Your Daily Dose of Randomness

Do not adjust your browser. That is really me sitting in perhaps the weirdest sandwich ever between country star Clint Black and cross-dressing basketball star Dennis Rodman.

I was sitting at the Markt Bar in Chelsea catching up with my friend Marc on Friday when we saw a three-ring circus erupting outside. A camera crew and crowd of spectators were watching as Rodman and Black went table to table looking for participants for the episode of a new television show they were taping. Marc and I watched, started making fun of the scene unfolding in front of us, and went back to our own conversation.

A few minutes later I look up and realize Rodman is sitting a bar stool away from me at the bar, ordering a drink. What are the odds? Rodman smiles, extends his hand, and asks (somewhat creepily) "What's your name?"

"Kristen," I respond calmly (having learned from the Ian Ziering Incident mishap). "How you doin' Dennis?"

Calm and cool, as if we'd been friends forever. No way was I scaring another celebrity away in terror.

"Great. We're doing this show and having a lot of fun." He pauses to sip his vodka cranberry and pushes the drink towards me. "This taste okay to you?"

I sip what appears to be a glass of vodka with a spash of cran for color more than use as a mixer. "Whoa nellie. Strong stuff you're drinking there Dennis!"

Again so smooth. That's how I roll...

I turn down Rodman's offer to buy me a drink as I have a car coming to take me to the airport within ten minutes. He looks hurt so I continue talking to him, asking about the show concept. As Rodman is explaining the concept, Clint Black walks over. Of course I couldn't name a Clint Black song if my life depended on it, but I happily exclaim to be a huge fan. I figured if pushed for favorite song specifics, I could pull a Sarah Palin and say I like all of them. (For the record I do know him for those legendary dimples...and I bit my tongue from making a smart comment about his height. In his boots and hat he's at least a solid 5'4. Shrimp!)

The guys were nice enough to let me pose with them. As soon as the photo was taken a member of the crew had me sign a release. I didn't realize it but most of my exchange was captured on camera. Not sure if I'll end up on the show...but I'll be keeping my eyes open for it to air.

It is not every day you find yourself sitting at a bar next to Dennis Rodman. This is me we're talking about however, so I suppose it was only a matter of time before my inner freak magnet would finally attract one of the biggest freaks in the world into my realm. Not quite sure how I will top this one, but knowing me, it will be glorious.

(Special thanks to Marc for capturing the moment on my camera!)

The Near-Crash Landing

It was a 50 minute flight from Athens to Mykonos, but we made it in 29 minutes.

I have flown some really sketchy flights over the years. When ATA (American Trans Air, or as I referred to it, Absolutely Terrible Airlines) was in business I had some memorable flights where the plane remained in one piece only by means of chewing gum and duct tape. And I’ve flown Delta more than once, so obviously I have reckless disregard for my life. I’ve heard landing gear make sickening sounds when it came down, crashes and booms that shouldn’t ever be heard at 30,000+ feet, not to mention witnessing emergency lighting come on with alarms blazing when I was over the Pacific – exactly halfway between SFO and Honolulu with no place for an emergency landing other than the shark infested waters below.

Yet in all my travels nothing (to date) will ever surpass the Olympic Airlines flight to Mykonos the other evening. Not only did we manage to scrape 21 minutes off the scheduled flight time, but we came down so hard that I’m positive the frame of the plane bent. As I prematurely breathed a sigh of relief for being on the ground, I realized the plane was struggling violently to stop. The grand finale came as we almost ran off the short runway (best optimistic guess is we had about 50 meters before we were an official crash landing).

Fun!

Tim slept from the moment he sat down on the plane but was jostled to life when we bounced upon impact. I had unfortunately woken up as we made a crazy 180 U-turn in the sky. I saw the small airport below and thought we seemed very high up to be attempting an approach in a Boeing 737. Yet the ground started to get closer and the landing gear came down (with a disturbing screech I might add).

Things operate a little differently here in Greece – aviation being at the top of the list. Little did I know that our near-crash landing would serve as a fitting metaphor for surviving Europe. I will write a blog later simply called "Danger" that will document the many near-death experiences encountered (particularly in Amsterdam). In a nutshell I've learned, what doesn’t kill you just didn’t try hard enough.

The Great London Indian Food Debacle

There are some major conflicts going on in the world right now, or at least from what I’ve been getting from CNN Europe.

