodorous one? And what exactly could I do to remedy the situation?

Like any sane person would do in this situation, I immediately updated my Facebook status. To my delight, a friend named Theresa suggested I get busy with some Febreeze at the next break. So thirty minutes later I found myself in a nearby Walgreens, obsessing over the age-old dilemma: Febreeze or dryer sheets?  Febreeze or dryer sheets?? Naturally, I chose both.  I briefly considered also stuffing a Christmas tree-shaped air-freshener in my pocket but thought it might be overkill. Plus, I didn't want to give anyone the chance to ask, "Is that a Christmas tree-shaped air-freshener in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?" (which I would totally do).

I scurried into the Starbucks bathroom while a hipster barista hand-crafted me a bad-ass skinny vanilla latte and considered my options. Febreeze would likely do a better odor-eliminating job (thank you, Marketing folks), but I knew there wasn't time for it to dry before I had to be back in session.  So I opted for the dryer sheets. After a quick but thorough rub-down, I snagged my latte and returned to my seat, enveloped by the distinctly fresh smell of Bounce and feeling like a female MacGyver.  MacGalver, if you will.

Finally, I could pay attention-- which was great because the keynote speaker was about to begin and he alone was worth the price of admission to this conference.

Within minutes, I could smell feet again.  I silently cursed the shortness of the break and my resultant inability to Febreeze myself and tried valiantly to pay attention to Simon Sinek rhapsodizing about "Finding the Why," all the while uncomfortably aware that I smelled like a fashionably-dressed foot wrapped in a dryer sheet. I was pretty sure that Simon was brilliant, but all I could think about was the Febreeze in my purse-- like a fat kid with a Ding-Dong in her lunch box.

And then I giggled,  because I said "Ding-Dong."

Finally, we broke for lunch. I hurried up to my room, stripped down to my skivvies, and Febreezed the ever-loving crap out of my clothing. Then I remembered to close my drapes. You're welcome, across-the-street office workers. I'm sure there are few things sexier than a panicked middle-aged woman with a completely un-ironic afro in her underwear wielding a bottle of Febreeze like a sword.

I returned to the afternoon session, resplendent in my Febreezed glory. Finally I could leave my self-consciousness behind and concentrate on the Marketing subject matter at hand, which had almost nothing to do with foot odor, as near as I could tell.

Approximately 10 minutes in, I could smell feet again. Sure, it was faint and nearly inoffensive, more like the smell of a foot wrapped in a dryer sheet traipsing through a field of lavender than anything else. But there it was.

And THAT, dear reader, is exactly why I don't work out.

It's also why, when asked by my boss to share with the rest of the team my Marketing Genius-like key learnings from the Sales & Marketing Alignment conference, I was able to dazzle them with "It's really crucial that Sales & Marketing be aligned."

Continuing Education is awesome.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 5: Night of the Living Dead

This is the 6th installment of my "Adventures in Dating" series. Enjoy episodes 1,2, 3, 4 and 4.5 here.


It was late February-ish and I was still suffering through the winter of my discontent. I'd been knee-deep in dorks and poozers for months on end with still not a single normal relationship brewing on the horizon. Most mornings found me crying alone in my bed, so desperate for affection and human touch that even I, master of the dramatic, was taken aback. I just wanted to connect with someone, to feel appreciated, to have someone with whom to share my ever-multiplying stash of Groupons. Seriously, how the fuck was I supposed to eat $40 in dine-in Thai food alone?

But I had learned several things the hard way in the previous months:

A) Do not go out with someone that you haven't had at least a 10 minute phone conversation with, unless you particularly enjoy uncomfortable silences, the sound of crickets and the possibility of a tumbleweed blowing through your alleged "conversation."

B) Do not go out with a man who refuses to provide you with a photo. I promise there's a good reason for the omission and it's not because Quasimodo is a CEO trying to protect his identity or his millions.

C) Not everyone you meet online is a well-adjusted, normal person.  In fact, it's very possible that you yourself may not be a well-adjusted, normal person.

