Oh Canada...

For the fifth time this year, I find myself in a hotel room, unable to sleep at an ungodly hour. Blame Canada...or at least Eastern Standard Time for my insomnia.

Today's destination, Toronto. As my flight was delayed three hours in getting here (with one of those pesky indicator light issues), I missed dinner with my coworkers and a chance to explore downtown. From the window of my cab, it seems cool, and if Toronto is anything like my more frequent visits to Vancouver or Montreal, it should be a hell of a time.

The more time I spend in Canada, the more I like it here. I've been to Montreal three times this year, and will return for a fourth time next week. I have friends there now who entertain me when I'm in their town. The city is old, beautiful, vibrant...well at least when it isn't wintertime.

Canada is similar to the US, but different. You can find almost anything you'd get in the States, but it might look a little different, or be more challenging to find (don't run out of tampons in Old Montreal for example).

Toronto residents pronounce words with a slight accent. I never knew this until I began working with folks from the greater Toronto metropolitan area. Today when United Airlines decided my preference and original aisle seat assignment was too much to give and reassigned me to a middle seat between two six-foot-giants, it took me two seconds to identify my seat mate as an Toronto-based Canadian. It was his killer sense of humor and pronunciation of the word "about" (or as he said, aboote), that made me exclaim, "you must be flying home today!"

Some things I've learned not to do in Canada:

1) Don't make fun of Celine Dion unless you are absolutely sure the person you are talking to hates her as much as you do. This holds especially true in Montreal, where Celine is held second to God in her native land. Outside of Quebec, she's either adored or vilified, but the wrong comment can polarize you. Trust me. French Canadians have NO sense of humor on this topic. None. Choose safer targets like Nickelback.

2) Don't make comments like "all Canadian beer tastes like piss!" Most Canadian (males) know their beer, and they know their beer better than you. They will win this battle. Once again. Trust me on this.

3) Don't tease any guy about hockey being a sub-par sport. See statement #2.

All kidding aside, I really dig Canada for many reasons. The beauty of Vancouver with the modern skyline and green mountains rising out of the sea makes me think I could easily relocate. The history and European flair of Montreal is appealing on many levels. And I'm sure I'm going to discover what makes Toronto tick in the days to come.

Beyond the beauty, the comfort of Canada being similar to home (even with the differences in cultures as you travel from coast to coast), it's the people that have won me over. Perhaps a good sense of humor and personality is necessary when you live in a place that can drop to -15 degrees out in winter. Whatever it may be, I always look forward to my visits here.

I Want My MTV...Back

Like most folks who read celebrity blogs and rags, I was eagerly waiting for tonight's comeback performance by Britney Spears at the MTV Video Music Awards. I predicted a spectacular trainwreck and Brit did not let me down. She even paved the way for us less-than-perfect body types to prance around without fear in our sparkly underwear.

(Or perhaps not...)

While most of America will be talking about that performance for weeks to come, what had me most perplexed is what has become of MTV. I grew up as a child of MTV, back when video was still killing radio stars. Nowadays, seeing a video on MTV is miraculous enough, but after watching the VMA's, it is clear that MTV doesn't even know what music is anymore.

The VMA's were held in Vegas this year and appeared to be edited by a schizophrenic. When did the viewers of MTV all develop ADD? The show jumped from a main stage at the Palms, and went to private parties at suites at the Palms with different artists headlining those separate parties - Fall Out Boy, Foo Fighters, Kayne West, and Justin Timberlake with Timbaland. No one seemed to know where to direct their attention, especially the at-home viewers.

Most annoying, the entire ceremony seemed like one promotional opportunity for The Palms, not to mention Rhapsody, who kept hawking live performances by artists and urging you to download their music. MTV even created an award called "The Quadruple Threat" award - a category that honors musicians not only for their singing and acting abilities, but for things like their clothing lines and social activism.

After about an hour, I just turned it off. My head hurt. It made watching The Blair Witch Project seem like childs play.

These VMA's made me long for the days where musicians of different genres would come to one stage and perform. Back in my day, there was no separation of music - from sugary pop from Madonna, to rock anthems by Bon Jovi, the VMA's brought artists of all different walks together. Those VMA's were about the music and not promotional opportunities.

MTV used the VMA's to hawk shows that have nothing to do with music all night - The Real World, The Hills, and their soon-to-broadcast bisexual dating show, "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila," starring the aforementioned MySpace celebrity-for-no-reason.

Maybe I'm getting too old, but is it wrong to just want to hear music?

I want my old MTV back.

Spare Me

Today is the second “Spare the Air” day here in the San Francisco Bay Area, a sort of snow day from paying for public transportation due to high temperatures and poor air quality.

While getting a free ride to and from work is always a good thing, the entire concept of Spare the Air is so ass backwards it makes my head hurt, especially here in Marin County.

At least two-three days a week I take the Golden Gate Ferry from Larkspur into my office in San Francisco. The other days I either carpool, and very rarely, I drive alone. I enjoy taking the boat into work although it costs almost as much as it does for me to drive, cross the Golden Gate Bridge, and park in downtown San Francisco.

In order for me to get to my ferry from my house, I have to sit through about eight miles of stop-and-go traffic. The trip takes me at least 25 minutes due to a variety of factors including school being back in session, losing a lane of freeway for a two mile stretch of road in Central San Rafael, and the most recent bane of my existence – a freeway construction project where US 101 and Eastbound 580 merge together.

There are a couple of buses that run out of my neighborhood to San Francisco, but they are express buses and they don’t run frequently or when I need to be at work. From what I’ve researched, there are no options for me to get from my house to the ferry terminal in Larkspur.
What does all this mean? It means I still have to get in my car on Spare the Air days to get to the free ride to work, thus defeating the purpose of the campaign. Part of the push of Spare the Air is to work from home, but as we can never predict when these days are going to come, it is hard to plan for working from home.

The bigger picture, at least for Marin County, is the need for better infrastructure. I looked around this morning and saw an empty carpool lane, and three lanes of single drivers. While some people just don’t care and do like to drive, I have to suspect many are people like me, who want to do the right thing and use public transportation, but have no other choice than to get into their cars.

(And for you hippies out there, yes, I could ride a bike to the ferry terminal if I A) owned one B) had a shower to clean up in at work afterwards and C) had somewhere to store it in downtown SF).

Marin County voters have shot down the last several initiatives for a light rail system in the county. Meanwhile, the roads are clogged and the quality of life in my county struggles. Not to mention the 300-lb. gorilla in the room, global warming.

So yes, I can say I rode public transportation and “spared the air” today. While it sounds noble, I know the truth. I’m a total fraud, much like this entire program is.

Mercury Retrograde

My friend Joana and I have a running joke that when things break or start going haywire, we blame it on Mercury Retrograde.

Until a few years ago, Mercury Retrograde had never crossed my path, at least not consciously. One day, while bored at work, I was sent a link to an astrology website. While I'm not someone who actively follows astrology, it is a great way to waste time reading horoscopes and how they relate to work, love, and life in general.

It is said in astrology that Mercury rules over the mind - including all communication, business, and travel processes. When Mercury reverses its direction, everything that Mercury is associated with is affected. Mercury Retrograde, astrologists warn, is an unfortunate time to make business decisions, purchase things like cars, or get married.

Suddenly it all became clear. It was no longer me making those user error mistakes at work. Obviously, it was Mercury Retrograde. If something breaks, blame Mercury! Flight delays? Oh, that pesky Mercury!