The U.S. economy is going to hell, bombs are blowing up, war is waging.

Yet when I was in London a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a conflict that I’m not sure how resolve. A controversy so heated it brought grown men to exchange insults and sharp words on the very topic.

This could be none other than the battle of the old school London Indian food vs. the nouveau London Indian fusion food.

Laugh as you may, but the debate began when Dave took me to his favorite Indian restaurant in Soho called The Red Fort. I will admit it was expensive and not completely traditional but it was delicious. We had delectable tandoori tempura prawns, savory curried monkfish, and creamy saag aloo. It was a cold and rainy night and the warm food was the perfect cure for the gloomy weather outside.

The next day, when my London friends and coworkers heard I ate at The Red Fort, I was immediately mocked.

“HA! You paid too much,” said one.

“Next time you go out, let me join you so you can taste REAL Indian food,” scorned another.

I felt ashamed. Everyone knows you go to London for incredible Indian food. I thought I had, but was I out of my league? I have always considered myself a bit of a foodie being from San Francisco. At home I know good Indian food from the mediocre. Was it jetlag or simply a poor palate?

That evening I had a chance to taste “real” Indian food at the urging of my friend Martin. I’ve known Martin for almost a decade from when I started in visual effects software world. He moved back to the UK from the Bay Area several years ago and we’ve stayed in touch. He was one of my most severe Red Fort mockers so I was ready to belly up to the table and taste what Londoners consider the best.

Martin led us to a restaurant down a narrow Soho alley called The Palms of Goa. Immediately, my stomach growled in delight. At home, one of my dear friends, Joana, is from the Goa region of India and her mom is one of the most incredible cooks I know. Nothing bad could come from this experience.

And in truth, nothing bad did come from it. The food was warm, spicy, and rich, definitely more traditional and closer to what I’ve had at home in the States.

Now that I’ve tasted both it is time to come clean. If I had to give only one recommendation to someone going to London…

(I’m about to break many hearts and take a severe verbal lashing from friends and coworkers...)

I’d go back to The Red Fort.

I've died and gone to shopping heaven...

Um...Harrods.

I said HARRODS!!!

Oh my god. This place.

So expensive. So exquisite. So...Harrods.

I absolutely need to make more money. To buy more than what is contained in the bags below would mean having to start selling off a kidney to the highest bidder. But damn was it fun while it lasted!

London: Day 1

It has been 11 years since I last stepped foot in London and I'm not quite sure what took me so long to get back. I freakin' love this place.

My job takes me to exotic locales like Minneapolis and Dallas, so finding out I was going to travel to London and Amsterdam for work was a surprise and an honor. I would get to meet with colleagues in the UK and work at the IBC show in Amsterdam.

I left at 4:30 PM on Saturday and landed at Heathrow at 10:30 AM the next day. I had been wedged into an unfortunate prison, or what Virgin Atlantic considers coach accomodations. Upon landing I was cranky and sore, but within 30 minutes of clearing customs, I was off the Heathrow Express train and standing in Paddington Station. It is a pretty train station with its high metal framing, the crowds chaotic and frenzied. I smile at stalls stuffed full of Paddington Bear dolls, not unlike the one my Nana bought me when she vacationed in London when I was a child. I still have that doll somewhere. Wonder if Nana knew what a traveling gypsy she'd inspire in my later years when she bought me that little bear souvenir all those years ago?

My hotel, called the Courthouse, is in Soho and was...well, a courthouse in its former life (surprise!) Jail bars and cells line the hotel's bar. My room, while not large, is still one of the better rooms I've stayed in throughout my travels to Europe. And it is quiet. So quiet that I rest my head and nap for a few hours. I will later learn this is mistake.

Four, well, five hours later I awake part-woman, part-zombie. I meet my colleague Dave and we head to what will become a controversial dining choice - Indian fusion food at The Red Fort. I'll come back to this subject later, let's just refer to this topic as the great Londoner Indian food divide.

Back at the hotel, I get ready for bed only to find my nap from earlier in the day has killed any chance of me sleeping before 4 AM. Days later I will find the same to be true and my dependency on caffeine growing. And it will suck. But for now, I'm in London, red phone booths, double-decker buses, and cars on the wrong side of the road. Somehow lost sleep seems like a small price to pay for an opportunity to be here again.