These make perfect sense, right? So it stands to reason that in desperation, I chucked this hard-won logic out the window and accepted a date with a man not properly vetted.

What could possibly go wrong?

His name was Rick and he looked like Anderson Cooper, just with a hard-on for zombies.  Of course for all I know, Anderson Cooper really does have a hard-on for zombies. But as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Sure, his profile photos were a veritable "Welcome to My Mid-Life Crisis," and at least one featured him wearing something he called a "utility kilt." Still, the prospect of having a glass of wine with a man in a skirt was more appealing than another night alone. Plus I totally wanted to impress him with my new word: "Utilikilt."

Like this, only way cooler.

We met in the bar of a restaurant. After a quick physical appraisal we both sat down and commenced with the small talk. Approximately 5 minutes into the date, he suggested we play a game.

If someone suggests you play a game on your first date, you should know that things are about to get severely goofy or about eighty-nine kinds of inappropriate.  But whether it was because I was desperate for acceptance (totally true) or because I knew it would make an entertaining Facebook status (also true), I agreed. And so we played "3 Reasons."

"3 Reasons" is just good family fun. The object, he explained, was for me to pick another woman in the bar at random and give him 3 reasons why I'd be a better girlfriend. Despite the strong urge to point to my boobs and say "You only need 2'" I sat silent for a moment, then declined to play.  In a sudden and surprising rush of self-esteem that would've made Yoda (my shrink) fiercely proud, I justified myself by saying "I don't feel the need to justify myself to you or anyone else."

To which he said "You're no fun."

WTF? I'm the poster child for fun! Which is why I remained seated and let him propose another game. After all, the entire population of Facebook-- and eventually you, dear reader-- were waiting to mercilessly mock this guy.  And he did not disappoint, by suggesting we play "3 Questions."  (He was apparently obsessed with the number 3 and quite frankly, the possibilities this suggested were best ignored.)

"3 Questions" is another family favorite in which we each could ask the other 3 questions about anything...and each had to then answer the questions honestly. Not surprisingly, he queried first.

Before I tell you what his first question was, I want you to think of the opportunity and possibilities here. He could ask me ANYTHING he wanted in order to uncover what makes me unique, what makes me tick, what I feel in my little heart of hearts. And so obviously his first question was: "Shaved, natural, or waxed?"

I shit you not.

At this point, morbid curiosity set in and I was determined to see this date through to the bitter end. Not surprisingly, he next revealed he was a Libertarian (well hello there, Dutch!) and then lectured me on why my political beliefs were wrong, stupid, misguided, constitutionally illegal and quite possibly dangerous. My best friend's husband is Libertarian so I'd heard these bullet points before, complete with puffed-out Ayn Rand references as if no one else has ever read a work of fiction.

Yawn, supress urge to roll eyes, change subject.

After the stump speech, Rick must've felt really close to me because he began to share his interests.  I've found that the more you allow a man to talk about himself, the more fascinating he'll find you, and this was no different.  And what interested Rick? In a word:  Zombies. And then more zombies. And then, just for giggles, even more zombies.

Rick, or "Plan Z" as I began think of him, owned 127 zombie DVD's. Over the next two hours, he told me so much about them that it felt as though I was experiencing all 127 of them in real time. We discussed (and by "discussed" I mean he talked and I nodded) his participation in the largest Zombie Walk in the U.S. and he even showed me a photo of this crowning achievement. And yes, even as a zombie, he was wearing a dress.

It's possible we were made for each other.  I'm one hot zombie!

As we ordered dinner, Plan Z mentioned that he was a "Paleo-eater." Not-at-all-interested, I of course asked what, pray-tell, was involved in paleo-eating? His answer began: "Human beings have been on the planet for 13 million years."

Um, hold the phone there, Homo erectus.  Most scientists believe it's more like roughly 200,000 years. But what's a few million years between friends? So, much like during his Libertarian monologue, I bit my tongue. And then bit it again, harder this time, as the sensation was more enjoyable than the actual conversation he was having.

Plan Z continued to educate me:  "Yep, 13 million years. And the reason people have diverticulitis and gluten allergies today is because we're eating the wrong things. We need to eat like cave men did."

