Sugar Coat

Although I spend my days toiling in relative marketing anonymity for a large company in a cubicle more suitable for raising veal, like many of you I have delusions of grandeur.  And every now and then, one of these delusions becomes a full-blown business plan-- which to me is really just a long, often drunken, rant about something that someone should do or create or stop doing and for which I then design an elaborate marketing plan that no one will ever implement. 

I'm no Ivy League grad-- but that's what a business plan is, right?

And my latest business plan is for a lingerie line that I've elegantly named "Sugar Tw*t."

Why lingerie? you may find yourself asking.  My answer, as it often is when it comes to why I do, think, or say anything is:  I honestly don't know.  It's possible I just wanted to use the word "twat" in a sentence.

Lingerie has little importance in my life, as is evidenced by the fact that every piece of it that I own is sitting in a moving box in the garage-- and has been sitting there for 4 months.  It's been out there for so long that I now realize I need to wash it all because aside from my lingerie and yearbooks, the number one thing we store in our garage is garbage.  Rotting, ickily fragrant garbage.  Seriously-- it's like an episode of "Hoarders" in there.  We had friends over last weekend and I made them promise me they wouldn't go into the garage because honestly, I'm afraid people will think we're insane.  Hey, also just ignore the pile of horse bones in the driveway.  No crazy to see here!

The problem is, there is no trash service in our rural "neighborhood"-- which means to dispose of garbage, we have to pack it into our cars and drive it to the dump.  And I promise you, this is every bit as glamorous as it sounds.  Calling it a "trash run" doesn't make it fun or less smelly. To further complicate things, the dump is conveniently located 25 minutes away and is only open on Saturdays and Mondays until 2 p.m.  To further further complicate things, we're both lazy, I insist on sleeping in every single Saturday and there's not a chance in hell I'm letting The Boy pack garbage into my brand-spanking new BMW X3. Would Molly Ringwald's "Breakfast Club" character Claire do a trash run?  I think not.

I once tried to point out to him that I'm certain there are people who would come and pick up our trash if we put it out-- to which he replied, "Yes, they're called bears."  For me, this caused an immediate and disturbing mental image of a bear (not of the Prophecy sort) wearing my lingerie.  I didn't share the visual with him as there are many mental associations I'd like for him to make when it comes to me-- and a fat, furry, hirsute thing in ill-fitting lingerie is not one of them.

It is truly frightening what one can find on the internet.

Maybe my real issue with lingerie is in its marketing.  Every time I see a Victoria's Secret ad that attempts to show me "What's Sexy Now," I almost black out because I roll my eyes that far and high in my skull.  Apparently "what's sexy now" is super-thin 17-year olds with such massive overbites that they can't even close their lips over their own teeth.  And I can't help but think, "how is that any different than what has always been sexy and why do women fall for this?"  Or, my issue could be that lingerie is really not designed for girls like me...and because when purchasing it I live in fear that the saleswoman will assume I need a gift box.  Um, no thanks.  It's for me. Now, if you'll excuse me,  I've got a date with a McDonald's chocolate shake. And I suspect we're gonna have to super-size it at this point. So, you know, thanks for that.

Or maybe it's just because it's stupid.  I mean, seriously?  Do I have to wear something to make you want me to wear nothing?  I'd think that my ratty rank top and men's boxers would be reason enough to disrobe me.

So, back to my brilliantly-conceived "Sugar Tw*t" business plan.

What I need for you to understand is that I'm not talking about doing something on a small scale here.  I'm going BIG-- with multiple lines of business, retail boutiques, a strong online presence, a definitive social media strategy, and an adorable logo:

Special thanks to Chad G for the logo!

I'd make some effort to have a "typical" line of lingerie that everywoman could purchase at a reasonable price.  This would just be the "Everyday Tw*t " line.

• There would be the "Tw*t Couture" line, featuring avante garde and ridiculously expensive unwearable pieces.
• The "Hot to Tw*t" line for our equestrian ladies.
• The "Sugar Tw*t Tween" line for the Hunger Games set.
• "Sugar Tw*t Tot" for the stylish toddler on the go.
• "Alot of Tw*t" for the plus-sized among us.
• "Tw*t Pour Homme" featuring silk robes and whatnot for the gentlemen.
• A line of marital aids called "Fifty Shades of Tw*t" for the literary submissives.
• A cookbook titled "Tw*t's For Dinner."
• An XM radio station called "Tw*t Talk." 

