Caterwauling

Zen martini — the only zen I’ll get this week

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

So, I’ve been on a safari in the wilds of a southern state.

Not that I left the hotel. Of course, it was 29 degrees in a place that’s lined with palm trees, so I really didn’t miss much.

The drink (pictured) is called Zen (green tea liqueur, peach schnapps and sauvignon blanc. *slurp*), acquired at a decent sushi restaurant (Sora Sushi) with absolutely appalling service.

And after the server ignored me forever (purposely), I picked up the bill for happy hour. Hah. Fucker. Lesson: You never know which one of us is gonna pull out the credit card. May your dick shrivel and fall off. Love, She Who Undertipped.

You Wouldn’t Believe It Even if You Knew What I Meant

There are many stories to tell. Good ones. And damn it, I can’t!

In the many years that I’ve been attending these outward-bound escapades, one rule has always held true: What happens at conference, stays at conference. And screw you, Vegas — it was our saying LONG before your advertising reps came up with it!

So, in the interest of my desire to blog as well as the greater need to keep stuff locked in the vault, let’s try some Mad Libs here:

Believe it or not, I (blank blank) with (blank). (Blank) also (blank blank blank) and, holy crap, here’s how that turned out. (Blank blank blank) and (blank blank).

But, that’s not all!

Apparently another (blank) gave (blank) a (blank blank). Oh! My! God!

Dirt, I has it!

(Blank!)

Get Your Freak (Magnet) On

All right, I can tell you that I am SO GLAD to have returned to D.C. not because I just love my life here (although, admittedly, once I decided to (blank), I suddenly cannot get the men to leave me alone — goodbye dry spell!), but because my Creepy Stalker is back home in Connecticut.

I had this, well, admiring fan attached to my hip for four days. I tell you, show them a girl who knows her shit, and they need to spend every available minute trotting after you like a puppy being led by his bone. *squick*

I called him “Velour Fedora.” OK, we called him a lot of things, but I thought nodding to the ever-present hat was the nicest way to handle it.

Not only did Velour Fedora spend the week with me, but he did NOTHING to reward me. See, I was in captivity. The furthest I could run was into the supply closet or the adjacent ladies’ room. Which I did. A LOT. But after four days of him trying to play grab-ass, the best I did was sell him something for $20. Which my friends said to keep because I’d earned it. 😉 (I didn’t.)

So anyway, I’d thought I’d bid VF farewell at the end of my hotel stay. But OH NO, I was having a spicy bloody mary at the airport sports bar when he came up behind me at the bar and once again got all handsy and chatty with me.

Oh was I PISSED. Among many things I said that probably didn’t adequately convey that emotion, I remarked that I was off the clock, and he shuffled back to his table.

A server came up to me and asked if I would be joining the gentleman at his table. I said, “Oh HELL no” and snarfed down my drink in one gulp. I ran through security and thankfully found friends and was safe from the velour once and for all.

More Shit I Can’t Say

I ran into (another blank) and was invited to (blank) for (blank blank).

And then I got an e-mail from (blank), reminding me about (blankity blank).

I swear, I need a secretary. And a masseuse. And someone to pinch me. (Velour Fedora, this does NOT mean you.)

I cannot believe how much demand I’m in. In every possible way. I didn’t realize I had such an adoring public. Is it possible to have too many options? What’s a (newly) popular gal to do? And how awesome for these to be the problems I have. …

Back on an airplane. Aloha from 37,000 feet. Of course, it’ll be hours later that I find an Internet connection and publish this piece of crap, so by the time you read this, I’ll be back in the land o’ palm trees. 😉

(Hey, the short drive to the airport took more than two hours. I deserve to see a palm tree, since it started snowing — gasp — and all the moronic drivers from the metro D.C. area conveniently forgot that their gas pedals were still located on the right-hand side. Flurries don’t make the pedal shift around. Just sayin’. Of course, I was less worried about missing this flight than I was of not being able to get to Five Guys for an egg-and-cheese (and heroin, I swear) sammich before the breakfast window ended!)

Update: Now in the Tampon Tampa vicinity. Holy mother of oasis of Steelers shirts, Batman! Glad to see all the black and gold!