And although I was smiling and nodding and acting all engrossed-like, inside I was thinking, "Didn't cave men, robustly gastronomically healthy or not, live to the ripe old age of like 12?" But Plan Z plowed boldly forward, prescribing a simple diet that would cure all that ails us.  According to him, there are only 3 things we should eat: Meat, fruit...and tree nuts.

And then I giggled because he said "nuts."

Oh, and we should also stay away from anything that is intentionally farmed.  So basically, we should all become hunter-gatherers.  I fought the urge to ask him if we should also be nomadic-- is shelter killing us too?

To underscore his point, Plan Z ordered grilled shrimp for dinner. Now I'm certainly no paleontologist, but I'm kinda thinking that most cave men "13 million years ago" were not harvesting shrimp, unless their rudimentary tools included a private jet to the coast, a nice boat, and some naturally-occurring netting. And I'm still a little unclear on whether or not their stance on fire was "fire bad" or "fire good."

You might be asking yourself what a handsome cave man in a skirt does for a living?  I know I was certainly curious!  So when I asked what he did, you can imagine the look on my face when he replied "I dabble." Plan Z was apparently a dabbler of the highest accord who went on to infer that said dabbling was incredibly profitable and in fact, he had published books with 3 different publishers. I began to wonder if he was just a shaved Trout.

In the end, the restraint I showed on this date was remarkable-- I think Gandhi himself would've smacked the guy. But all good things must come to an end, and it was eventually time to bid my dabbling doofus adieu. After the build-up of his political philosophy, the description of his expansive DVD library, the references to his lucrative and varied career, I was remarkably interested in what he drove. Would it be the E Class? A little something from the 700 series? Perhaps something low, sleek, sporty and yet compensatory?

At the heart of this line of thought was this: If this guy was loaded, could I overlook the Utilikit, the zombie fascination, the Tea Party leaning, the cave man diet, the dabbling...and make a go of it to secure an economic future for myself? Might it be possible to ignore his deranged need to define my groin grooming habits in order to avoid becoming a dog food-eating Walmart Greeter in my golden years?

He walked me to my car, said he had a wonderful time and would love to see me again (of course he would).  And then Plan Z drove off.

In a 2000 Isuzu Rodeo.

Complete with a Libertarian bumper sticker.

"Hello, and welcome to Walmart."  It really does just roll off the tongue, doesn't it?

Adventures in Dating, Episode 4.5: The Amazing Lady Panties

You may grow to hate me for this one.

January was a rough month.  I went home for a week at Christmas and being back in Colorado had me horribly homesick.  My Colorado friends were busy with their own lives and I was not at all busy with mine.

The month started off in a very promising fashion.  Sure, I was dating two different people in whom I was completely disinterested.  And yes, the most nightmarish co-worker of my entire life had answered an entire department's prayers by leaving the company.  So one could say that things were rolling in my favor.  But most nights still found me holed up at home alone, drinking wine like it was my job, feeling not-so-great about my dating prospects.

And then someone from my past, someone who I once had an enormous crush on, started emailing me on Facebook.  It was clear he was interested in me and I had at one time been hugely interested in him...so we emailed a few times and then switched to texting.  He was funny, if in a horribly misspelled way, and very attentive.  And when he occasionally sexted, I either ignored it or played along if the mood struck me.

He was strangely fascinated with my feet.  And yet for some reason, I continued to text with him.  What can I say?  I'm a little bit of an attention whore.  (Exhibit A:  This blog.)  Also, as I may have previously mentioned a billion times, I was horribly lonely.

One night, he and I were texting when my phone chirped the "photo delivered" sound.

At this point, I'd been match.comming it for long enough to be afraid, very afraid, of any photo sent via text.  I'd seen more penis photos than a urologist.  Perhaps even more than a Playgirl photo editor.

(Side note to the guys out there doing online dating:  We women are aware that you have penises.  But on the whole, we don't find them visually appealing.  Please, please for the love of GOD PLEASE do not send photos of your junk to unsuspecting potential matches.)

