Another hot summer night, unusual for the Bay Area. Still, hot, exciting. Earthquake weather. I feel alive for the first time in awhile.
Is this a metaphor for life? I feel like something major is about to happen. Can't put my finger on it yet, but change is in the air. What does it all mean?
The possibilities are delicious...and I can't wait to see what unfolds.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
An Evening With Night Ranger
The muscle shirt. Once a staple of the 1980's then mocked, but tonight, resurrected like a phoenix rising from the ashes at the Sonoma-Marin Fair in Petaluma.
Only one occasion could bring back this fashion statement. It had to be something monumental. And it was. Night Ranger.
Continuing our annual tradition of catching one-hit wonders at county fairs, Joana and I set off tonight to attend what might honestly be the prize-winning event in almost a decade of summer concerts. I entered with zero expectations and instead was rewarded with so much.
Let's recap the evening:
1) The county fair: I wasn't even 30 seconds into the fairgrounds when I saw a booth selling wine coolers. I mean in the Bartels & James era, that was one thing, but in 2009? This was truly going to be an evening to remember.
Nachos and a wine cooler please!
2) The food: A vegetarian's nightmare. Spits of shiny over-roasted beef, corn dogs, turkey legs...food you would never actually eat unless you are either a caveman or at a county fair. Tonight's favorite find, Big Jim's Monster Dogs - a supersized corn dog. You know, because a normal sized one is never really enough. Deep fried Twinkie sold seperately.
Beef...it's what's for dinner:
Eat lots of these and you'll end up with a name like "Big Jim"
Mmm...mmm...turkey leg!
3) The fashion: Where to begin? From tie-dye to Texas tuxedos (denim on denim), this fair really had it all. Men preferred jorts (jean shorts), ladies seemed to favor the elastic waist capri pant. Camouflage prints and American flag apparel were also all the rage. Last but hardly least, the muscle shirt. Oh how we missed you. Good to see you back!
Camo hats and GQ sweatshirts over shoulders...
Who said fringe jackets are out of style?
A vision in tie dye...
4) The hair: Big, bleached, mulleted, pony-tailed, frizzy and spiky. I fit in perfectly.
Equally bad hair. Mine is just less mullet-y...
So sexy!
My hair wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the time...
5) The music: It's NIGHT RANGER! Do I even need to say anything more? A few things to note about this experience...
a) Trust me on this. You actually know more Night Ranger songs than you'll ever care to admit
b) It is absolutely impossible not to start singing "Sister Christian" along with the band.
"Motoring..."
c) I'm going to get railed for this, but, they kind of don't suck
Sonoma-Marin Fair. You had me at wine coolers. I only wish I was around this weekend to see the spectacle of Bret Michaels performing on stage.
Only one occasion could bring back this fashion statement. It had to be something monumental. And it was. Night Ranger.
Continuing our annual tradition of catching one-hit wonders at county fairs, Joana and I set off tonight to attend what might honestly be the prize-winning event in almost a decade of summer concerts. I entered with zero expectations and instead was rewarded with so much.
Let's recap the evening:
1) The county fair: I wasn't even 30 seconds into the fairgrounds when I saw a booth selling wine coolers. I mean in the Bartels & James era, that was one thing, but in 2009? This was truly going to be an evening to remember.
Nachos and a wine cooler please!
2) The food: A vegetarian's nightmare. Spits of shiny over-roasted beef, corn dogs, turkey legs...food you would never actually eat unless you are either a caveman or at a county fair. Tonight's favorite find, Big Jim's Monster Dogs - a supersized corn dog. You know, because a normal sized one is never really enough. Deep fried Twinkie sold seperately.
Beef...it's what's for dinner:
Eat lots of these and you'll end up with a name like "Big Jim"
Mmm...mmm...turkey leg!
3) The fashion: Where to begin? From tie-dye to Texas tuxedos (denim on denim), this fair really had it all. Men preferred jorts (jean shorts), ladies seemed to favor the elastic waist capri pant. Camouflage prints and American flag apparel were also all the rage. Last but hardly least, the muscle shirt. Oh how we missed you. Good to see you back!
Camo hats and GQ sweatshirts over shoulders...
Who said fringe jackets are out of style?
A vision in tie dye...
4) The hair: Big, bleached, mulleted, pony-tailed, frizzy and spiky. I fit in perfectly.