Today felt like a Mercury Retrograde period as everything electronic I touched stopped working. First, on the WebEx call where my presentation was temporarily muted by WebEx (only in front of the entire Americas sales organization for the company I work for and only during my presentation). Later today, the Mystic Tan machine that I desperately need to help me grow a tan by Saturday to compliment the rockin' pale blue dress I bought in New York last week, decided to stop working. Never mind that it had just worked for the customer ahead of me. Picture me standing butt naked in a machine pushing a button to spray a tan that just isn't coming.

The final straw came when all the cash registers at my local supermarket froze up as I was in line buying groceries for dinner. The market had to close early as they had no way to ring up our food manually.

That was the third strike. I almost didn't get in my car to drive home. At this point, it seemed dangerous to tempt fate further.

Surprisingly, Mercury is not in a retrograde period today, although it certainly feels like it is. Then again, there is a full moon tonight. I think I'll blame that for this crazy and frustrating day.

If I Can Make it There, I'll Make it Anywhere...

Frank Sinatra sings in his classic song New York, New York “if I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere.” Those lyrics really hit home while on a recent business trip to New York, where after only 15 minutes into my trip, I found myself homeless as well as going through a sort of identity crisis. Perhaps I should mention these events also unraveled as my right ass cheek was being firmly held in the death grip of a kinky lesbian grandma.

Awesome.

I flew the short distance from Montreal to New York Saturday morning on a claustrophobic express jet made for little people. You know you’re on a tiny plane when you have to do the limbo to get to your seat as to not hit your head on the ceiling. Better yet, when the pilot made the standard announcement for flight attendants to take their seats for take-off, he just called into the intercom, “Pam, prepare for take-off.”

While visiting New York, I was to stay at the Hudson, an uber-trendy boutique hotel, with what my coworker Brian likes to call the world’s biggest lobby, and the world’s smallest hotel rooms. I stayed there a few months ago, and swore I would never do that again (something to do with the feeling that the walls were closing in on me in my 150 sq. ft. room). As this trip came up somewhat last minute, I decided to go back to the prison I already knew, rather than play hotel room roulette with a different corporate hotel option.

As I attempt to check in at the Hudson, the man at the registration desk begins looking baffled. He can’t find my reservation anywhere. We try 10 different spellings of my name but it becomes clear I’m not in their system. I dig out my travel itinerary in mock outrage (hoping their obvious error will result in an upgrade for me), only to discover my corporate travel agency never received a confirmation for my stay. And just like that, I am homeless.

I pull out my Blackberry and call corporate travel to sort out this mess while the guy at the front desk attempts to hunt down a room for me that costs something remotely close to our corporate rate. While we’re doing this, I feel an arm wrap itself around my waist, and the warmth of a body standing too close to me. At that exact moment, the travel agent picks up the line so I'm momentarily distracted and don’t turn to face my molester.

That is, until the molester grabs my ass.

Horrified, I turn to face a woman, easily in her sixties, who leans over towards my ear and says in a sultry voice, “I can’t wait to see you again.”

Both the man behind the desk and I stand there stunned as the color in my almost-lovers face turns crimson. She looks at me sheepishly and exclaims, “Oh sorry. Wrong girl!”

It is all I can do to not burst out laughing in her face. Somehow ten long seconds pass as she walks away before the guy at registration and I break out in a roar of laughter. The perplexed travel agent questions what just happened, so I tell her, and we bust up again. It is not every day you get mistaken as a participant in a lesbian tryst and get assaulted.

In the end, corporate travel was able to sort out a room and the guy behind the counter upgraded me to a deluxe room (meaning my 150 sq. ft. room will be 175 sq. ft., with a hallway). I never crossed paths with my molester again, but kept looking for my evil tart of a twin, who apparently was the right girl.

The best line came from the man checking me in, who has no idea how I attract freaks like a moth to the light. As he handed me my room keys, he smiles and says, “I think this is going to be an interesting trip to New York for you.”

With a start like that, how could it be anything but?

A Life Taken Away Too Soon

I don't know where to start. What do you say when a friend you've known since you were four-years-old dies of cancer at the age of 32?

Are there words to describe the loss? Is there anything you can say that makes up for the years we were robbed of his presence on this earth?

I feel numb - I should have done more for him these last couple of months. Angry at God for taking him away prematurely. Sad - not only for his loss, but for his family and all those lucky enough to call him a friend. We are all better people for just knowing him.

I think back to all the times we shared. Playing HORSE in his backyard for hours. Looking for golf balls in the bushes at Sharp Park Golf Course. Class trips to Blackberry Farm where he dunked me in the pool. Running in the Freedom From Hunger race (I couldn't keep up with him, so he'd stop and wait for me). Even that chance day where I ran into him a few years ago in Pacifica and stood for an hour chatting about our lives. He had tremendous spirit and a kind soul.

I will miss you, my dear friend but I am glad your pain is gone now. I will never forget you.

The Random People That You Meet

Business travel is forcing me to face one of my biggest fears, dining alone.

I know it sounds irrational, but I hate to eat alone. When I work in San Francisco and don’t have someone to eat with, I’ll grab take-out and bring it back to my desk. If Tim is gone, I typically pick up something at our local market for dinner. Ever so rare is the moment you’ll see me sitting alone at a restaurant.

That all changed recently while I was on a business trip to Manhattan. Normally, I’d hole up and order room service, but I wasn’t prepared for my hotel room being less than 175 square feet and the sudden claustrophobia that came along with that. I HAD to get out. Stinking up my tiny space with food was completely out of the question.

Luckily Sunday night was a gorgeous one in the city. At 6:30 PM it was still warm outside and the energy woke me right out of my jet-lagged stupor. I began walking up 8th Avenue and exploring the Upper West Side. There was so much to see in my neighborhood – Central Park, the Lincoln Center, Carnegie Hall. Every corner brought a new landmark or something to see. I walked over 20 blocks taking it all in. I would have kept going but I started getting hungry.

As it was Sunday evening, families were out together dining. I kept hoping to walk by the perfect little diner where I could just sit at the counter alone. I couldn’t find any place that fit my comfort level criteria, and I was determined not to eat fast food. Running out of daylight and energy, I made a choice and headed back to the hotel.

With great resolve, I marched straight to the hostess at the very swanky Hudson Cafeteria restaurant. Mustering all the confidence I could, I declared, “One for dinner please…outside.”

I felt like all eyes were on me as I walked onto the brick patio. I stood tall and pretended I was the confident type of woman who thinks nothing of dining alone.

I was never happier than when my cell phone rang ten minutes into dinner. Typically, I’d never answer the phone while seated at a restaurant but I had an insatiable urge to prove I wasn’t always a loner to the diners around me. Immediately I start whining to my friend on the line about what a loser I am for dining alone.

Unbeknownst to me, two men sitting at the table next to me, Patrick and Richard, overheard my cries. As soon as I hung up my phone, I realized they were looking at me. Sheepishly, I begin to apologize for taking a call at a restaurant, but as I do this, they push their table towards mine.

“You don’t need to eat alone,” Patrick says with a smile.

The next three hours flew by. They were already on their entrees, but they ordered dessert and wine, and we talked. I took them up to the exclusive Hudson Skybar (only hotel guests have access in) and we sat out on the patio in plush seats talking about the random things you discuss with strangers. They were both on business travel from Southern California. We shared stories about favorite places in Manhattan, air travel horror stories, work, Giants vs. Dodgers.

And then as suddenly as I met these two guys, we were saying goodnight. We didn’t exchange business cards or phone numbers. I had a great night with them both, and I’ll never see them again.

Before we said goodbye...Me, Richard and Patrick hanging out at the Skybar.