Anyway, I am stressed to the motherfucking hilt. The hilt, I tell you. The hilt.

As soon as the plane took off, I actually burst straight into tears. I’m exhausted and don’t know how I’m going to make it through the next portion of my trip without going into utter and complete meltdown mode from being too tired to stand upright.

Luckily there are only 40 passengers on this plane, so allow me to indulge my comic relief in that everyone is crammed into first class but those of us in coach each have a row to ourselves.

Oh, actually, here’s the real victory — I’ve always dreamed of the day that I could open (and use) a laptop in these tiny, cramped seats. Well, let’s say I’ve got my “win” on that front. w00t!

Last airplane trip (OK, two weeks ago), I was just marveling that I don’t take up the whole seat anymore. I used to always try to suck in my ass cheeks so as not to bleed over into random strangers’ space. Not a concern anymore. Yee-haw.

OK, so moment of levity aside, my life is trying so hard to change, and I’ve been sort of digging in my heels, asking the universe for some time already — time to, I dunno. Think. I guess. Maybe dream, too, but I’ve all but forgotten how.

Spent yesterday hung the fuck over. (And went into work early to bust out two big projects, neither of which launched. And I ask myself, why did I have to drag my hungover ass out of bed when the Pittsburgh school system gave kids a two-hour delay so that THEY could sleep in after the big game? I’m sure THEY weren’t out at a bar, drinking their dinner, the way I was!!!)

I don’t go out drinking on school nights, normally. OK, you got me, I don’t go out on school nights AT ALL. But Sabre, Tetris and I went out with one of Sabre’s friends to Fur Nightclub for DC-101’s “Big Ass Football Bash.”

Yeah, I can’t believe that I went to a place called Fur. Seriously. I figured they’d turn me away the moment they realized I’m a tad older than 26. But all they did was confiscate my brand-new, unwrapped pack of gum (that’d bought for this very trip!) and I got felt up at the door by a very aggressive female bouncer.

Sabre asked the girl if she could at least get her number. I mean, this chick was funny and awesome, but still. My gynecologist knows less about me. And from the titty-twisters I got (I received, and gave, a few during the night, but she was definitely the fluffer there), I wanted to ask her to guess if they were real or fake!

After that kind of buildup, the party itself was sort of a disappointment, mostly because the only beer you could buy was Bud, Bud Light or Bud Light Lime. Barf, barfier and barfalicious. Of course, a friend later asked me whether I would have fared better or worse had we only been served Iron City in honor of Pittsburgh. I tell ya, it’s a toss-up.

I’m happy that mah team won. (Is anyone surprised by this?) What did surprise me is how many Arizona fans were at the club. Seriously? I mean, sure I have an inclination to root for the underdog, but then I wise up and root for the better team — especially because it was MY team!

Hey, my team won a six-pack — I drank one! (And then some …) In true Pittsburgh spirit, the Bud was served in buckets. Of course, I remember when a bucket of Bud Light went for $5 or $7 (back in da Burgh. Even though it was a WEE bit more here (like, four times more), the four of us probably killed, oh, eight of them. Easy.

You know, I’ve become weary on life in D.C. But holy crap, I had so much fun at Fur that I could be happy if I had nights like that more often. Didn’t realize how many men a girl could make out with in the space of a couple of hours. 😉

Who knew — there are single men in D.C. after all!

Of course, after Saliva played the halftime show at the club, the place emptied out. I mean, people were bum-rushing the stage. We had secured a ledge next to the stage so we could sit and also have a place to house our growing bucket collection. Our friend kept getting knocked over by overzealous friends and spent half the show between my knees. I didn’t have any complaints about that, though! (Hey, he reminded me of Jon Bon Jovi!)

Oh, the stories I could tell about the evening, but alas, it’s been a historic year. New president, the Steelers won their sixth Super Bowl, I picked up twice that number of men in one night and, well, I’ll leave the rest for another day.

But since my team already won “one for the thumb” with the last big game, what do you call six? My Jon Bon Jovi lookalike called it “one for the schlong.” You know, that kind of has a nice, er, “ring” to it!