You could follow us on Tw*tter or even call our Tw*tline (Tw*ts are standing by!).  I mean really, the possibilities are endless.  Well, maybe not endless...but let's face it, I could run this into the ground for a really, really long time. 

I think this could be UGE, people. The kind of huge that's so big you can't even pronounce the "H." 

UGE.

And if not, I can always go with my back-up fashion line for the corporate woman who isn't fond of the sensible pantsuit.  I call the look "Whoreporate."

I really only need a few investors...and I know I can count on you.  You in?

Mildred-Age Crazy

I bought a really big purse today.  Really big.  And I'm not sure if I'm okay with it.

Sure, it's a Coach. A finely crafted leather bag, if ever there was one, and at a moderate price point. And of course it's in basic black...cuz I'm still just traditional and budget-conscious enough to realize that it goes with EVERYTHING. And yes, I can put my iPad in it, which should quiet the constant nagging fear I carry with me that I will leave the best birthday present EVER somewhere.

But it's large.  LARGE.

And it feels like maybe I've crossed over a threshold here.

When I was growing up, my Grandma Mildred carried a very large purse.  It was white, and as I recall it had many compartments, the way an old lady's purse does.  She kept her head scarves in there, for when her hair was freshly set. And a plastic rain bonnet for when it was raining. And empty Wonder Bread bags that she used in lieu of baggies (she had lived thru the Depression and was quite thrifty). I don't know what else she carried, but whenever I watched "Let's Make a Deal" with my Mom and Monty Hall would bargain with the ladies in the audience for totally bizarre items they might have in their purses, I always thought that Mildred would make a killing in that scenario. After all, this was the woman who cut bacon in half because it "made more."

So I found myself in the Coach store today, in dire need of retail therapy after an exceptionally emotional and grueling week at work (survived big layoffs and a re-org-- more on that at some point, I'm still digesting).  My current purse, while quite stylish in its own right, was beginning to seem too small for the things I find I now need to carry in addition to my wallet and a small make-up bag: Prescription glasses (in a large case) for meetings in which a projector is used or for driving at night; prescription sunglasses (in an even larger case) for daytime driving; asthma inhaler; random wads of Kleenex; iPhone; work badge (for admittance to building); Tums (for very recent onset of stress-induced acid attacks); various prescription meds...aaaaaand the extremely unglamorous list continues. I found that each time I needed to retrieve something from this purse, I had to take EVERYTHING out of it.  And on work mornings, when I'm speed-walking from the parking garage to the building in 5 inch stilettos while on a conference call juggling a Venti Starbucks, a briefcase and the purse that ate...hmmm, let's say Kokomo, Indiana...I can't play Tiny Purse Jenga. At least with my current number of arms.

In no time, I found a nice large black leather hobo bag that seemed to fit the bill.  I threw it over my shoulder picturing all the skinny Hollywood starlets and their giant handbags featured in the "Stars: They're Just Like Us!!" section of Us Magazine and stole a glance in the mirror to see how it looked. And you know who I saw?  Grandma Mildred. With a pretty decent dye job and stiletto heels...but Grandma Mildred nonetheless.

And you know what?  That pisses me off.  Like, A LOT.

I'll be 46 in three months.  This means I am sliding towards 50, which doesn't even seem possible.  Fifty?  That's a bad surprise party waiting to happen.  That's a Buick LeSabre. That's a character that Molly Shannon used to do on SNL, for Christ's sake.  But that for sure as hell IS NOT ME. I was supposed to be someone-- I was supposed to be a wunderkind, a child prodigy.  I was at least supposed to be a skinny starlet with a gigantic bag.

Long story short, I bought it.  I brought it home, placed it on the kitchen table and eyed it suspiciously all evening as it quite literally loomed largely in my peripheral vision.  And then finally I unwrapped it and started transferring the contents of my now super-chic and somehow young small purse into the giant old lady satchel I just had to procure.  I got everything crammed in and found myself thinking: Oh my God, I'm not sure this is big enough.

So tomorrow, I'm going out to buy a box of calcium supplements.  Quite frankly, I'm surprised they weren't "Free With Purchase of Large Old Lady Bag."  (Marketing genius?)  Not only will I be able to carry them in my new purse-- but they will help to prep my old lady bones for lugging around the next size in my journey toward Mildred-Age.

Plus, I think if I cut it in half, it'll make more.

Life Moments: That One Time I Was Wrong, Episode 1

Howdy, strangers!  Remember me? 