The next night I sat at the counter at the same restaurant. I felt much more encouraged after the previous night’s experience, but on this night I found myself sitting between an antisocial Middle Eastern man, and a couple who made out pretty much any moment they weren’t eating their meal. Luckily, Mr. Antisocial exited quickly and was replaced by a bohemian British woman named Rebecca. She looked as uncomfortable as me sitting at the counter, so I passed her a sympathetic grin. The next thing you know, we’re two chatterboxes who look not unlike two longtime friends who are out for a meal together. We learn we’re both in New York to attend the same tradeshow, that we work in the same industry, and share a love of shoe shopping. Two glasses of wine later and we’re sharing a dessert and acting like long lost friends.

I’ll never see her again either.

My final night in New York started with me going out for beers with two of my coworkers Marc and Rob. They both had to get home, which left me once again, alone for dinner. This time, I didn’t have the energy to find a restaurant or go back to the same place again, and had resigned to ordering room service in my pin box of a room. Defeated, I walked into the elevator to head to my room. Being polite, I smile at an older gentleman as we head up to our rooms. We begin to make small talk, and the next thing I know, we are making plans to meet down in the lobby to go grab dinner together.

Ten minutes later I meet Bob in the lobby. We decided to walk down the street to eat at a restaurant down near Columbus Circle. Bob is a 64-year-old widower from Dallas, with three kids that are close to age to me. (Yes, he has children that are in their 20’s…) Bob tells me how he lost his wife to cervical cancer seven years ago, and how much he misses her. I talk to him about wanting a family one day, but I’m settling for two cats and a crazy career right now. He’s a nice guy and the time flies by quickly with small talk and pleasantries. We say goodnight, and although we exchanged business cards, he hasn’t contacted me or vice versa.

Three days, three random strangers. They came into my life for some reason and left just as quickly. I may never see them again but I won’t soon forget them either. I hope they don’t forget me either.

The Bozo Makeover

I was 12 the last time I went to Manhattan, a trip most memorable not for going to the Statue of Liberty or to the top of the Empire State Building, but for getting my first makeover at Bloomingdales.

It was fall of 1986. My aunt was getting married in Cape Cod and we flew out as a family to attend the wedding. This was a big milestone in family vacations, marking the first time we had ever left the state (outside of trips to Reno to play carnival games at Circus Circus…rock on!) We spent time in Boston, Cape Cod, Nantucket, and to round out the trip, spent our last couple days in New York City. To say we were out of our league in the big city would be an understatement, (hell, we stayed in Times Square before it was cleaned up for Pete’s sake) but it was still a good time, even when dad got robbed in broad daylight in front of us.

The day of the makeover, I was wearing a new sweatshirt we’d bought from a street vendor. It was in line with the fashion trends of the mid-80’s - black with pink, blue, yellow, and lavender pastel lettering that said “New York, New York.” Visiting Bloomingdales was a big deal as this was when they only had their stores on the East Coast. I remember being so excited (not unlike the feeling I had when Bloomingdales opened last year in San Francisco…stop wincing Tim!) We strolled through the floors window shopping. I was so excited when we got to their Esprit shop “within-a-shop” concept. I had seen photos of these mini-stores in my Teen Magazines and was dying to get something Esprit from Bloomingdales. “MOM!” I whined. “Can I pleeeeeease buy something?”

My parents by this point of the vacation had dropped an unimaginable amount of money on airfare, hotels, and taking/dragging their bratty and ungrateful children to tourist spots. Getting me the latest Esprit duds that we could of course, get at home, was not going to happen anytime soon. My mom compromised by and bought me a pair of Bloomie’s bloomers (underwear) explaining it would be easier to pack in our suitcase than anything else. I chose to sulk.

We were getting ready to leave the juniors section when an effeminate man shrieked as I walked by. “Your face! I MUST do your face. May I?” he asked my mother.

I was an eighth grader at the time and one of the only girls in the class who wasn’t allowed to wear make-up. My mom had very strict rules about this (something to the effect of not wanting a daughter who looked like a street walker) and my stomach sank upon hearing his request. I was positive she would never say yes, plus I had already been trying her patience with a temper tantrum after being shot down on the Esprit clothing.

Yet, to my utter amazement, mom replied to the man kindly. “Well, we’re on vacation. Why not?”

The next couple of minutes were a whirlwind. The guy was a chatterbox. “Oh, we MUST do this color on your eyes…now look up while I work the liner…” A little blush, and some lip gloss later, and the new and improved me was ready to be revealed.

When I look back at pictures from that day, the girl who is positively beaming into the camera looks nothing short of a reject from the Barnum & Bailey circus clown car. As I recall, he matched the pastel colors of my sweatshirt writing to my face. I kid you not. My lids had yellow sparkly eye shadow, my mascara was teal, and the liner was purple. My cheeks and lips were pastel pink. Pretty much every one of my worst colors all in Technicolor on my face. Awesome. And I was ready to buy everything he put on me.

Mom put her foot down when it came to buying any of the make-up. I was still too young in her book to be wearing the stuff. This was to be a special vacation moment only and not a rule reversal on the make-up bylaws.

That day has been burned into my brain as one of the greatest moments of my childhood. Probably as it was one of the last days of my childhood. Within a year, I was in puberty and dealing with dreaded teenager issues. Maybe that’s what makes it so sweet…to be so innocent that a ridiculous makeover made such a lasting impression. Or that my parents bent the rules just once, something they rarely did.

I’m about to land in Newark and return to Manhattan for the first time in 21 years for work. Since I booked my ticket here, I’ve had many memories come up from that vacation, but with this one standing out the most. I hope this trip will bring many more happy memories as well.

Incredible Saddness

Some good friends of mine suffered a tremendous loss today. I don't want to go into the details to protect their privacy, but since learning the news, I've been overwhelmed with grief for them. Death is never easy, but this news has rendered me completely numb.

To these friends, I want to express my condolences. You are in my every thought and prayer. I wish there was something I could say or do to ease your pain and I am so sorry for your loss.

Good While it Lasted...

FU*K!

First class, I hardly knew you. I’m on the flight back home from Minneapolis to SFO now and as you can see, I’ve resumed my usual position over the wing. Dammit!

At least there's no screaming baby.

Sigh...

A View From the Top...

How’s this for a new outlook on things?



That’s right! A photo looking back at the wing for once. Guess who isn’t sitting over the wing with the rest of the herd in coach? I was upgraded to first class upon checking in this morning...cause that’s how I roll.

Wow…even the pretzels taste better up here, as does the Diet Pepsi I’m sipping out of a real glass. In case you’re thinking I’m getting a big head about this upgrade don’t worry. The universe is still having its way with me as a screaming baby, otherwise known as my required business travel companion, is sitting right behind me. After surviving that flight with 80 French Canadian teenagers a few weeks ago, I guess I should be thankful it isn’t worse.

I’m on a flight to Minneapolis right now, marking a new region of the United States that I’ve never ventured to before. (There could be a reason for that as it is Minneapolis, yikes). Then again, this is the city that brought us Prince so it can’t be all that bad. I had to promise my friend Rick that I’d find a hat and throw it, Mary Tyler Moore style while I’m there as well.

Like me, only different:



Today’s journey began with a little hiccup, or as the flight deck called it, a “little indicator light issue.” Why in God’s good name do pilots feel the need to be 100% honest with us about these things? I swear ignorance in these situations truly is bliss. I don’t want to know what is really happening. Go ahead and lie to me. Tell me there are weather issues in Minneapolis. Tell me a runway just shut down at SFO and we’re going to have some small delays. Tell me anything…other than the truth.

