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. …

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