The weird thing about not writing blogs is that the more you don't write, the more you don't write.  Kind of like the whole "an object in motion, tends to stay in motion...an object at rest tends to stay at rest" principle.  Except that while I haven't been writing, I've decidedly NOT been at rest.

Life is hectic, isn't it? 

You look forward to your two-week vacation over the holidays, knowing you need the downtime, knowing not taking those weeks during the earlier part of the year would be worth it, knowing how much you're going to enjoy your vacation time with The Boy...only to get pneumonia and spend those two weeks coughing up blood and generally feeling grumpy, isolated, and out of control.  You tell yourself that your relentless program launch schedule for Q1 2012 will be no issue because you'll be so well-rested from said two-week vacation...only to return to work, still sick, still grumpy only now instead of lying around in your pajamas all day, you're back in a cubicle that was seemingly built for raising veal, having all the creativity sucked from your body by soul-less corporate America.

You tell yourself you're going to blog your ever-loving ass off on your vacation...and one day you look up and it's mid-January and you've gone bone dry.

Well, screw that.

As I often do when navel-gazing, I find myself drawn to a particular time in my life when I said, did or thought something wrong.  So let's start a new series:  That OneTime I Was Wrong.

Once when I was in college, I went to meet my Mom for lunch at her office.  She worked in the Marathon Oil Tower and I remember getting dresed just-so because I didn't want to look like a college student-- I wanted to look like a career woman.  I wore a blue and white houndstooth skin-tight pencil skirt and a white blouse and heels...because even in college, that's how I rolled. 

I met my Mom in the huge cafeteria they had in the building and as I waited for her, I noticed a woman sitting all by herself.  She was wearing a suit (late-80's edition, think "Working Girl" meets high humidity) and was sitting all alone at a four-top.  She looked very important.  Her lunch tray was pushed to the side of her table, untouched and ignored, as she furiously worked on a report that was, no-doubt, due half an hour ago.  She was completely oblivious of her surroundings and certainly never saw me staring at her.

God help me, I have her hair.  Like, right now.

I thought she was probably the coolest, most important career woman I had ever seen and I wanted to be just like her.  I wanted to be exactly that busy, that important and that successful one day.

Oh, how wrong I was.

What I didn't see was her so-called career interfering with her private life.  What I didn't see was that, if she really had been that important, she surely would not have been ignoring her lunch in the worker-bee cafeteria.  What I didn't see was that she was likely turning in version seven of the same pointless report that had nothing to do with her actual job and was likely causing her to have to spend her evenings working on her actual work load.

Glamorous, right? 

What I can see now is that we really do create our futures.  I wanted to be that woman...and I am a version of her.  My version is dressed in some pretty snazzy business casual attire versus the big shoulder-padded suit.  And my version seriously could stand to skip a few meals.  But as I look at my lunch, still sitting in it's bag despite the mad dash I made to pick it up 45 minutes ago, I get it.  I'm her.

Only now I don't want to be.

Man, life is hectic.

While I Was Out 10-17-11

So, it's been a week already.

Have you ever had a conversation with someone on Ambien?  If you ever get the chance, totally do it.  I once had a 15 minute chat with my Ambien-grooving ex about the Dream Police.  No, not the Cheap Trick song-- the actual Dream Police.  I taunted him with this for years. 

Well last night, it was my turn.  The Boy decided he wanted to talk to Andrien (that's me on Ambien) and in an effort to see how out-of-it I was, he asked me "Do you know who I am?"  I apparently smiled and said "Yes. You're my husband."

Oh yes. Yes, I did.

He laughed and said "No I'm not."  And I said "Not yet.  But you will be."

Don't you wish you were this cool?

So this week I started off by admitting that I couldn't Find the Funny but tried to anyway by comparing myself to Elizabeth Shue and sharing the weirdest movie scene of all time.

I then found the funny hiding in the unintentional erotic language of football.  Illegal use of hands!  Roughing the passer! 

And finally this week I showed off my fancy college education by criticizing television commercials.  To be fair, I think it's a feat of writing that I worked the word "Hoohah" into that post 6 times.  I almost can't stop saying it now, which will likely become an HR issue for me at some point.

But when I wasn't entertaining you, being a Marketing Genius, or celebrating my 6 month anniversary with The Boy by telling him that he's going to marry me, I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved last week:

Now that we've all been waking up Full of Awesome, it's time to start our Daily Affirmations like 4-year old Jessica.  I can do anything good!  On a side note, her dance moves are better than mine.

Poor thing doesn't understand yet that her curls aren't her friends.

