unpacking: II, electric boogaloo

unpacking can be found here

For a city known for earthquakes, the hotel where I stayed in San Francisco certainly took some big chances with light fixtures. I'm sure that a lovely hotel like that has some magical, written-in-blood, long-standing pact with a travelling gypsy clan. A clan who 100 years ago promised the hotel safety in exchange for monthly payments of a hundred dollars, an never-ending supply of string, and a suckling pig. But still, holy gamble with a land-locked Poseidon Adventure starring a good chunk of the blogosphere.

Anyhow, nary a moment in that hotel passed, without me getting the feeling that I was standing in the unmistakable trajectory path of some large, breath-taking, completely-amazing globe/chandelier.


This little number hung in the middle of my room.

Obviously I was booked in the parlour / fainting salon, complete with Billy Zane look-a-like to do my bidding along side a very useful John Malkovich look-a-like concierge. I unfortunately was not allowed to photograph my man slaves - though if I had, I would share photos with you. Trust me, Raoul was easy on the eyes and intense, while St. James had control over everything.

Anyhow, each night while mentally preparing to go to sleep, I would calculate all the possible outcomes in case of separation of light from ceiling due to tremors. It was important for me to figure out which way that crystal clad puppy would smash once it had a good swing care of San Andreas' pushes.

You know when I'm given the time to sleep as much as I want, the actual process of going to sleep gets weird. That is why I sometimes require this crazy mental work-up in order to convince myself this isn't a cruel, cruel trick.

Anyhow, using the little (translation: nil) knowledge I have of physics - which was all learned from cartoons and episodes of Saved by the Bell - I figured that the chandelier of death would either smack the wall next to me or completely decimate the huge flat screen on the dresser that never, ever got turned on the entire weekend away.

Did you know that this weekend was only the second time in my life that I haven't turned on a television in a hotel/motel/waiting/ room or jail/holding/padded cell - and the first time that happened was at BlogHer07? Did we even have tv's in those rooms at the room in Chicago? I figure if part of the wall around the bathrooms could be missing, so could a television set.

In fact, I think that last little factoid sums up a BlogHer conference fairly well: Upside down world. No more hiding behind the online veil. TV addict quits addiction cold turkey because the world has become "You read 'em, now you see 'em, and they talk - if you are lucky - to you".

By the way, the amount of lucky is usually in direct proportion of how ballsy one feels, because odds of rejection are always low but odds of awkward conversation is medium to high.

Back to lighting fixtures, this Titanic - because it is far to dignified to be called a behemoth - vessel of destruction, approximately the size of an ambulance, was ready to take out at least 50 or more bloggers and sponsors in the main keynote speech room.

It was both stunning and huge.

Just like the light fixtures.

unpacking

I'm a lousy luggage packer.

Is it just me, or does that statement sounds vaguely sexual? Holy cow, if it was something sexual, the statement would also be sad, because I'm admitting that I suck at this peculiar fetish. And that admission of failure in said fetish is amplified beyond being sad (perhaps I could coin the term "super sad") because I have now just stated online that I have a strange fetish that involves the term "packing" and I don't do it very well.

But just to be clear, the term "luggage packer" does not contain one ounce of titillation or raunchiness, it really, really just doesn't.

So, last week I discovered that I'm a lousy luggage packer while wrangling with my check-in suitcase in the airport security slash customs area. Be warned airports officials, if I find a wart or fungus on my foot because you made me pad around barefoot in your security zone, I will be sending you the bill - which will include at least one pedicure.

Anyhow back to lousy luggage packer: I found a vacuumed-sealed package of beef salami in the outside pocket of my suitcase and realized I had received this particular package of vacuumed-sealed beef salami in a slightly strange snack combination offering on my trip - many moons ago.

Honestly I try to limit my amount of actual luggage when travelling because I'm no JLo. Ideal luggage packing for me involves no luggage and only stuff that fits in pockets. Next BlogHer be warned: All I'm taking is a few pairs of smalls, my toothbrush, and deodorant - c'est tout. Anyhow, I'm off topic again which I'm sure is no huge surprise to anyone still reading, yet I'm sure as hell surprised that I'm still talking about beef salami in my luggage.

So back to the beef salami discovery (which, like 'luggage packer', sounds vaguely sexual): instead of throwing out the beef salami, I stuffed it in my carry on because I am paranoid and there were no garbage cans around the security section (they must be paranoid too, non?). Why was I paranoid? I just declared I was bringing no food into the country to some very official looking dude in uniform and he knows where I live. So there I was, stuck in the no-man's land of customs, struggling to survive and not go down because of some beef salami. Perhaps I'd go down for some Brie or other unpasteurized cheeses but not beef salami.

