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November 25, 2007

Don't Fly Hungover

i'm typing to you, dear reader, from the Marriott in Anchorage, Alaska. I'm happy to report that--so far at least--there are no vampires on the hunt. And it's not even that cold--although I did almost take a tumble after slipping on some sidewalk ice.

But what I really want to talk about is why it is a stupid idea to imbibe several large glassfuls of vodka and orange juice on the night before a long flight. And because there are several reasons to enumerate, let me provide a list.

1. Because you will be unable to credibly defend yourself when someone says "you acted like an idiot last night". Even when you are sure that you only acted a little silly (but in a totally acceptable way), it's difficult to get the moral high ground.

2. Because you will fail to pack for your Arctic trip in a timely fashion, and will end up dragging yourself out of bed at 6 a.m. with only 45 minutes to find your long underwear, fleece sweaters, shell pants, etc., get them squished into a manageable size, locate toiletries (in case the barren Alaskan wilderness doesn't come with pint-sized shampoos), brush and comb your hair, collect your clothes from the floor and put them on in the dark. Because you don't want to turn on the light and disturb the sleeping boy still in bed. Although after commenting on your drunken state the night before, you may feel a strong compulsion to shine the light directly in his eyes and ask how HE'S feeling.

3. Because after rushing about, you will only at the last minute remember that you are supposed to bring a camera. And five minutes of scrambling around will result on precisely ZERO cameras being located. And you will end up in Alaska without any way to record vampire-sightings.

4. Because you will feel violently ill on the car ride to the airport, and may be so distracted by your churning stomach that you park in the lot at the wrong terminal, thus requiring you to take a shuttle bus that is so bizarrely hot and humid that it will take all of your willpower not to take rolling dive from the door simply to get a breath of fresh air.

5. Because after thinking that you've gotten past the worst of your horrible hangover and have managed to sleep for most of the flight from DC to Minneapolis, you will find yourself in the middle seat of the second-to-last row in a gigantic plane. You will be surrounded by college-aged hockey players who are also obviously suffering from hangovers (albeit in a bounce-back-I'm-19 sort of way), who will talk about girls and drinking and hockey for the next 6 hours.

6. Because when the pilot says "we are expecting some moderate turbulence on our approach into Anchorage", he is not fucking around. Dear reader, I assure you that there is nothing worse than being bounced around in the middle seat in the back of an airplane while the rustling of air bags is followed by a symphony of hockey-boy retching from all directions, including the seat three inches to your right.

7. Because once you finally touch down, it will still be thirty minutes until it's your turn to deplane. And during that thirty minutes, there will be no air circulation in the back of the plane, then hockey boys will have stopped vomiting long enough to find the whole thing hilarious (if in a slightly self-conscious way), and the odor will waft uncontrollably throughout the economy section.

In short, think twice before partaking in any pre-trip frivolities. No good can come of it.

Personally, I'm taking this advice to heart and sticking with diet coke tonight, since I have another two teensy planes to take tomorrow to get to my final destination. Once there, I hope to report back on adventures to include snowmobiling, dog sledding, Native American crafts, and a thorough lack of hungover hockey boys.

November 21, 2007

Why Life Is Better In 3D

Tonight I saw Beowulf with Mr. Pilot. We've been on a bit of a movie kick lately, seeing 30 Days of Night (note to self: trip to vampire-infested Alaska is coming next week!), American Gangster, and now Beowulf.

I had read the poem before. Twice, in fact--one translation in high school and the new (and much better) translation a couple of years ago. Hell, I'd even read Grendel. So I was pretty familiar with the storyline, which was good because some of the accents...if you can call imaginary-with-a-hint-of-Scandinavian brogue an accent...were a bit tough at the beginning. There were great action sequences, a ridiculous amount of almost-male-nudity, and of course Angelina Jolie's gold-painted breasts. What's not to like?