With big saucer eyes and heart palpitations we took off in complete silence. In the end, the indicator light issue had something to do with the air conditioning unit and nothing major. Or perhaps it was a big deal and the pilot is lying to us. Who knows? Just get me there already little birdie.

Today Minneapolis, next Sunday, New York City. The following week I’m in Los Angeles. So many business trips right now! They always come in clusters like this. I’m sure the next three days will provide plenty of stories. Until then, I am going to stretch out and enjoy my time living the high life, because I’m sure it will be awhile before I am afforded this first class luxury again.

Now I Have Truly Seen it All...

Herb Caen used to write “only in San Francisco” columns for the San Francisco Chronicle that captured the people, events, and general lunacy that makes this place so special. As a native San Franciscan, I've basically become immune to behaviors and lifestyle choices that most of America considers weird. That is until a few weeks ago when I participated in the 96th annual Bay to Breakers race.

The Bay to Breakers is the benchmark for San Francisco insanity. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this, but it was my first time participating even after being born and raised here. Now that the race has come and gone, I have no idea how I’ve missed out on this over the years. What a blast - a giant 100,000 person freak parade. A traveling half-naked, costume-garbed Mardi Gras, with some really fast Kenyans at the front of the pack.

Rather than writing about what I saw, I thought my pictures could tell a better story. Hopefully this will capture some of the fun and spirit that makes the Bay to Breakers so fabulous.

First off, here is my friend Shea and I early in the race. We had just been "beaded" by some naked guys who took our picture as if we were the freaks. As you can see, we have trained hard for this day and in order to keep our athletic prowess, have selected light beers to drink instead of more caloric options...



Uh, yeah...for the record, that is NOT a snake.



Getting cheeky at the Bay to Breakers:



If I had to see this, so do you. Proving once again that the naked people are rarely the people who should actually be naked. Great ad for Starbucks as well...



Me and Mr. Dick-in-a-Box. He had a cucumber inside the box as well...hilarious!



The dreaded Hayes Street hill. Just a few people out participating that day...



Elvis is alive and well at the Bay to Breakers!



Can you spot Shea and I here?



This seems like it might be a Cal/OSHA violation...



Lookin' sharp!



Only at the Bay to Breakers can a man in a rabbit suit and a woman in a mullet wig find true love...



Lastly, a photo that truly captures the fun. A woman up and a man in a giant banana suit breaking it down for us above a sidewalk dance party. I can't wait for next year!

The Great Mystery of the NAB Melon Platter

I’m not sure whether it was the second or the third consecutive Celine Dion song that finally broke my spirit. Working on a Saturday is a painful concept to grasp, one made harder to accept when it is a Saturday morning in Las Vegas. Add a little Celine Dion audio torture to the mix and all I could think was screw you Snow White. There would definitely be no whistling while I worked.

Welcome to the latest chapter in my annual NAB pilgrimage – where I set some new records of achievement. Most notably, this was my longest duration in Sin City, a baffling seven days of meetings, schmoozing, and melon platters. Why the melon platter? I’m still trying to figure that out myself. It is akin to all things Vegas and tradeshows. Don’t cantaloupe and honeydew melons EVER go out of season? It is always the same bland, tasteless crap too. If you’re lucky, some sour pineapple and unripe red grapes are tossed into the mix. You can count on two things with every NAB, sore feet and melon platters.

More cantaloupe please!



I grossly underestimate how long it would take me to get from my suite to the conference room where we were executing “Operation Bag Stuff.” By the time I arrive at 9:15 AM, a dozen skinny and gorgeous mostly French Canadian coworkers are sitting around a table eating breakfast, defying all logic by eating sugary breakfast pastries. I silently curse them as I help myself to the above-referenced mandatory melon platter, bypassing an almond croissant that is eagerly calling out to join the rest of my ass fat.

“Bonjour Kristen,” says Sophie, greeting me with the customary Montreal kiss on each cheek. “We are so happy to see you!”

I am happy to see them too, although not happy about the task ahead of me. I have been at my job for over five months now, and I really like my coworkers to the North even if they’re all unfairly smart, skinny, beautiful, and have a disturbing fondness of sappy Celine Dion tunes.

Our mission that morning is to stuff goodie bags with jackets and literature for our user group meeting the next evening. We also have VIP gifts, PR bags, and bags for our channel partners that all need to be assembled as well. I sigh and get to work.

My only motivator is that on this particular Saturday, I have my one and only significant block of free time for the entire week. After the bags are stuffed, we have lunch and a mandatory staff meeting, and then we are free to do whatever we want. I’ve already arranged for sunbathing out by the pool, catching a performance of Spamalot at the Wynn, followed by dinner at the Mesa Grill. Every activity will occur with several girlfriends from work. As NAB is a male dominated show, the idea of a ladies night in Vegas is unheard of and it sounds like a great time. But first, I have to get through those damn bags.

It takes almost three hours of hard physical labor and enduring an entire Celine Dion CD, but we get the 900 bags stuffed. Our euphoria turns to rage during lunch when a marketing manager discovers a formatting error on one of the flyers we stuffed, and makes us remove all 900 of them from our completed bags. I spend the next hour multitasking – as I help remove the flyers, my coworkers teach me how to swear in French. Fourche! Pétasse! C'est des conneries! Somehow the afternoon isn’t a complete loss with my language lessons keeping me entertained.

By 2 PM, “Operation Bag Stuff” is complete. I head poolside with my friend Shea, where we order beers, dodge date offers from two hairy rednecks sitting across from us, and breathe in the fresh air. While the next six days will bring additional cheesy pick-up lines, opportunities to show off my new French vocabulary, a dry throat from breathing in stale air conditioning and cigarette smoke, and sadly, more melon platters, I know all too well there will not be another moment of to relax like this. If there was more free time, this would be any ol' trip to Vegas, and not NAB. I smile and take it all in. For all my grumbling, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Window on the World

It seems my window on the world is looking a lot like this lately:

I'm sandwiched on an Air Canada Airbus 319 en route to Montreal on the first of four business trips I am taking over the next six to eight weeks. I am one of approximately 100 coach class passengers trying to stake out precious cubic inches of personal space as my own. The woman in seat 18A has already exercised her right to lean her chair back into me and evoke claustrophobia I didn’t know I possessed. The man behind me in 20A can’t sit still and has ensured any attempt at a nap will be thwarted by him kicking my chair or fidgeting. And while the ladies sitting next to me in seats 19 B and C seem lovely, they’re both asleep right now and currently blocking my access to the restrooms. This will be an issue in approximately 20 minutes when my bladder declares nap time is officially over. Maybe Mr. 20A can kick their chairs for me as a wake-up call.

Ah, coach. Gotta love it. At least the baby stopped screaming (for now).

I suppose I should count my blessings. For some inexplicable reason, I couldn’t get over this feeling of doom about my departure last night. I called the airline and learned my flight was indeed experiencing mechanical issues, and at that time had been delayed by 3.5 hours. The delay wasn’t as much an issue as me missing my connecting flight in Minneapolis.

One call to our corporate travel agent got me on the previously unavailable and ONLY nonstop flight from SFO to Montreal. Getting a seat on this flight means not having to change flights and do the dance I’ve entitled the “connecting flight Extreme Cha-Cha.” This dance is the one where your arriving flight lands at the gate furthest from the gate of your connecting flight. The journey is a well-choreographed dance through terminals, dodging slow walkers, moms with strollers, old people, and the general oblivious population while towing a 10-pound laptop, paperwork, and all the other superfluous crap I couldn’t get into my checked luggage all within a tight timeframe. In the last six months I’ve perfected my cha-cha to the point that I’m ready for a spin on Dancing With the Stars.