Cleared For Take-Off

“Weren’t you just here?” asks the woman checking my bag at the Southwest counter. “It feels like I just saw you here last week.”

She’s close. It has been two weeks since I last flew out of Oakland, but wow. When someone who sees countless droves of people come through her line daily recognizes me out of thousands, you know you simply travel too much.

I’ve definitely been cleared for take-off.

Travel isn’t limited to work these days – I’ve had a summer of weekend warrior trips as well. I arrived home late yesterday afternoon and immediately began what is now accepted routine: unpack, do a load of laundry, and repack. I'm not going to lie to you, it is starting to take a toll.

To survive, you simply go on auto-pilot. My toiletry bag is never emptied, just restocked. I’ve found my favorite products in handy travel sizes. Clothes get stuffed in space bags to maximize my clothing options. My car practically drives itself to the Executive Lot in Oakland or Park SFO.

At security I’m considered an expert traveler. Liquids in my purse are always less than three ounces and remain in a plastic quart size bag even when I’m on land. I can tell you where the Peet’s Coffee stands are located at both SFO and OAK, as well as Wells Fargo ATM machines.
I own travel iPod speakers and don’t leave home without them so I can surround myself with one thing that reminds me of home, music. There isn’t any way to replicate my husband while traveling, and that is the hardest part of all.

It is a lonely life at times, a frustrating one at others. But mostly, it is exciting and I’m lucky to have a job that allows me the chance to travel to amazing places. Some days you just have to remind yourself this more than others.

A Whole New Meaning to Doing Business

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but considering the conversation was happening in the stall next to me, it was impossible to tune it out.

“I’m having a hard time with my father’s passing,” says the stranger, choking up on her words. “I mean, luckily I got to his house hours before he died, but I just wasn’t ready to say goodbye.”

She pauses to take a breath and hold back a sob, just as a chorus of toilets flushing shatters the moment. No one responds and she keeps talking.

The lull in conversation struck me as odd but was quickly answered when I saw the woman emerge from her bathroom stall, with pants still unbuttoned and a cell phone wedged rather uncomfortably between her ear and shoulder. All I could do was drop my jaw in disbelief. Why would you have a deeply emotional conversation about the passing of your father in a bathroom at the airport on a cell phone? And the kicker - doing this without a headset? Gross!

This morning I was at Oakland Airport when I heard a power meeting occurring a few stalls away from me. Once again, no headset, and an echo chamber of flushing and tooting. Do the folks on the other end not notice the sound? I mean, how can they not?

My esthetician tells me a great story about a client who gets bikini waxes while actively participating on conference calls. I'm not sure how you can conduct business in pain like that, but this woman does it fairly frequently. (Ouch!)

I’m baffled by this phenomenon of women doing their business and conducting business all at the same time. I know we live in a fast-paced world, but honestly ladies, the bathroom? Is there a topic ever so important it can’t wait a few minutes? My career puts me on the road quite frequently, and multi-tasking is a function of survival. Still, there is no topic matter, no work emergency, no problem so critical that it has to be conducted in a latrine.

Tangerine Skies Over The Hazy State

Hack! Cough! Wheeze…

Wildfires, 323 or so, are clogging my usually pristine Northern California air. Even though the closest fire is at least 100 miles away, blue skies that I once took for granted have been replaced with a thick yellow-gray mucousy haze. The days are nothing compared to the evenings when the sun begins to set and the heavens turns orange. Everything looks surreal in this electric tangerine glow. These conditions make for amazing sunsets and poor peak flow readings. (Asthma humor for those of you not in the know…)

My state (and lungs) are on fire, gas is $5 a gallon, temperatures are topping over 100 degrees today, and my house is devaluing faster than an aging French hooker. All we need now is an earthquake to top things off around these parts.

So slap on the SPF 80 and hang on folks! These days, I’m living the California dream…at least Lucifer’s version of it.

******************************

Besides the world being on fire, I guess I have some explaining to do about where I’ve been for the last couple of months. Earlier this year, my job responsibilities changed and my workload grew exponentially. In a nutshell, I’ve been buried and the blog fell to the bottom of the priority list – again.

There has been travel – lots of travel. March and April sent me to Vegas for tradeshows and conferences. On May Day I was in Venice (the Los Angeles version, not the groovy one with gondoliers in Italy), a week later, I was in the concrete jungle of Manhattan. The next week I visited our nation’s capitol for the first time ever, soaking in as much history as I could between work responsibilities.