Yeah... I'm gonna need you to go ahead and-uh work late tonight.  I am Business Cat!

I seriously almost peed my pants over the whippet dressed like a Star Wars AT-AT Walker.  Do yourself a favor and scroll all the way to the end to see two bonus photos of this hapless creature.

You know it's love when you do your imitation of a "Guy on a Buffalo" naked in the hot tub and your boyfriend not only cannot stop laughing but still inexplicably finds you attractive.

Hey wolf, I've got something for you... it's a kick from a buffalo!

Interested in pursuing a menage-a-trois, but not sure how to invite your third?  Have I got the greeting card for you!

6 degrees indeed.  I love Bacon. 

And finally, I'm not sure when they start with the cookie-selling, but I'd suggest you buy a box.  Perhaps several.

To keep up with everything I do, become a FANdrea by clicking "Join this site."  You'll never miss a blog post and it's way less time-consuming and more legal than stalking (even though I do feel really close to you).

Zippity Hoohah

In one of my college courses I distinctly remember learning that one can never successfully advertise one's product with a negative.  The product-- or at the very least, the purchase of the product-- should make you faster, taller, better looking, smarter, richer or more popular... it should never cause you to be the object of ridicule.  Before I continue, let me just say  that yes, people who get Radio-Television degrees really do take classes and occasionally we even pay attention, so shuddit.  I'm pretty sure I scored a solid C in this class. 

So either the conventional thinking on this has changed, or some of the people making creative decisions these days missed that class.  I totally understand.  I missed a lot of classes, just not this one.   Exhibit A:  The Chevy Volt commercial.

People hate me because of my car.  You should buy one and be hated too. I wish there were more buttons I could button on this shirt so I could look even more like a tight ass.

For starters, I think it's a mistake to associate your product with a pressing need to go to the bathroom...even if your product is designed to make people go to the bathroom, which I presume is not one of the features of the Chevy Volt.  I can't be sure, though, because this dude clearly needs to go to the bathroom.  Secondly, everyone at the gas station hates this guy because of the car he bought.  How does this make one feel good about his choice of car?  Does the smugness he feels over having an electric/hybrid car make up for the overall scorn?

And speaking of products related to going to the bathroom...have you seen the "Enjoy the Go" commercials for Charmin?  I mean, I know these were brought to us by the folks who showed us a teddy bear with dingleberries in recent years...but seriously?  Do we need to spend this much time talking about pooping?  Do we consider this progress?

Enjoy the... oh God, it's just too gross.  I'll buy your product if you'll just stop talking about poop.

But perhaps the most disturbing commercials as of late have been the "Hail to the V" series for Summer's Eve.  Unfamiliar?  Could be because they were so racist and offensive that they were pulled from the air... Don't get me wrong, I'm sure it's difficult to write a compelling TV ad when your product is something used on the Hoohah.  But knowing the difficulty that I have in getting things approved through my legal department (who once refused to let me use the word "secure" when describing a security product), I'm completely amazed this got the green-light. 

The premise here is a talking hand (a la Senor Wences) as an ethnic vagina imploring her owner to take better care of her.  Before you watch this, please understand one thing very clearly:  This was not a joke.  This was an actual television ad intended to increase Summer Eve's market share in the world of Hoohah products.

There is much to wonder about this Down Under. 

There was also a Hispanic version involving multiple childbirths and a leopard thong...if you don't believe me, just google it.  It's too pathetic to post here and I just think a talking vagina that needs subtitles is something I'm not cool enough to write about.  I'll leave that to Eve Ensler.  Or perhaps J.Lo.  I'm thinking her Hoohah has a tale to tell.  Hoohah from the block, if you will.

As often happens while writing a blog, I've been sitting here for a while trying to figure out how to write myself out.  The Boy suggested I write a dialogue between the nether-regions of my body but I will take the high road here.  I refuse to anthropomorphize my body parts for your reading enjoyment.

So how about we end this with a positive negative?  While the purchase of this product still resulted in a negative experience for this guy, I think it works because he comes out looking like a hero. He literally gets better looking as the commercial goes on because his wife is such a harpy. 

John Clark can have you, you ungrateful Hoohah!

At least he doesn't look as though he needs to go to the bathroom.  So thank you, AT&T. 

While I Was Out 10-10-11

So, it's been a week already. 

It started with me telling you about my wacky match.com swan song.  To this day, I have no idea how that didn't work.  Then again, I am also flummoxed by fractions, pivot tables and cartwheels.  And the metric system?  Forget it.  It's like people are just making that shit up as they go along.