Such is the life of the business traveler. I was randomly selected to go through the extra invasive TSA search this morning, which included getting a blow job by the explosive detecting machine. For those who haven’t experienced this yet, you walk into a booth and are blasted with a couple air blasts (you dirty birds who thought I was talking about something else need to get your head out of the gutter). While this is done in the name of Homeland Security, I can’t help but suspect it is the universe continuing its campaign against me ever having a good hair day. As an added bonus, I also received the cheesiest pick-up line ever from the security officer tasked with examining my bags for explosive residue (funny since the only thing about to explode at this time was my patience). He asked if I knew why I was being randomly searched, and when I answered no he told me the TSA was conducting a special screening for adults ages 22-27 only. Then he winked and smiled.

Smooth buddy. And sure, I can be 22 to 27 years old today. No problem. Why stop lying about my age today?

Economy passengers get no respect. No leg room. Bad movies (Norbit? C’mon! Are you kidding me?) Bad food (I just purchased cashews and carrot sticks – two of the only semi-healthy food options outside of Pringles and Cup of Noodles. My considerate neighbor in 19C opted for tuna fish and crackers, because everyone enjoys a smelly fish stench in tight quarters. And it truly compliments the fumes from the guy who bathed in his cologne this morning sitting in an undetermined seat around me).

Ironically, for a woman who loves to travel and thinks travel is one of the best parts of her job, I hate flying. The fear is truly irrational – I know flying is safer than driving, but the idea of dropping 30,000 feet out of the sky and dying in a huge fireball makes me grip my seat handles with every take-off and bout of turbulence. The fear hasn’t stopped me from boarding a plane yet, but I have rituals I must go through before take-off that are sanity self-preservation tools. This includes being really nice to the flight crew and studying them for any signs of fear, locating the nearest exit (easy since I appear to be destined to always sit over the wing), and saying a little prayer that typically includes the words, “I’m not ready to die today.”

Beyond the fear, crammed quarters, and funny smells, I love the idea of getting on a plane in San Francisco and a few hours later, arriving in a foreign country. I am told by many that this will get old and tiring in time. Until then I’m still enamored by the unintentional comedy that is business travel and enjoying my window on the world, even if it looks a lot like an airplane wing these days.

Losing (and Finding) my Religion

Today started not unlike any other Sunday.

After sleeping in late, I got up and drank two cups of coffee while perusing through the Sunday Datebook in the San Francisco Chronicle. I chatted with Tim, gave the kitties some scratches as they lounged in a sunbeam, and then poached eggs for breakfast. A typical relaxing Sunday.

And then it hit me.

Today was Easter Sunday, and it felt empty to me.

As a child, Easter was the culmination of 40 days of sacrifice (we were often encouraged in CCD to give something up through the duration of Lent). I wore an ashen cross on my forehead on Ash Wednesday, shunned meat on Fridays, got a palm leaf on Palm Sunday, and attended mass on Easter itself.

Easter is considered the most important holiday in Christianity, and here I was almost indifferent towards it. I didn't go to mass, didn't give up anything, and practically forgot the date altogether. This from a woman who was baptized, confirmed, and married in the Catholic Church. The same person who ran the youth group at her parish, and was a counselor at youth retreats serving the San Francisco Archdiocese. My, how times have changed.

Outside of weddings, baptisms, and funerals, I haven't gone to mass in any sort of regular fashion in years. Lack of time, lack of interest, and strong disagreement with the Catholic Church on the issues of pregnancy, homosexuality, and how they handled molestation cases in the past have driven a wedge in the very foundation I was raised in.

Am I having a crisis of faith? Maybe so. I still believe in God, and I like the values I was given through the church as well. Yet, it isn't compelling enough to make me any more Catholic lately.

I wondered this afternoon, as my family and I hid 180 (yes, you read that right, 180) plastic Easter eggs in my grandma's backyard for my younger cousins to hunt, if I lost Easter in a sea of candy and commercialism. And then another realization struck me.

Easter is a celebration of life - Jesus rising from the dead. And here I was, surrounded by family from age two to 80, celebrating the tight bonds we have as family. If not for the sacrifices of Christ, it would have been any other Sunday, but instead, it was a special day that brought us all together. A day for playing hide-go-seek with my little cousins CeCe, Kat, and William. A time to chat with my 80-year-young grandmother. A time to giggle about my husband and my father showing up to dinner wearing similar Hawaiian shirts and khaki pants. A time to break bread together, eating a variety of delicious foods from my ethnically diverse family.

So while it wasn't a deeply religious day for me, recognizing the meaning of Easter and feeling more towards the day than I did this morning was a religious experience of sorts.

I hope you and your family had a lovely Easter as well.

Why Tradeshows Are Bad For Your Health and Other Odds and Ends

It's like clockwork...every year I put on some sort of tradeshow, and every year I get deathly ill. Not one to break with tradition, I decided to one-up my previous personal best, tradeshow-induced walking pneumonia, with a tradeshow-induced meningitis scare this week.

Luckily, I think I'm out of the woods with the meningitis, and settling for some awful sort of virus that has rendered me useless for the past three days. I've had 36-hours of a pounding headache, a stiff neck, swollen glands, sore throat, achy joints, and the pièce de résistance, vomiting.

Awesome.

Then again, compared to having meningitis, this virus seems like a walk in the park.

So although I vowed to write more this week, I've literally been dead to the world, sleeping my free hours away. So here's a mini-update of sorts now that I'm coming out of my zombie state.

****

I met John Edwards on Monday, which rendered me a little starstruck. I can't say I've ever met a presidential candidate before, and getting to hear him speak and shaking hands with him was pretty darn cool. Edwards seems to be a truly genuine guy. I've been following his political career for quite some time, and when Tim's firm became a sponsor of a fundraiser for Edwards current run for the 2008 election, I knew I wanted to attend.

This event was all the more timely as last week, the news came out about Elizabeth Edwards being diagnosed with terminal cancer. The media has created a shitstorm around this and I for one cannot understand why people are up in arms about him continuing to run for president. I would encourage anyone who questions their choice to read John Edwards book Four Trials in which he writes about his blue-collar upbringing, meeting his wife, making a name for himself in the legal community, and overcoming the death of their teenage son. I think you'd find this couple is truly dedicated to everything they do. This is hardly a publicity stunt - this couple supports each other through and through. And while yes, Elizabeth will die one day from the cancer, she is still alive now. What does the media want her to do? Start digging her own grave? This run for president is something to keep her focused on living, not dying. Almost everyone I've known who has been diagnosed with cancer and given a small window of time to live has outlasted their original diagnosis. I'd like to think it was their will to continue living as normal a life as possible, and the determination to fight the disease off as much as possible. If this run for president gives Elizabeth a sense of purpose and encourages her will to live, who are we to judge. Only two people are entitled to make a decision on this, and that is John and Elizabeth Edwards. I will support both of them wholeheartedly in whatever may come their way in the months to come.

****

Sunny days in San Francisco are the best times to be in the city. Wednesday was absolutely gorgeous, 70 degrees, and it felt like the entire city decided to go out and take advantage of it. My office is right across the street from the Ferry Building, and on days like these, the Embarcadero just explodes with life and energy. My coworkers and I walked over to Taylor's Refresher at the Ferry Building Plaza to splurge on overpriced chicken club sandwiches and tasty sweet potato fries, drowned in ketchup and a dusting of chili powder. My question to you is, if you deep fry a sweet potato, which is normally good for you, does that make these healthy fries?