So I was understandably wary of opening the text.  But loneliness does strange things to people (and depletes the wine supply).

And then, there he was, in all his glory.

I'm going to warn you now that, should you scroll down, you will never be able to unsee this image.  Ever.  It will be burned on your retinas for all eternity.

But before you scroll, I have some questions for you:

1. Are those lady panties?
2. Exactly how much man jewelry is there on that awful, cheap bathroom counter?
3. Where are the goods?
4. What's that little fold?
5. And most importantly... WHAT THE HELL WAS I PUTTING OUT THERE THAT WOULD MAKE THIS MAN THINK THIS WOULD TURN ME ON?

Deep breath, people.  Aaaaaaaaand... scroll.

As I mentioned in Episode One, seriously, make that shit work people.

And I'm not gonna lie, this photo was sent around the world within about 5 minutes.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 4: The Disappearance of Dart League

I'm not against games played in bars.

I've been known to dominate a trivia game, put forth a valiant effort In Shuffleboard, and once played an excruciatingly uncomfortable game of pool in front of a group of bikers who stared at my ass while on a touchy/grabby match.com date with a man I like to refer to as "Panty Raider" for reasons I'd rather not disclose.

And no, there will be no episode on Señor Asaltante de Pantalones. 

But I don't get darts. What do you mean I'm not supposed to try for a bullseye? And hang on, there's math involved?  Yeah, count me out guys, I'd rather spend the evening with the Love Tester machine in the vestibule. 

So when "Tim" (that's his real name, I just like the sarcastic tone of voice I use in my head when reading names in quotation marks) contacted me on match.com and a closer look at his profile revealed that he played on a dart league, I was admittedly dubious. Also he looked a little like a douchetard in his profile photo... but as previously confessed in episodes One, Two and Three, I was horribly lonely. So we agreed to meet at Earl's on the 16th Street Mall. For those of you not in the know, this is a touristy, crowded, well-lit public place and perfect for a blind date for those who can't help thinking of shallow, unmarked graves and the pathetically few people who would notice if I never made it back to my home.

(Gotta give a quick shout out to my girl B who served as my safety during these adventures...I'd tell her where I was going, at what time and what his name allegedly was along with his phone number. What up, B? We made it through the reign of terror!)

10 minutes to D-time, I pulled into a parking lot, paid at the self-service machine and walked back to my car to place the ticket on my dashboard.  As I was walking back towards the street, apparently in the goddamn middle of the driveway (so weird when you realize that you're that girl), I became uncomfortably aware of a vehicle with an impatient driver trying to navigate around me. Without even looking, I knew it was him. Cuz that's pretty much how I roll. I stepped aside, turned and there he was.

Admittedly, I don't know a lot about trucks, but for a non-commercial vehicle, this one seemed to have an over-abundance of both doors and tires. I didn't recall him mentioning a ranch or a road crew, so I immediately named his truck "The Compensator" in my head. It's just what I do. I judge.

Seems practical.  If you have a ranch or perhaps a thumb-sized penis.

We greeted each other, laughing at the awkwardness of the situation, and proceeded to the restaurant. It was a pleasant summer night and we snagged a great table on the upstairs balcony. As I recall, he ordered a slightly girlie drink (Bacardi & Diet Coke maybe?) and I ordered a beer and as expected the waitress got it wrong when delivering the drinks.

In person, he was actually quite handsome, having apparently abandoned the salt and pepper pompadour for something a bit less Rick Perry-esque. He was tall (I'm 5'2", so everyone is tall to me), appeared relatively fit and had an easy laugh. I was surprisingly at ease with him and the witty repartee began.

Do I enjoy darts?  Yes indeedy-do!

If you're keeping score at home, and no doubt you are, the game is all tied up at this point. In the plus column, we've got witty repartee and non-douchetardy looks.  In the minus column, we've got The Compensator and a possibly dorktastic past time.

About twenty minutes into the date, we were talking about weight loss and tight jeans and such and he said "Oh believe me, you'd never fit into my jeans," and while I know what he actually meant was that they'd be far too big, I replied "And based on that statement, you won't be getting into mine."

