Day One: Cautionary

Okay, so I have just literally fled, I do mean literally, the hospitality suite at the hotel where many of my coworkers and industry contacts are boozing it up. I'm one of the planners, a representative of "authority" - it's my job to order everyone to show up for mandatory breakfast at 7:00 a.m. - and I want to party it up just as bad as anybody else... I think the worst part is that everyone can clearly tell that I was made for partying, not for ordering perfectly innocent coworkers out of their beds at an ungodly hour!

And yet - and this is where, I'm not trying to be too immodest, but this is where my actual superpower comes in - I genuinely understand why we have all the fugly stickly regulations, and am prepared to defend them, sympathetically, until everyone else understands them just as well and follows them voluntarily, no matter how much rum they had tonight.

But first I have to perform a James-Bond-esque escape from the hospitality room, trying desperately not to spill my Sprite, zig-zagging down the corridor, reaching the elevator scarcely ahead of my laughing pursuers, and punching the button for my floor repeatedly until the doors close, I heave a sigh of relief, and find my way back safely to my room. Don't answer the phone!!!

Highlight of the day, earlier: dinner at a lake house and boating on the lake, courtesy of the host CVB, went to hell when the boat ran out of gas in the middle of the lake, stranding a dozen of our attendees. I feel bad for the CVB, who did indeed double-and-triple-check with the boat rental company that they had a full tank. Certainly not the CVB's fault. Nothing trumps rampant incompetence. Nothing. Do you hear me? Write it down! You really might need to remember it later.

Tomorrow I have an exceptionally early morning, and no business being awake this late. So good night, sweet, reader(s) - and tomorrow is another day! I brought running shoes for the hospitality room.

Say What?

My boss and I went to a hospitality industry mixer after work. Once more we suffer from our agency's insistence on acting like an irreproachable, holier-than-thou goody-goody: the mixer was a wine-tasting. We are not allowed to drink while representing the agency.

We also can't put our business cards in the jar for the door prizes. We did accept, upon leaving, one small jar each of a local seasoning our host is famous for - I hope it doesn't cost us our jobs!

Alcohol really does help, I find, in social settings; without it, I'm too shy to chat up strangers. My boss and I make the obligatory greetings to our hosts, with whom we are at least slightly acquainted. But they have to make the rounds of the room, and can't stand around talking to us all evening. Mostly, she and I talk to one another.

There was someone else there from our agency tonight, who works in a different area. She came and talked to us for a while. She's making a business trip to our hosts' city next month, and talked about how much she's looking forward to it. "I'm so glad," she said to my boss, "you suggested I sleep with the head of the CVB before going out there - he really has helped me out a lot!"

"Oh, good!" says my boss calmly, somewhat to my surprise, as it doesn't seem at all like the sort of thing she'd suggest. "I thought he'd be a lot of help, so I'm really glad that worked out for you."

And at about that point I realized our coworker had said "speak." My boss had suggested she speak with him. Oooooohhhhhhhhhhhh.

Reality has been badly enough out of whack lately as it is.

Martinis Add Up Fast

Okay. Say you drink three martinis at break, and break lasts fifteen minutes and you go twice a day, right? That's six martinis a day. But if you're drinking martinis at break, you can't very well not have them at lunch; and an hour's lunch break, being four times as long as a fifteen-minute break, entails drinking twelve martinis. Say you have another fifteen at dinner - otherwise you'll just run out of steam - and of course, you really should have one or two at breakfast to warm up. So you drink approximately 35 martinis a day, more if you like a nightcap before bed.

What? It's good for you. Puts hair on your chest.

The reason I bring this up (in case you thought it was completely random) is that, riding back from lunch in my boss' car this afternoon, I saw Andrew waiting to cross South Congress. Andrew used to work in my agency, and though he's long since left, the building where he works now is only about a quarter of a mile away. "Oh my gosh!" I shouted, waving frantically out the car window, "it's Andrew! Hey! Andrew!"

He didn't see me, but my boss' curiosity was piqued. "We used to work together," I explained, "but he left quite a while ago. He's one of the members of the three-martini break group."

"Three-martini break group?!" exclaimed my boss, somewhat alarmed, because this isn't in my job description.

"Well, I don't take three-martini breaks now," I added hastily, "being busy and all. And there were about ten of us back in those days, and now there are only two, so between us we really only get in a few sips."

"I see," she said.

Well, of course she really didn't, but I think if I present the statistics above for her consideration, she might give me a raise. I'll obviously need it to be able to pay my gin bill.

The Wedding

That, my friends, was a wedding.

I have had so much fun over the past few days, and only wish it could have been longer; still there was enough sheer enjoyment packed into a roughly 72-hour period to last me a while. Visiting with my father and stepmother (only not enough), enjoying philosophical conversation with my aunt Kalista (only not enough), spending some time with my cousin Gretchen and her adorable little toddler boy and her mom, my aunt Adair (only not enough), hanging out with my very cool cousins Ivan and Irene (the bride) and meeting Irene's husband's wonderful family - only not enough!