And then I told you all about the manic need for acceptance that turns me into Jimmy Durante.  Let's face it, any post in which I recount a toddleriffic pants-pooping episode really only proves the point of this entire blog, which is Hey! Pay attention to me!

I made two big changes that affect how you can interact with me.  The first is that I removed the whole "type this word" thing when you want to leave a comment.  I know that was a pain in the ever-lovin' ass, it just took me this long to figure out it was optional.  I hope this gets you to a-commentin'!

The second change is it's now easier for you to share my blog with others.  Below each post, there is now an adorable little icon that looks like an envelope with an arrow in it.  If you click on that, you'll hit a form that lets you share easily.  So give the gift of Andrea, won't you?  If not for you, think of the children.

But while I wasn't entertaining you, being a Marketing Genius, or entreating The Boy to buy Lion King theater tickets (4th row, baby!), I stayed pretty busy.  Here's some stuff I loved last week:

Remember when you were five and woke up FULL OF AWESOME every day?  Buy one of these tshirts for your girl kid!  (I bought two-- one for me and one for my bestie-- not realizing they were kid sizes.  Yep, I woke up full of awesome that day!)

Two of my most favorite things in the world in one commerical:  Pistachios and... the Honey Badger.  Guess who's not eating cobra this week? 

I totally want to live in this house.  I don't even care where it is.  Do you think the dusting would be an issue (for my maid)?

Click here to learn why my new mantra is "Save a pretzel for the gas jets."  You gotta love a politician this inspirational!

And finally...this lil guy just reminded me so much of Boo (one of Derek's dogs)...both in looks and sentiment:

To keep up with everything I do, become a FANdrea by clicking "Join this site."  You'll never miss a blog post and it's way less time-consuming and more legal than stalking (even though I do feel really close to you).

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.

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.

Forecasting the Zombie Apocalypse

I have very intense, vivid dreams; day-glow Technicolor, long, complicated and often frightening dreams. 

My dreams are so involved that traditionally my family actually limits the time I can use to tell them about "the crazy dream" I had last night.  Consider yourself warned. 

Last night I dreamt that I was fighting in the Zombie Apocalypse. 

What is the Zombie Apocalypse, you might ask?  Hell if I know, so you can imagine my surprise to find myself in the midst of one.  I don't watch those movies or read those books or play those video games-- although I did have a rather psychologically-fascinating match.com date with a libertarian paleo-eating zombie aficionado who I like to refer to as "Plan Z"... but I digress. 

So it's like this:  The sky is a brutal burnt orange, I'm at the coast and the water is a churning, roiling grey.  I look up to see a huge cruise ship looming over me and I decide I'd be safer inside it, so I scurry onboard.  Everywhere around me people are carrying guns and screaming that the zombies are coming and I look down to find a stick in my hands.  Yep, I'm going to fight zombies with a stick.  No one can call me an early adopter of technology, even in my dreams.

So I'm running down passages in this ship and they're hot and claustrophobic and I keep turning blind corners while screaming like a maniac and swinging my stick wildly...and finally I find myself in the engine room.  I'm not sure I'd know an engine room even if I found myself in one during an actual zombie apocalypse, so let's suffice it to say there was a lot of vaguely menacing machinery in this room and it looked engine-y.  And now in addition to a stick, I've got a piece of paper in my hands that looks suspiciously like an excel spreadsheet and I realize my boss is expecting me to provide her with a sales forecast for my marketing programs.  Like right now.  No, not later.  Now.

I'm crouched behind something and I'm trying to do some ROI calculations in my head using made-up numbers (and I'm a mathtard, even in my dreams), every now and again popping up and brandishing my stick to ward off any unwitting zombies who might be headed my way.  And I'm thinking, "Forecasting?  WTF?  I'm fighting zombies here!"

And that, in a nutshell, is my life in corporate America.  I apparently don't get enough of it in a literal sense during my forty(ish, admittedly) hour work week, so I turn it into something figurative in my dreams just to soak a little more enjoyment out of it.  As Depeche Mode may have said at some point in the 80s, I just can't get enough.

Let's work it out, shall we? 

Cruise ship = Large corporation
Stick = Insufficient tools I've been provided to do my job
Zombie Killing = My job
Forecasting = Superfluous, time-consuming busy work that keeps me from killing zombies
Engine room = My stifling little cubicle

By the by, I like zombie-fighting better than marketing.  Think it comes with dental?