****

My home is beginning to feel a bit like Wild Kingdom. There is still plenty of grass growing in the open space around my house, so we have daily visitors in the form of deer, birds, and my new favorite, a jackrabbit. The backyard is overrun with lizards, who use the warm pavers as a place to soak up the heat. All this activity is almost too much for my two furballs, Max and Angel, who we refer to as "The Mighty Hunters." They stalk the lizards from behind the sliding glass door, licking their lips and wagging their tails. I can sit for hours with the cats, soaking in the sun, and watching the spectacle of nature. We are truly just visitors on their land around these parts.

Well, exhaustion is setting in for now and I must rest. More to come soon, I promise.

Thin Mints...a Diet Cookie, Right?

It seems fitting that only three weeks after posting my resolution to live healthier and get my fit body back that the Girl Scouts would start selling cookies. If this isn't proof that the universe is constantly f*cking with me, I'm not sure what is.

Months ago when an enterprising neighborhood Girl Scout dropped an order form off in my mailbox, I'm sure pre-ordering FIVE boxes of cookies made sense. You know, because four boxes of cookies is hardly enough and six is obviously too much.

FIVE BOXES. What the hell am I going to do with five boxes of delicious, mouth-watering fattening cookies when I'm supposed to be eating healthy?

It isn't just the temptation waiting for me at home. Is it just me or are the Girl Scouts suddenly everywhere this year? Whoever is running their marketing program should be congratulated. I run to the store to buy milk, and there they are with a table in front of the store. Parents are selling them at work. Some troop moms were even selling cookies out on Market Street in downtown San Francisco this afternoon. There is no escape.

These cookies are tradition and only come once a year. I've tried convincing myself I'm only buying cookies out of charity and goodwill to Girl Scouts, but let's get real. We all know my purchases have less to do with philanthropy and everything to do with my weakness for all things Thin Mint.

I have been forcing myself to eat healthy treats in an effort to avoid the sugary goodness in my cupboard. Try as I may, lowfat yogurt just isn't a Tagalong, no matter how hard I attempt to spin it. Bananas, protein bars, carrot sticks - all lousy substitutions. When faced with the option of snacking on a Thin Mint (straight from the freezer...because they're better cold) or an apple, what would you pick?

For now, I'm opting for the moderation route. Only two cookies a day, until they're gone. That sounds somewhat reasonable and adult until you factor in my possession of FIVE boxes of cookies.

Whoops.

Can I maintain that much willpower? Your guess is as good as mine. It is a fine line between self-control and morphing into a manic cookie-inhaling furry blue monster.

Good thing Girl Scout cookies only come once a year.

Strange Condition

Strange Condition is one of my favorite Pete Yorn songs. Ironically, it was in the middle of him performing that song at the Fillmore recently that I realized I was suffering from a strange condition myself – otherwise known as poor self-esteem.

Heather had an extra ticket to the Pete Yorn concert and invited me to join her. It had been months since I last saw my friend and as we have similar musical tastes, I knew we'd be in for a fun evening. Plus, I love the Fillmore. It is by far one of San Francisco's greatest musical venues, not only for its intimacy, but for the history. From the framed concert photos lining the walls, to the crystal chandeliers in the main room, the place just channels the ghosts of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Jerry Garcia. I have seen many shows at the Fillmore, and I've never been disappointed.

Still, no one told me I was going to have to hold my gut in all night.

The reasoning behind my self-induced tummy tucking was the presence of a video crew recording the concert that evening. At one point in Pete Yorn's set, I heard Heather mumble something in my general direction. I leaned in closer as I couldn’t understand what she was trying to communicate, only to hear her mumble again. On the third attempt, I realize she’s attempting to speak without moving her lips, not unlike a ventriloquist, warning me we were both on camera.

Upon realizing they are being photographed, most people will ham it up for the camera, smile, or even try to look extra cool. I took the route of looking directly at the camera, wide-eyed, and exclaiming in horror, "OH SHIT!"

It wasn't being on camera that bugged me, it was my appearance. It had been a stressful day at work. I was so late meeting Heather that evening, I didn’t have time to put make-up on, my hair was a wreck, and the outfit I had on wasn’t my most flattering to my waistline. I didn't exactly want to be immortalized on a concert video looking like a sausage.

I have been suffering from a weight image problem my entire life. I refer to most of my childhood as the Butterball years. It wasn't until junior high where I grew about four inches in a summer that I lost much of the baby fat. Still I've always had a gut, even when I was super sick in college, and dropped to a scary 110 lbs. That isn't much weight for a woman who is almost 5'9 feet tall. I found it ironic to be able to count my ribs but still have a pooch.

Last year I became obsessed with losing my belly. I hired a personal trainer, did pilates 3-5 days a week, and started kicking up my cardio with hikes in the hills behind my house. I never got rock hard abs and it was frustrating, although I felt healthy and people went out of their way to say I looked great.

Since I tore my labrum in August, the weight issue has only gotten worse for me. Six months of serious inactivity has made me lose the muscle I had built up. Cellulite has returned. Lately, my self-image assessment has ranged from feeling repulsive to pathetic. I've actually lost over ten pounds since the injury, mostly muscle, but the biggest loss has come at the price of my confidence and self-esteem.

As the video crew moved away from us, an overwhelming wave of sadness struck me. I realized right then just how bad I had let my self-esteem issue become. I hate the person I’ve become - pitiful has never been my strong trait. I’ve got to figure out a way to like me, faults and all.

Most women will tell you they hate their bodies. We are constantly bombarded by images of what the media and society dictate as female physical perfection. For most women, these looks are unobtainable. Still how many women do we know who torture ourselves for not having Jessica Biel’s body, Halle Berry’s stunning looks, or Eva Longoria’s sexiness?

It is unfair to hold myself to those standards anymore. I don’t have the means or the time to work out four hours a day with a personal trainer to get rock solid abs. I don’t have a stylist choosing the right clothes to fit my curves, or a hair stylist making every lock fall perfectly in place. Truly, all I can do is start believing in myself again – once the confidence returns, the rest will eventually follow.

My self-image insecurities won’t be fixed overnight. There will be good days and bad days ahead. I know as I start resuming exercise, I’ll start feeling better physically. The emotional aspects are much harder to mend. I look forward to rebuilding my inner confidence so the next time I’m caught off-guard by a camera, instead of feeling ashamed and wanting to hide, I’ll be proud of the person staring into the lens.

Three Months Later...

Today is the three month anniversary of my shoulder surgery.

Zipadeedodah. I know you're all tired of hearing about it. But humor me for just a few more minutes...I promise, I'm running out of things to say on the topic.

I received a nice posting from a guy named Jason who is recovering from the very same surgery. He wanted to know how my recovery is going and if it is normal to feel pain seven weeks out of having a Bankart repair.

Well Jason, do you want the good news or the bad news first?

Let's get the bad out of the way. The answer to pain at seven weeks out is sadly, yes. I was still in a world of hurt at that point. I had only been out of wearing my immobilizer at work for about a week, but had to keep it on at bedtime as my arm was too weak to sleep without the extra support. I was reliant on pain medication and ice more than I expected. I wish I had better news for where you are at in your recovery. I too was alarmed at the pain and convinced my doctor had made a terrible mistake during my procedure for me to experience pain at that level.

And now for the good news...

At 13 weeks, my outlook and pain level are so much better. In fact, for me, nine weeks was the true turning point. As I proceed deeper into physical therapy, the movement and strengthening exercises seem to help both physically and emotionally. Sure, it doesn't feel great all the time...rain, cold, dampness, and overdoing it at PT can really hurt at times. Remember, your shoulder has gone through a major trauma and it has been immobile for weeks. What you are going through, from what I've learned from others who've had the same surgery, is a normal part of the process.