Ivan and I marveled over last night's happenings this morning, as we strolled through downtown Chestertown, Maryland sipping coffee from a local coffeehouse. "I've never been to a wedding where the dance floor filled up so quickly before," said Ivan.

"I've never been to a wedding that got busted up by the cops before," I added.

Not that it actually got "busted up." One cop arrived. And what he thought he was doing, I'm not sure - the farm where the wedding was held wasn't in earshot of anyone else, and it was obviously an elegant affair - the tent, the linens and glassware on the tables, the bottles of wine - although it was pretty late, most of the remaining guests were now hanging out by the bonfire, except for two or three who were cartwheeling naked through the moonlit field.

I said it was a wedding.

If he'd been a British copper, he'd have shouldered his way in proper "what's-all-this-then" fashion; but only being a yokel from rural Maryland, he did the best he could: shone a flashlight into the perfectly well-lit tent, said rudely that any noise was too much noise at 1:30 in the morning, and then left. Whatever; the party had moved out into the field by then anyway, there was still plenty of wine, and we all thought it was screamingly hilarious. "Did you see what a stupid hat he had on?" asked Ivan.

The wedding itself was quite amazing. My cousin Irene is beautiful, gracious, funny, and altogether wonderful; and if you want to know what kind of person she is, she is the kind of person who can simultaneously finish her dissertation for her Ph.D. at Yale (last Wednesday!) and plan the kind of wedding that makes you proud to be a member of the human race. She's half-Vietnamese; her husband, from Johannesburg, is half-Zulu and half-Sutu; they live in Brooklyn now, and their friends, the wedding guests, are from everywhere. The union of the two families is like a symbol of world peace, understanding, and common humanity. I wish I had better words to describe it.

But it was unquestionably modern. "I am a gender activist," said one of Tumelo's aunts, giving a toast at the reception, "so we did not sing many of the traditional wedding songs." In the old tradition, the new bride, as the junior female member of her new husband's family, waits on everyone - rises early, sweeps the floor, chops wood to build a fire to make tea for her husband's parents, and in general gets stuck with all the dirty work until someone newer comes along. Tumelo's female relatives happen to find this attitude a little sexist. Everyone applauded.

I have to say, I drank a lot this weekend. When I arrived at the farm Friday night, after a 4+ hour layover in Newark, and an hour and a half drive from BWI, Irene offered me whiskey. Fortunately, she then offered wine instead. Saturday night I accepted some, but couldn't muster the courage to take more than a couple of sips of it; several friends were over, and when one of them broke out the wine, I cheerfully poured my whiskey into poor Ivan's glass and had that instead. Last night, at the wedding, I got drunk. On wine. It was an outdoor wedding, and I think some very small bugs might have gotten into my wine. What the hell, I drank them. Everything was wonderful!

Then, this morning, there was a brunch at a historic hotel in Chestertown, with its ripply old brick sidewalks, stately houses and storefronts, and heavy overhanging trees - so picturesque! And we discovered that it's true, a Bloody Mary really does help with a hangover. Who knew? (Aside from everyone but me, apparently.)

On the other hand, because Irene and Tumelo and their immediate families only eat fresh, organic, wholesome food, I ate better over this past weekend than I ever do, and I feel rather wonderful actually.

I left a little later than I meant to, but made it to the airport and through security just in time to rush aboard my flight and make it safely home, via Houston instead of Newark this time, which is better. Newark has extremely long lines on the taxiway just to take off. I disapprove.

We're doing it all again, because Irene and Tumelo are having a second ceremony in Johannesburg in 2010. Bring your dancing shoes!

Take a Hike, Ike

So says a good friend of mine in Corpus - a former coworker who is now wrapped up, as am I, in emergency preparations.

How funny. Friday evening I met a woman through someone else I used to work with. He and I were not in the tourism industry when we worked together; he still isn't, but his new coworker, attending the party Friday night, is. And it turns out that she and I are involved in a project together. Funny to find myself at a party with a drink in my hand, talking to a stranger I met through someone I used to work with in an entirely different industry, suddenly on the job.

So I'm glad I hadn't found the margarita machine yet.

My Corpus friend worked for the same soulless marketing firm I did, but is now part of a non-profit aid organization. The soulless marketing firm was travel-related. I got my current job largely on the strength of that experience.

All in all, I'm just struck with the way these tangled threads keep weaving together, and how often they seem to lead you back to a common place. Doesn't it make you wonder? Maybe you really can't go back in time and become your own grandfather. I hope this doesn't put a damper on your vacation plans. Might I suggest a trip to San Angelo instead?

Maybe the universe is just too densely interconnected to be able to change history. Or maybe you were always meant to become your own grandfather in the first place, sort of a houndstooth-check in the grand tapestry of the cosmos. Who knows?