But what I really want to talk about here is the fact that we saw the movie in 3D. Mr. Pilot in his infinite wisdom had assured me that 3D movies were the wave of the future and that "James Cameron has said he will never make another film in 2D!!" Take that, Titanic.

I was a bit skeptical and grew even more so during the previews, which featured a very unfortunate 3D rendering of Brendan Fraser dashing about like a madcap fool. Avoid it at all costs, I tell you. And frankly, the other 3D previews weren't that great either. So it was with some reluctance that I settled back in the chair as the opening credits rolled.

Dear reader, it was so fun! Yes, there were parts of it that were a bit overdone and a few clichéd moments that reminded me of Jaws 3 (in a bad, bad way). But overall it was SO worth it. And I can even admit to myself that with a little more experience and finesse, I can indeed see 3D as the wave of the future.

Obviously, the main downside is that seeing such a movie takes this...

...and turns it into this:

Actually, I kind of rock the geek look.

November 19, 2007

How to Host an Orgy

(It has come to my attention that my dad may read this blog. Starting today, I will endeavor to use more explanatory titles so that he—and my other delicate readers—can exercise judgment about whether to continue on…I assume that today's title is self-explanatory enough, no?)

So last week started like any other. Working on the Big Idea, having lunch with friends, a few IMs—and then all of a sudden I had 18 hours to pull together an orgy. Go figure.

As you might imagine, I was wracked with indecision. What is the optimum time to begin an orgy? What kind of alcohol should be served? Should prophylactics be prominently displayed on the coffee table, or hidden away in a drawer? Would people want snacks?*

It was a weekday, and so I had limited time at my disposal. I took care of the immediate requirements—shaving my legs, going to the liquor store, swinging by the Whole Foods for some last-minute groceries, etc. The major stuff taken care of, I wandered around the block full of ambiguity. Then, it came to me in a flash, and I dashed to the spa and got a pedicure—completely neglecting to save time to vacuum the New Place. It was later pointed out to me that, in an orgy situation, few people are looking at your toes whereas the cleanliness of your carpet is of the utmost importance.**

* 10 p.m., wine and vodka, on the coffee table, no.

** That's not true at all. In an orgy situation, you could be stuck to the floor with gum and not notice it.

November 11, 2007

Realizations

One – Mr. Amazing is not so amazing after all. Actually, he probably is and I'm just too warped to appreciate it. Regardless of whether he was too clingy or I am afraid of emotional intimacy, in the end it was not a match. What's weird is that I'm pretty sure I could have gotten him to propose by now, if I'd just put in a little effort. Which I was apparently unwilling to do.

Two – I am dating Janie. I pick her up, take her out for a meal and a movie, and then drop her back off at home. If I'm lucky, I get a kiss goodnight.

Three – I am insane. Compare for instance, insanity's definition "doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome" to my recent foray into listening to my iPod while in the bathtub and being surprised when the earphones fell into the water.

Four – When I think about the Big Idea's long-term growth opportunities, I would rather be a manager than a worker bee. Right now I am doing both parts, and it's fabulous to realize that there actually *is* a path forward that doesn't necessarily involve me working 20 hours a day as the president, analyst, and janitor.

Five – Getting a housekeeper is money well spent.

November 04, 2007

Keeping Me Awake at Night

ATTENTION READERS:

Back around 1990 there was a song with the chorus line "I got nothing but love for you (baby)" or something similar. It was performed by someone in like LL Cool J, or Tone Loc, or someone similar. It was kind of upbeat, but still mellow.

Does anyone remember this song? Ms. Pleasant Mornings remembers it vaguely, but our Google searches have revealed nothing more than a crappy Chris Brown song by the same name. I can't tell if it's a remake, or something atrociously new. But it's driving me crazy.

Anyone? ANYONE??

PS - San Diego is glorious and if I hadn't just bought a New Place I would be moving out here next week.