We belly-laughed, and it was a nice moment. Next to inappropriately-timed laughter (think: grandpa's funeral or your own execution), belly-laughter is absolutely my favorite kind.

The next thing I knew, two hours had passed and things were still surprisingly fun...so when he asked if I wanted to stay for dinner, I said yes.  (For those of you who have never endured online dating and who simply have to try it based on just how appealing I've made it sound, here's a tip: Never, and I mean NEVER, commit to meeting for dinner on a first date. Just commit to drinks or coffee so you can kick the tires and don't have to feign illness or chew your own arm off to escape the horror. Look for an upcoming episode featuring "The Whale" which will illustrate.)

Dinner passed in a flash and although we were still clearly enjoying one another's company, I suggested I needed to get home to let my dog Jackson out (poor lil Jax, Mommy's dating pawn). Basically, my intent was simply to leave him wanting more.

It worked. He walked me to my car (a giant Durango absolutely dwarfed by "The Compensator"), and we spent several surprisingly awkward moments saying goodbye and trying not to kiss each other. I mean, we absolutely clicked...for real. There were crazy sparks flying all night and we both knew we wanted it to continue... just at a respectable pace.  Well, maybe semi-respectable.  Okay, I at least wanted to have clean-shaven legs.

I got in my car and drove away, my heart and other regions of my body all aflutter. I hadn't gotten out of downtown before I got a text message from him telling me how much fun he had and how we absolutely had to get together again and he was counting the minutes.

Do I know how to hook 'em, or what?

After The Tongue, Dutch, Trout, Panty Raider and other dates that deserve no blog posts for their ordinary awfulness, you can imagine how pleased I was.  I went to sleep that night with a strange warm feeling I couldn't quite identify. In retrospect I think it was a surge of high self-esteem.  Or maybe just a low-grade fever.  It's a tough call.

But then the weirdest thing happened. Dart League completely disappeared. Not a phone call, text nor email to be had.

Because I'm me, I spent copious amounts of time navel-gazing to determine exactly where I went wrong. I enlisted the involuntary help of countless girlfriends who assured me he'd call. I spoke at length with Yoda (my shrink) on the topic. She said I had nothing to lose and should just contact him.

So, pride suffering, confidence shaken, I finally said "fuck it" and sent the following text (I curse a lot in my head):

"Hi Tim, I really felt like we clicked last week so I'm a little concerned you may be trapped under a heavy piece of furniture. I'm a good person to know in a crisis so please feel free to call me."

And...nothing.

Enter the well-meaning friends to tell me "He just got scared, clearly he really liked you." "You're too good for him." "Are you out of wine?"

Um... No, quite possibly, and fuck yes.

Fast forward 5 months.  I was sitting at the bar at Sushi Den, awaiting the arrival of "The Wookie" so that I could break up with him (details to be shared in a future episode). I was feeling very self-conscious because I was wearing a kilt and Uggs (also to be explained in said future episode) and I realized someone was staring at me. I glanced down the bar and there was Dart League.

Seated next to him was his long-standing wife.

How did I know that a) they were married and b) for more than a few months?  Well, they were wearing wedding rings, clearly together, and miserably indifferent to each other.

We made eye contact.

I looked at the wife and then back at him.  And laughed.

Bullseye.

Wrestling With Blankets

There is a slight crispness to the air...which means Fall is on its way. 

Walgreens has the Halloween candy out.  Home Depot is already shilling Christmas.  I wore boots today and didn't feel stupid. And mornings are almost uncomfortably cold at The Boy's house.

Which is why I'm really glad I found my new favorite thing:  The Forever Lazy.

I mean seriously, do you not just feel absolutely ridiculous in your Snuggie now?

What I can't wrap my head around is why they offer this little beauty in anything other than hot pink?  I mean, if I'm going to wear footie pajamas to a tailgate party, I'm goin' big.  I have no need for understatement when I'm proudly sporting a garment with a trap door.