I'm happy to report I've regained about 70-75 % of my mobility back at this time. I will continue at PT for the next couple months, and my doctor and therapists are all pleased with my progress. Pain will still be a part of your future, but it does get better. I know it is frustrating...truly, only someone who has gone through what appears to be such a minor procedure will understand what you are saying about the pain. There is nothing minor about living in constant pain. Try not to get too frustrated - better days are on their way. Until then, I will keep wishing you a speedy end to your painful days.

The Velvet Bulldozer

I've always had the gift of gab. I can't do anything in short-form, from phone calls to email to blogging. My wordiness has always been a reflection of how I communicate with others.

That is unless I have to stand in front of a room of strangers and a video camera.

Last week my boss decided it would be beneficial for us to enroll in a "Speaking with impact" class offered through our employer. Since I took two speech classes in college, have spoken in front of crowds of hundreds of people, even sang karaoke in front of 400 strangers on a cruise ship, I didn't flinch when told to enroll in this course. Somehow I overcame my stage fright in all those other situations, why should this be any different?

The class was made up of eight professionals, each from different divisions of our company. It felt a little like a scene out of the movie The Breakfast Club but instead of a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal spending a Saturday in detention together, we were the corporate khaki-wearing grown-up version of the movie. In the place of those titles, we had a sales guy, a consultant, a marketing manager, a product manager, and a spaz (me).

Don't mess with the bull, young man. You'll get the horns.



Our instructors seemed nice at the first but it became quickly obvious that they were only there to break my spirit. Almost immediately, we were put on the spot, having to get up in front of the class (including my boss) and come up with a 90 second speech about who we are, how long we've been with the company, hobbies, etc. Oh, and if that didn't make you the slightest bit nervous, we were also to be videotaped doing this.

When my turn rolled around, I knew I was a little jittery. We were told to stand with our arms by our sides, feet planted steadily hip width apart. We were to make eye contact with the audience, and walk around a bit. When I got up there, I thought I had followed every rule to the ultimate detail. I even started fantasizing that after one viewing, the instructors would marvel at my stature and composure to the point I would be excused from the class.

What appeared on the video playback didn't resemble a confident person at all. In fact, the person speaking looked just like me, but she was fidgeting with her hair, looking everywhere but at the audience, shifting her weight from hip to hip, speaking without pausing to breathe, and most unfairly, the "camera" was obviously adding ten pounds to her figure. Damn camera...

Going back to Breakfast Club references, my fantasy of being excused from class seemed to suddenly resemble John Bender getting two months of Saturday detention from Vernon. And was Kristen, like Claire, a fat girls name? There would be no dismissal - it was obvious I needed this class...along with a membership to Weight Watchers.

For two days I was forced to speak several times in front of the class which put me completely outside my comfort zone. During breaks and lunch, I was a totally different person. The lunch time Kristen was relaxed, joked with classmates, even told a few stories. That Kristen had no problems with eye contact or completing sentences. My confidence was intact. Yet, as soon as the class would start again, I reverted to sounding something like Bob "Bobcat" Goldthwait and twitching like I had Parkinson's Disease.

My public speaking alter-ego:



If Hollywood were to make a movie of my two-day speaking with impact class, they would start with my awkward beginnings, and slowly, with each speech show gradual improvement. Something like the theme from Rocky would play in the background and there would be a montage of my highs and lows. On the day of the final presentation, I would start off with a stumble, overcome my mistake, and in the end deliver the most amazing speech ever. My classmates would give me a standing ovation, and my instructors would weep proudly and call me their best student ever.

Unfortunately, I live in the real world, so as I did make some baby steps in my public speaking abilities, it wasn't anything I'd actually call true improvement.

As the second day of class wound to a close, each of us were called on to comment about what we saw as strengths in one another. Coming up with accolades for my classmates was easy. Some had a gentle way about them and knew exactly when to pause so you were instantly captivated. Others were incredible in locking eyes with the audience, pulling you into their every word. Some mastered walking in a arch, others overcame saying um and like every other word. And then came my turn. I took a deep breath and waited in dread that I'd hear crickets chirping instead of accolades.

In the end, I was my worst critic. While I may be a nervous wreck in front of a crowd, my content remained strong and my sense of humor was well-received. The best moment was when I was christened with a new nickname...The Velvet Bulldozer. The nickname is not a reference to the pounds the "camera" was adding to my physique, but rather, as my classmate put it, if I could pull it together in the confidence arena to be more like the sassy, story-telling, funny Kristen at lunchtime, look out.

I don't know if the day will come where I'll ever feel that confident in front of a crowd, but I love the nickname nonetheless. I do know with every speaking opportunity, I will try a little harder, and I'll always think fondly of my own personal Breakfast Club.

Frozen Snot and Frostbite - My Week in Montreal

One never forgets the first time they experience frostbite.

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t really frostbite. My fingers didn’t turn black like those guys on the Discovery Channel show, Everest, but they certainly weren’t functioning right either

I blame this whole thing on my coworker Marcus. He works with me in our Montreal office and apparently has thick blood and skin that native Californians will never possess. Last night, it was about 8 degrees Fahrenheit outside and I was lamenting about my eight block walk back to my hotel. Marcus gave me a look that said “you silly, lazy American,” and then proceeded to tell me how he was planning to jog FIVE miles home in those conditions.

In other words, he totally one-upped me and to add insult to injury, he raised the stakes by jogging.

After thinking it over, I decided I’d show Marcus how tough I was. I wrapped my scarf around my neck tightly, donned a hat, buttoned up my coat, put on my gloves, and bravely walked out the door.

This, of course, was a mistake.

The first block was lovely. The streets of Old Montreal are dark, empty, and icy at this hour. It is oddly quiet for a big city and the silence just adds to the beauty. I realize Marcus might actually be on to something by commuting on foot. Yet, by the second block, my inner peace dissipates as I discover the evil powers of wind chill. And by block three it is all I can do not to cry out, “TAXI!”

No such luck. Walking meant I was committed to my choice – there isn’t a cab in sight. Block four brought on an entirely new inner dialogue. The air is so cold that my nose, which had been previously running, stopped dripping. Did that mean my snot just froze? Can snot freeze in your nose? Oh my god…could I have frozen boogers…IN MY NOSE!?!

Luckily, eight blocks go by quickly, especially when you’re focusing on not slipping on icy sidewalks and constantly worrying about snot ice cubes falling out of your nose.

The staff at my hotel is wonderful. After three days of Montreal mishaps, they now know this goofy California girl by name. Nick races to open the door for me and greets me with, “Ah, Ms. Pearce, come warm up by the fire.” I happily follow him and tell him stories about how our winter days tend to be about 50 degrees warmer. After stories of sunshine and a cocktail, I retreat to my room and don’t come out until the morning.

I wake up to a sunny and clear day that looks deceivingly warmer than the previous evening. I am wrong. It is now 6 degrees Fahrenheit and the clear skies, as I will learn later, only mean it is colder as there is nothing in the atmosphere but ice cold air. And the wind chill factor is something that defies explanation. The only comparison I can come up with is standing naked in a walk-in freezer while an airplane engine blasts you with cold air.

I consider a cab, but I’m only going to an office that is about six blocks away. Once again, I remember the expression Marcus gave me the night before and decide that I will walk, convinced it will make him proud of me when I see him later. The doorman questions my decision, but I tell him I’m tough and I’ll be walking. “Bye-bye! Good luck Madame,” he says with a smirk as I whimper when I'm immediately blasted by an icy burst of wind.