Life is full of mysteries. The only thing I'm absolutely sure of is that it's a very, very bad idea to make fun of Florida on your blog. Especially if you work in the tourism industry.

Drink Bacardi Like It's Your Birthday

To make a mojito, first put several sprigs of mint and two slices of lime in a glass, and muddle them with a - a muddler, I guess. It's a longish implement with a spiked, flat piece at the end, and you use it to squish the limes and the mint together and get the juice out of them. I guess you could also use a meat tenderizer, but you'd have to have really good aim.

Then fill the glass with ice and add a dash or two of sugar syrup and a shot or two of Bacardi. Top it off with club soda and voilà! you've got yourself a pretty tasty drink.

To make potato salad, boil the potatoes about five minutes longer, use more onion, and don't forget to thin the dressing with a bit of vinegar so it's more piquant and not so goopy. Otherwise, perfect.

To make drunken conversation with a stranger in your friend's backyard pool, try to avoid the subject of death.

It was late, and Robbie and several of Diane's other guests had already left. Tony and his friend Larry, Diane's husband Mark, and a few other people were lounging idly in the water. A fine sprinkling rain had begun, and the sensation of tiny droplets of cold water on my face contrasted deliciously with the warmth of the pool. It was full dark out. Another party guest remarked that we weren't so bright, swimming around during a rainstorm - we were just asking to be struck by lightning.

"What are you talking about?" laughed Mark, "it's not thundering."

"It's raining," pointed out the swimmer.

"Yes, but it's just a little rain, there's no storm," said Mark.

"I'm more worried about dying of cancer," I said.

My fellow party guest was taken aback. "Why would you worry about that?" he asked.

"Well, it just seems like the most likely thing to kill me," I reasoned. "Well, that, or I get cut up into pieces and stuffed into the trunk of some stalker's car."

"Cut up into pieces?!" he repeated, sputtering slightly. "Where on earth did that come from?"

"It could happen," I said.

"The trunk of a car??"

"Well, not loose, of course," I clarified, "I'd probably be in a plastic bag."

"No offense," he told me, "you're fine, and all, but that seems very unlikely."

"Oh, you don't have to be super fine to have a stalker," I said, "there are plenty of crazies to go around."

"I want out of this conversation," he said.

To impress men, just shut up and drink your Bacardi.

At the Horseshoe Lounge

From the ladies' room wall:

You should make friends with your vagina. Especially if you have a fat-ass for a husband. Did you know that the clitoris and surrounding tissue have way more nerve endings than the entire penis? It could be your new best friend (and save you from a lifetime of sexual misery). p.s. It is possible for a woman to pee standing up. Practice in the shower. It's super fun!

It's the "It's super fun!" part that makes this quote truly great.

Getting Nailed

At Cuba Libre, on Thursdays, from 5 till 10 pm, you can get a martini and a manicure for $10. The martini by itself is $5. The manicure is, well, a $5 manicure.

Don't go with a guy friend. I went with Cheryl's Bitch. If you're having your nails painted, ladies, you get the old polish removed (sort of), a very cursory filing and buffing, a base coat and two coats of colored polish, then a quick squirt of cuticle oil on each finger.

Cheryl's Bitch got lotion, buffing, cuticle treatment, and a hand massage, and even though we sat down at the same time, I had to wait for him at least five minutes after I was done. And the beauty salon is supposed to be a woman's domain. It's so unfair!

It sounds glamorous, but there's something very sordid about getting your nails done: all the half-full bottles with dried polish caked around the caps, the damp folded towel under your hands, the bright fluorescent lights, the bored nail technician, who is authorized by her position to bark at you not to mess up your nails when she's done. You slink away from her station, chastened, taking exaggerated care not to touch anything with the fragile works of art she's wrought upon your fingertips.

In short, you kind of need the martini. It helps.

But what I really came away wondering is, what kind of drink would be offered with a pedicure?

Truth Hurts

There's a reason you usually have happy hours for people who are leaving a job, rather than starting one. It's because employers tend to frown on a new employee asking to work from home after only two days.

My cheeks are still tingling from the smack Robbie gave me last night, and he didn't slap me in the face. And Tony! Who'd have thought the guy had so many hands?! Come to think of it, maybe I'm the one who needs to be working from home.

True friends are the people who tell you what you don't want to hear, but need to face, and who wipe up your tears afterwards. And if they then get you falling-down drunk, tenderly minister to the resultant injuries, and cap the evening by dirty-dancing with you, well, what more could a girl ask for?

I was going to post a picture of what I did to my knee last night, but it's really gross. My toe is all bloody, too. That's nothing compared to how barked up my heart is, and oh, this morning, my head... But time, friends, sleep, Tylenol, coffee, extensive therapy, and Neosporin heal most wounds.

Hopefully Tony will show up to work Monday.