On Memorial Day weekend I rewarded myself by staying home for a few days. We had our traditional hiking and oyster eat-a-thon out in Point Reyes with friends. June rolled in and Tim and I celebrated our ninth wedding anniversary with a getaway to the Sonoma wine country and the fabulous Kenwood Inn and Spa.

The next week it was back to the grind with work travel. A week in Santa Monica was made all the better with a convertible upgrade. There were five amazing days in Vancouver, British Columbia that consisted of well-attended events, nightly walks and runs around the Seawall to Stanley Park, and amazing Asian food. Most importantly, it was the last time I breathed in glorious fresh air.

All that travel brings me to last week when my company graciously shut down for a week. At first I found the forced vacation annoying, until I realized how completely exhausted I was. Six days in Tahoe has left me rested and content. I hiked, swam pain-free for the first time in three years, and even participated in retro roller skating night at Northstar Resort without breaking any body parts.

Life is good and as always, I have stories to tell.

The Ian Ziering Incident

“Hey Kristen, isn’t that the guy from Beverly Hills 90210?”

I turn to face Andrew who is shouting over Kelly Clarkson and her band as they perform live at the Motorola “Moto 9” party. I scan the crowd and see none other than Ian Ziering, also known as the Dancing With the Stars Z lister, moving his way towards the front of the stage.

I was a huge fan of Beverly Hills 90210 in my teens. In the early 1990’s it was the only must-see TV in my life, even though I grew up in a blue collar town and had little in common with the glamorous students of West Beverly High. I spent my summers with the gang at the beach and my evenings hanging out at the Peach Pit After Dark. I even followed them through the college years at the mythical California University.

Just like your high school experience...only different! The gang from West Beverly:


I never really cared for Ian Ziering’s character Steve Sanders on 90210. I thought he was a complete tool – one who drove a Corvette and sported a blonde afro/mullet to boot. I think the writers thought those attributes made him cool, but instead he looked like a guy having a midlife crisis with the sports car and wearing jackets with shoulder pads.

Exhibit A: The White Man Mullet'Fro...


Even with all that working against him, seeing Ian Zierling in the flesh changed everything for me. I just had to get my photo taken with him.

I plead with Andrew to help me in my mission. I start envisioning the possibilities this photo could create for me. A holiday card. Can’t you see it? Happy holidays from the Zierings. Oh, this is going to be really funny.

I spend the next 15 minutes strategizing on how to approach Ian to have our photo taken together. Could I be bold and approach him? Wait for him to walk by? Make Andrew do it for me? I begin wondering if a proper protocol exists for asking a Z lister to take a photo with you.

As I contemplate my next move, an opportunity for introduction presents itself. Ian begins making his way out of the crowd away from the stage, and as luck would have it, heads straight in my direction. I decide to just go for it and approach him. I step towards him and almost instantly our eyes connect. My heart starts racing and he smiles at me. This is going to happen! I continue stepping towards him, making sure not to trip and trying not to lose the eye contact. Everything is going to plan, at least until the moment I opened my mouth.

If this situation happened to anyone but me, the following things might have been said:

“Ian! I’m a huge fan of your work. Could I please take a photo with you?”

“You were AMAZING on Dancing with the Stars!”

“I’m a dying woman and my last wish is to take a photo with you.”

But alas, this is me we’re talking about, so think about what a jackass would say instead.

“AAAAAACCCCKKHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

I'm not sure of the proper spelling of the shriek that came out of mouth. The shrill tone startles me as much as it does Ian. To make it worse, I realize I am POINTING at him while I'm doing this. The pitch of my voice stops Ian in his tracks and pretty much anyone within a ten foot radius of the two of us. He continues to stare at me but his smile is gone, replaced with a concerned glance. Then his expression turns to one of fear, right before he turns and high tails it the opposite direction.

Mortified, I stand there frozen. Not only did I blow my chance for a photo opp, but I managed to scare the crap out of the guy, just by being me. What can I say? It's a gift...

I hear Andrew laughing his ass off behind me. “Kristen! What the hell just happened?” he taunts as he doubles over. I come back to my senses and join Andrew in the laughter.

What can I say Andrew? I guess you can say Steve Sanders and I shared a moment we’ll never forget.