November 03, 2007

Manifest Destiny

When I got off the plane in San Diego yesterday, I was filled with a wave of nostalgia. There was the gate where I almost missed my flight back to grad school after the love of my life broke my heart. There was the airport hallway where I first saw Janie when she was just two months old and still a bit purple and wrinkly. There was Grape Street where that cool architectural salvage store still is. There was the Coronado bridge, and there was the restaurant where I was almost proposed to. There is the beach where the Navy SEALS run around doing their Navy SEAL thing. There is the sunshine that always makes me feel happy.

I lived in San Diego for just under a year, in between college and graduate school. I was ridiculously young--just 20--and I had no idea what I was going to do with my life. I had a liberal arts degree but no skills, and I ended up working as a random office person at a small local company whose product I still am unclear about. I didn't really have any local friends outside of the social circle acquired through my boyfriend (the aforementioned love of my life). I knew I didn't want to be in the Pacific Northwest anymore, missed my friends in DC, but had nothing pulling me back in that direction. When I was offered a chance for a free ride to grad school back East, I jumped at it. That was nine years ago, and aside from visiting my family I few times immediately afterwards, I hadn't been back to San Diego since.

It didn't really occur to me when I booked this trip that I would be coming back to a place with deep personal significance. Thus I was surprised to feel bursts of emotion—ranging from general amusement to bittersweet longing and throbbing anger—at every turn. And so for the last 24 hours I have been caught up in remembering the person that I was back then. I remember her as being much nicer, more open, and more generous with her feelings. But she was also aimless, restless, and dramatic. In short, she was a girl who graduated from college too early, when she should have stuck around another two years and grown up a bit.

Not that I regret the choices I made (or allowed to be made for me). After all, the chances that life would turn out this way—having a thriving business in a cutting-edge field—were so astronomically small that it could only have happened through the combination of all those small decisions along the way. I think I probably would have stayed close to my family, and stayed connected with my friends—but the career part of my life was a total fluke and I have to be grateful that it all spun out the way that it did.

All of this history makes it very strange to be here—at a conference on growing a small business—because it's forcing me to not just be retrospective in my ponderings, but also to look forward. For the last six months I've been struggling with the Big Idea and where I see it going. For the first two years, I just wanted to see if I could do it and not starve (or live off of my ever-patient parents). And now that I've achieved those milestones of industry credibility, financial solvency, and personal respect...well, I'm just not quite sure what the next step is. But being at this conference, and being challenged with some great information and thought-provoking questions, the way forward is becoming a little clearer.

At least on the career front. When I look back at what made my life meaningful when I lived here (being totally and completely in love with someone), the way forward looks pretty empty. As much as I have grown in the past nine years, I think my capacity for true intimacy has shrunk. And if I'm honest about where I'm putting my time and energy these days, it's not in the “emotional development” arena.

Of course, when I am rich and successful and sitting on my yacht in the San Diego sunshine, I might not care. And if you promise not to talk about your feelings, I might invite you along.

November 01, 2007

You Can't Be Serious

Can anyone guess where I am? Go ahead, take a wild stab in the dark. No really. DO IT.

If you guessed "sitting at Gate C12 at Dulles because your flight to San Diego was returned to the gate for a replacement oil filter, causing a 90 minute delay that screwed up your connection in Denver, thus causing you to rebook on a flight via San Francisco that will arrive a full four hours later than planned" you are right!

I could not be less pleased. If you were to see me right now, you would marvel at my seemingly peaceful demeanor. And why not, since I'm about ready to collapse from exhaustion having left from my house at 4 a.m. to make my supposed 6 a.m. flight.

But you would be wrong. So wrong. Under this veneer of calm bubbles a seething cauldron of rage, kept in check only via a solid internet connection, a Starbucks latte, and a suspicion that throwing a fit (however deservedly) might get me removed from the airport permanently. And I will make it to San Diego, mark my words.

All I can say is that my bag better be waiting for me when I arrive. Although really, with my luck, I'm basically preparing myself to replace everything from the airport gift shop. Because nothing says "I'm a classy professional" like an "Witness Protection Program: You Don't Know Me" sweatshirt.