Equally bad hair. Mine is just less mullet-y...
So sexy!
My hair wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the time...
5) The music: It's NIGHT RANGER! Do I even need to say anything more? A few things to note about this experience...
a) Trust me on this. You actually know more Night Ranger songs than you'll ever care to admit
b) It is absolutely impossible not to start singing "Sister Christian" along with the band.
"Motoring..."
c) I'm going to get railed for this, but, they kind of don't suck
Sonoma-Marin Fair. You had me at wine coolers. I only wish I was around this weekend to see the spectacle of Bret Michaels performing on stage.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
The Day Rickey Henderson Said "You're #1"
I haven't felt like writing in awhile, but I just saw something on Letterman that made me giggle and want to post.
On tonight's Top Ten list, newest members of the National Baseball Hall of Fame, Rickey Henderson and Jim Rice presented the list for "top ten highlights of my hall of fame baseball career."
The presentation was hilarious and it brought me back to the last time I saw Rickey Henderson play baseball. I want to say it was 1999 and Rickey Henderson was back playing for the Met's. We were sitting with friends at Candlestick Park way out in the bleachers and had seats fairly close to the field. I had worked for the Giants in my youth and was a diehard fan. My husband was a huge Oakland A's fan. Our friends were from Los Angeles and didn't care for either team playing, at least until one of them got a little buzzed from excessive beer consumption in the sun. Then his attention turned directly to Rickey Henderson.
"HEYYYYYYY RICKEY! You sack of shit. Gonna catch that thing?"
Know when you're out somewhere public and you see someone acting like an idiot? This was our friend. He was THAT guy. And he wouldn't stop. Every chance Rickey was in the outfield, our friend would stand and scream something mortifying.
"COME ON OLD MAN! Hey Rickey...FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCK YOU!"
With each comment I sunk deeper into my chair. I was an usher for the Giants in high school and knew it was only a matter of time before security was called and we'd be escorted out of the park.
The taunting continued for what felt like an eternity, and although I tried, our friend wouldn't stop. Rickey took the abuse for several innings, but finally something was said that crossed the line. At that moment, Rickey turned to face us and proceeded to flip us off, causing the crowd around us to roar in laughter.
My husband pointed out that this would one day be a historical moment. He said something to the effect that we were just flipped off by a future hall of famer. That prediction is now true nearly a decade later and I'll never forget the day Rickey Henderson told us to fuck off.
On tonight's Top Ten list, newest members of the National Baseball Hall of Fame, Rickey Henderson and Jim Rice presented the list for "top ten highlights of my hall of fame baseball career."
The presentation was hilarious and it brought me back to the last time I saw Rickey Henderson play baseball. I want to say it was 1999 and Rickey Henderson was back playing for the Met's. We were sitting with friends at Candlestick Park way out in the bleachers and had seats fairly close to the field. I had worked for the Giants in my youth and was a diehard fan. My husband was a huge Oakland A's fan. Our friends were from Los Angeles and didn't care for either team playing, at least until one of them got a little buzzed from excessive beer consumption in the sun. Then his attention turned directly to Rickey Henderson.
"HEYYYYYYY RICKEY! You sack of shit. Gonna catch that thing?"
Know when you're out somewhere public and you see someone acting like an idiot? This was our friend. He was THAT guy. And he wouldn't stop. Every chance Rickey was in the outfield, our friend would stand and scream something mortifying.
"COME ON OLD MAN! Hey Rickey...FUUUUUUUUUUCCCCK YOU!"
With each comment I sunk deeper into my chair. I was an usher for the Giants in high school and knew it was only a matter of time before security was called and we'd be escorted out of the park.
The taunting continued for what felt like an eternity, and although I tried, our friend wouldn't stop. Rickey took the abuse for several innings, but finally something was said that crossed the line. At that moment, Rickey turned to face us and proceeded to flip us off, causing the crowd around us to roar in laughter.
My husband pointed out that this would one day be a historical moment. He said something to the effect that we were just flipped off by a future hall of famer. That prediction is now true nearly a decade later and I'll never forget the day Rickey Henderson told us to fuck off.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
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!)
Saturday, September 20, 2008
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
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!
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.
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.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
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.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
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.
“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.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, February 29, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, January 18, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, October 15, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, September 10, 2007
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.
(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.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, August 27, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
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?
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?
Monday, July 23, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, June 25, 2007
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.
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.
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