Dammit. Why am I doing this again? Oh yeah, foolish pride. I push onwards until I’m happily confined in the warm office walls.

At lunch time, I meet our PR team for a lunch meeting. This requires more walking. Somehow the walk to the restaurant doesn’t seem so bad, but it is the walk back, after leaving the warmth of the café where I was sitting right on a heater vent, that really gets me. I am joining my coworkers on the walk to the office that is farthest away. The wind is ripping right through my clothes. My left hand is gloved and tucked away safely in my jacket pocket; the other gloved hand is pulling my roller bag. I’m chatting with my coworker Shannon the entire way. She confirms that snot can indeed freeze in your nose. I pick up my speed, once again convinced snot ice cubes will begin shooting out at any moment. I’m so consumed with my thoughts that I’m not thinking about switching off hands to pull my bag. Although I’m wearing gloves, it is such an unfamiliar level of cold, I don’t realize I’m experiencing the first levels of frostbite until I make inside the office doors and have to sign in.

Suddenly, I can’t hold a pen. The last digits in my fingers are not working right and can’t grasp the pen. I scribble something that looks like my signature and push on. My fingers feel like ice cubes. Hmm…should I be concerned?

Ten minutes later, my fingers on my right hand are still numb. I use the ladies room and stupidly run my hands under hot water. The heat shoots pain up my hand as I silently scream and tears well up in my eyes.

Finally, the feeling returns in my digits and I rejoice in surviving my first harrowing experience with frostbite. I walk up to my workstation, which is situated across from Marcus. I tell him about my walk home the night before, how I walked to work and lunch, and melodramatically whine about the wind chill and the close call with frostbite.

“You don’t have frostbite Kristen,” he tells me, laughing at the absurdity of my comments and shaking his head at me. He didn’t even seem that impressed with my choice of walking.

What did I expect, sympathy? These are French Canadians and the winter cold doesn’t stop them from living. They've adapted to their environment in ways a California sissy like me could never imagine.

When I landed at SFO last night it was a positively balmy 46 degrees out - so warm that I walked outside to wait for a shuttle bus without my jacket on. I will never complain about a cold California day again.

The Mr. Sport Hotel

My family has a long history of infamous family vacation stories. There was the "Vegas Girls" incident where my brother Bryan, who couldn't have been older than eight at the time, found a magazine full of pictures of scantily-clad hookers wedged between the seat cushions in a VW camper bus my parents rented for our vacation. Bryan, already a man wrapped in the body of a young boy, responded to Vegas Girls with wide-eyes and a loud WOO-WOO! As the bratty older sibling, I did what most big sisters would do in the same situation...I immediately ratted on him to my parents. Mom quickly confiscated the magazine, much to the dismay of my brother. For the rest of that vacation, any time my mom and I would go off to do an activity on our own, my dad would joke he and Bryan would be around checking out Vegas Girls. I think Bryan is still mad at me for telling on him.

Then there was the "Peabody" incident at a Friendly's diner in Peabody, MA. My mom was writing out a traveler's check to a cashier for our meal and happened to ask what city we were in. The "helpful" cashier responded in a language that resembled something short of Martian, saying "Peabidee." My mom, baffled, asked her to repeat what she said, and once again received a curt "Peabidee!" Mom asked the cashier if she could spell out the town, which came out P-E-A-B-O-D-Y. My mom, relieved she wasn't losing her mind or her grasp of the English language, replied saying, "Oh, you mean PEA-BODY?" The cashier, obviously irked with my mother now, looked at her like she was some sort of idiot, and replied with a snort saying, "THAT'S WHAT I SAID! PEABIDEE!"

Clearly.

What brings up these incidents of the past is my current business trip to Vancouver, B.C. I arrived here yesterday for a work event and my company put us up at a fabulous hotel in the Yaletown District, called the Opus Hotel. By some accident, I was put up in an executive suite. The room is very modern, and has a living room area with the most comfortable couch, two plasma televisions, surround sound, a huge bathroom, iPod docking station, down comforter, heated bathroom floors, and a big, cozy terry-cloth robe. The room is loft-like with large windows that look out towards the water on one side, and out towards brick and glass buildings on the other side. Add a kitchen to this place, and I could call it home.

This is my third trip to Vancouver. I was here for a day last May when I left for Alaska on a cruise, but it is my first trip here, at the tender age of 16 that truly stands out to me. It is also the trip that introduced the Mr. Sport Hotel into my life and Khorge family vacation infamy. As I look at the luxury of this room, and compare it to the room we stayed in at the Mr. Sport, I knew I had to write about it.

The summer of 1990 was a big one in my life. This was the summer before my senior year in high school. It was also time to begin considering what college I would attend the following year. I didn't have a tragic high school experience, but I did know I wanted to get out of my hometown. When a brochure from University of Puget Sound arrived at my house, I was confident I had found my school of choice. It was small, brick and ivy, and it had a physical therapy program, which at the time, was what I thought I wanted to go into.

My parents decided we would travel to Tacoma, WA to check out the college. They mapped out a route that would take us to Eureka, CA to visit my aunt and uncle for a few days, and then continue up the coast of Oregon, into Washington to check out the campus, visit family who lived in Seattle, and eventually, our final destination would be Vancouver, B.C.

My uncle in Seattle had given my parents some ill-advice by telling them they need not worry about hotel reservations on this trip. My parents liked the idea - it allowed for some flexibility and freedom on the trip. Unfortunately, we were not the only family on this journey that summer, and every night became a terrible struggle of driving from town-to-town looking for a place to spend the night. I remember passing by what looked like happy families at Shiloh Inns, Red Lion Inns, Holiday Inns...swimming in heated pools and enjoying free HBO. In comparison, we were playing Bates Motel roulette nightly, staying a string of dumps. Only in Seattle, did we move on up to a deluxe accommodation, when we stayed at the downtown Westin and enjoyed panoramic views of the city to Mt. Rainer.

By the time we rolled into Vancouver, the northwest was experiencing an unusual heat wave. It was sweltering and after hearing nothing but whining from my brother and me, my parents were just trying to find a hotel with a swimming pool. We must have passed 100 NO VACANCY signs until we arrived at the Mr. Sport Hotel, which advertised air conditioning and a heated pool. Good enough! We pulled into the parking lot.

Note to self: if the hotel you are staying at markets itself to truckers with a "stay nine times and get the tenth visit free," immediately exit the premises. (We didn't of course). Mr. Sport spared no expense on decorating the lobby - it was just worn and tired with its olive hues and dark wood trim. A restaurant off the lobby offered stale pastry and sour orange juice served in red plastic cups as our daily free continental breakfast. The place smelled of stale cigarette smoke and Pine Sol. And the heated pool was a mere hole in the ground, surrounded by tall walls of the building that blocked the sun.

The rooms lacked character too. It looked like an episode of Miami Vice had thrown up with pale pastel walls, pastel comforters, and white lacquer furniture. I can't remember what was wrong with the air conditioning unit, but seem to recall it either not working or about to fall out the window.

Perhaps the finest feature of the Mr. Sport Hotel was proudly advertised in the elevator. On the weekends, the bar/lounge up front became a topless lounge. Imagine standing in an elevator as an overdeveloped in the chest 16-year-old girl, with a bunch of truckers, looking at XXX-lounge advertisements together.

Awkward.

The Mr. Sport has provided years of entertainment to my family. We still talk about it and laugh. I stole stationary from there and even send my brother a letter on it from time-to-time.

I looked online to see if the Mr. Sport still exists today, but I couldn't find a trace of it. Perhaps it has come and gone, but it will always live vividly in my mind.