How To Lose Three Months

Has it really been three months since I last wrote?

Wow. What the hell happened there?

I guess a recap is in order. Last time I wrote I was in Toronto kicking off a five week roadshow of the latest releases of the visual effects software I market. Within 36 hours of that event, I was in New York City for yet another roadshow stop. Tim flew out that Friday and we spent the weekend playing tourist and exploring the greatest city in the world.

Tourists at the Top of the Rock:



The following Monday, Tim flew West and I headed north to Montreal for a four-day marketing summit. On Friday, I boarded the ol' Air Canada Flight 761 back to SFO. For the first time in 12 days, I found myself back at home where I immediately collapsed on the couch, and spent the next four days unpacking, doing laundry, and packing up again.

On Halloween I flew to Dallas for another stop on the roadshow tour. My coworkers threw me one hell of a birthday party, taking me out for sushi and too many cocktails at the Ghostbar Dallas. I met costumed freaks and danced to my own beat as midnight ran in my 34th birthday. The night of my birthday we held our product demos, and the crew toasted me with champagne.

Note the size of the sake bottle...I'm amazed I remember my birthday!



Once again, I flew home on a Friday, collapsed on the couch, unpacked, did laundry, and repacked, as three days later I would be traveling to Los Angeles for the roadshow.

The roadshow ended in San Francisco on November 13th but although I was home, I didn’t get too comfortable. The following weekend I packed up another suitcase and headed to Las Vegas for my brothers’ surprise 30th birthday party. My brother was quite surprised when 17 freaks (including my parents) wearing Mexican wrestling masks screamed SURPRISE at him when he thought he was going to just have a quiet dinner with friends at the Pink Taco. Why were we wearing Lucha Libre masks? Why not? We spent three days playing in Vegas, going out for delicious meals at Nobu and Mesa Grill, catching a performance of Cirque du Soleil’s Love, and hitting the spa facilities at Canyon Ranch.

A family portrait to remember:



After returning from Vegas, I found myself adapting to a new reality - settling back into normalcy. I know it sounds crazy, but after spending six weeks with the same people, eating bad food and staying in strange hotels, you actually adapt to it. I’d even go as far to say I like it, sick as it sounds. I had to get back on a schedule and a healthier routine. I gained six pounds over six weeks. Eating out and not exercising took its toll, along with the friendly beer or two I found myself having with my coworkers. I rarely drink during the week and now I know why.

Thanksgiving was upon me before I knew it, a terrible time to try to get back into shape. Sigh! Still, life goes on. We took our nephew Andrew in for three days, his first sleepover at his aunt and uncles house. Tim and I had a blast taking him to the San Francisco Zoo (back before we knew going to the zoo was dangerous!)

RIP Tatiana the tiger...



Suddenly December was here. Changes at work meant for long hours in a time where work typically winds down. Christmas shopping became an afterthought as planning meetings and budgeting took center stage. A last-minute shopping frenzy took over the latter half of December, and before I knew it, it was Christmas Eve. Tim and I managed not to kill the family when we took on the cooking detail this year.

My company was closed between Christmas and New Years, so I took a few well-deserved days off. During this time I completely decompressed. Didn’t look at my Blackberry or email and just relaxed. Caught up on projects around the house, dinners with friends, as well as some much needed sleep.

When the clock struck midnight on New Years, we ran to the roof of a friend’s house in the Marina, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fireworks. We couldn’t see them from our vantage point, but settled on a show-stopping view of the Golden Gate Bridge instead.

January 2nd brought tough news this way. My left shoulder was still aching, even a year after surgery. MRI results pointed to fluid on my labrum, indicating a tear and a botched surgery. If my shoulder doesn’t heal naturally, I’ll be back in the operating room sometime late this spring or early summer to repair it. I have so many emotions here – anger, frustration, sadness. I don’t want to go through it again. It’s as simple as that.

After a week back in the office, I was off to four days of leadership training up in the wine country. Battling bronchitis, I managed to make it through the training exercises, push myself out of my comfort zone in terms of public speaking, and even made some new friends in the process.

Drinking the Kool-Aid and dressing snazzy at leadership training:



And that brings me to this week, where I just realized how easy it is to lose three months of your life in a blink of an eye. (And this recap barely scratches the surface!)

I don’t see my schedule freeing up anytime soon, but I’ll try to be more diligent about posting here more than every three months.