When I shared my Forever Laziness obsession with The Boy, he turned me onto something even better.  Apparently, Coloradans scoff at Forever Lazy in the face of the Selk Bag.  And quite honestly, with a name like "Selk Bag," who can blame them? Who doesn't want something called a Selk Bag?  Jesus, have these people ever heard of Marketing?

Imagine how much you'll enjoy putting on your winter weight in this little number!

While researching this blog (what, you think this stuff writes itself?), I actually learned that the Selk Bag is old news-- it's been replaced by the Musuc Bag.  I. Am. Not. Kidding.  The Musuc Bag is offered to you by the fine folks at Lippi Selk Bag.  And guess what?  It's not just a wearable sleeping bag, people-- it's a complete sleepwear system.

Why lay in it-- when you can LIVE in it?? (Actual slogan. This is not a drill.)

Good GOD, I've wasted my life.  Or at the very least, my Marketing Geniusness.

And right now, I'm going to waste my $19.95 as well.

I got your sleepwear system right here!

Sorry, couldn't resist.

Non Sense

So I'm in San Francisco this week for Dreamforce.

What is Dreamforce, you are likely asking...because if you knew what it was you'd be here with me and we'd be in a bar laughing about our hangovers and how jacked up our hair is from the humidity and how I'm staying in a hotel for Marines instead of at the Marriott because I registered too late. And about how stupid my idea for being a one-woman USO was, because all of the Marines at this hotel are octogenarians on vacation with their wives and it's not even remotely like that bar scene in Top Gun. And yes, I know that wasn't about Marines, but you get my drift.

But you're not here, you jerks, so now I have to blog about being here to entertain myself. Sitting at a bar alone and hungover with jacked up hair simply is not on my agenda today. Sitting alone in my hotel room, obsessively changing shirts apparently is.  Sleeveless and clingy or cleavage? Sleeveless and clingy or cleavage??

Okay, existential wardrobe crisis aside, this conference is awesome.

Dreamforce is the Cloud-Computing event of the year, with approximately 35,000 attendees, each more eager to learn about all manner of topics than the next. It features speakers like Eric Schmidt, Executive Chairman of Google, Tim Campos, CIO of Facebook, and in a random and surprising turn of events, yours truly.

What the hell do I know about Cloud Computing, you may be asking (you are very curious today)-- especially if you know anything at all about my non-meteoric non-rise through the world of telecom for the past 20 years. I've built an entire non-empire based on the premise that you can work in this industry for two decades without ever actually learning about the technology.  My non-product-knowledge is almost visionary now that the entire world is selling "solutions" and not products, and I'm grateful I never cluttered my pretty little head with facts about now-obsolete technologies. It really freed up a lot of space for BeeGees lyrics.

So tomorrow, I speak.  Not in front of all 35,000 attendees mind you, but rather in front of the 325 who were prescient enough to pre-register for my now completely full session on "Building High Return Marketing Campaigns by Leveraging Targeted Data."  If that title alone doesn't have you moist with anticipation, then I just don't even know who you are anymore. And you know what? Maybe I never did.

I'm nervous.

I mean, yes I'm a Marketing Genius-- we all know that. But I'm not an expert, I'm a goofball.  Presenting in front of your peers is nerve-wracking and despite my minor in Speech Communications (to go with that oh-so-practical Radio/TV major), I've got the jitters.

I've also got jacked up hair, the blister that ate Chicago on my right heel, and a giant zit on my nose. And I'm absolutely shallow enough to have these things affect my confidence.

As it turns out, I also have you.  And a number of you have reached out to tell me how amazing my speech is going to be and I'm now forever in your debt. So you're kind of like Capital One to me, but with a lower interest rate and no Vikings.

So thank you.

To my horror, I think they are filming my session. So as long as my zit doesn't show, my hair doesn't look like an Afro, and I remember to hold my stomach in, I may post the link at some point.  I know the subject matter is riveting and you don't want to miss out on what is sure to be a YouTube phenom.  What can I say, people? I'm a giver.

For now, I'm going to go change my shirt again. And maybe practice my speech. And I'm thinking there may be some wine consumed later.

I sure do wish you were here.  Maverick needs a wingman.