PLUS - if there was beef salami in my luggage, what else was lurking in the pockets and samsonite folds of my mule? How am I to know that my apartment hadn't been previously broken into by a roving gang of drug lords looking for a spot to hide their Bolivian marching powder? I'd pick this spot if I was them - it's a mess so the occupants of the place aren't going to notice and we don't give off airs of being big time travellers (note inch of dust on luggage). So who am I to say that I'm not carrying more than just beef salami?

Anyhow, once I successfully smuggled my beef salami (plus whatever) onboard the flight, I suddenly had this overwhelming sense of how it must feel to be one of those super sexy villains. Because in my head, I'm always so super sexy and so super smart that life if just one big long movie starring me. Don't deny it, it's that way in your head too because bottom-line, we are all super hot and successful but we keep it under wraps because we are also super modest in addition to possibly super lazy.

But where was I? Right, feeling superior and feeling completely prepared just in case something happened - like an episode of Survivor might break out and I had the upper hand because I had a secret stash of beef salami and hell NO, I'm not gonna get caught a la Kel in Survivor Australia.

Yes, this is how my head works. Well only a little bit of how my head works because if I gave you a full glance, once you discovered the inside of Katie's head, I'd have to hurt you and that would be no fun for anyone involved.

Anyhow, the beef salami sits here next to me and my precious laptop - oh yes, I smuggled the beef salami back into my country because I'm a total pro - and for the first time in three years, I'm sitting completely alone in my home. The apartment is even devoid of cats which is strange. At first I looked forward to this break from family but now, not so much. But I must take advantage or I will regret wasting time.

So far I have:

• Slept in way later than I'm ever going to admit to doing because then you would all want to hurt me.
• Eaten only crackers and edible swag because that's all I'm prepared to cook. Even that prep took way more involvement than I cared to perform but we all have to make efforts ya know.
• Not once looked at my inbox. Or voicemail.
  
• Discovered that cooking shows are fun to watch backwards.
• Stared at the coffee maker hoping to will it to start producing coffee. Status so far: nil but hope is not lost.

And now I can add "written a post about beef salami" to the list and possibly call it a day. Last year I found it hard to write about BlogHer, post BlogHer because once again, I need to absorb. And pilfer from other people's posts.

But I felt compelled to say something about this trip, so there you have it: beef salami, a post riddled with sexual innuendo that isn't actually sexual in any way, a photographic slice of Powell Street in San Francisco, and now a pledge to keep this renewed sense of talking without borders and muzzles.

Powell Street, San Francisco

Because no muzzles or borders is a huge slice of what I take away from BlogHer: the reminder that there are wackier folk out there than me - and they invite the fear blogging presents alongside liberation and face it head on.

And for those that I've met that do this, I love almost every single one of them, especially the ones that rip fantastically loud burps in public while claiming to be a cultured lady, the ones that insist on showing me their breasts, and the ones that make me cry.

what red, white, and scared all over?

You people crack me up with your comments and suggestions.

After contemplating all your ingenious quips on how to wear a strapless dress with a sunburn from hell, I've decided to have SB create a cross hatch design in duct tape on my back and shoulders and I will stand out in the sun until I burn that puppy in like a tattoo.

You are such smart, smart people.

Perhaps I'll start a trend that will make dermatologists and oncologists everywhere say my name in vain. Oh yes, I can start a "motherbumper" cursing trend in the medical community.

Or maybe I'll just strap on a diaper like my friend right here and drag my pitchfork to San Francisco. Do I have to check pitchforks or are those okay for carry on?

Have I ever mentioned that I've never been to the Left Coast before? Nope, never. I flew over the Pacific but never actually laid eyes on it. And it's been a life long dream to go to California. Not sure why (*cough* Hollywood stalker *cough*) but for some reason I've always wanted to go there. I know San Francisco is not LA but it's a start.

OK - I'm avoiding what I really want to say which is "OMG I'm so scared to go to BlogHer but it's too late to cancel".

There I said it. The fear and anxiety has kicked in and I have no pharmaceuticals for coping.

I think I'm going to spend a lot of time hiding behind potted plants this weekend. Except when I'm handing out drink tickets at the door of The People's Party on Thursday night. If you see me there, be kind and don't rewind - introduce yourself because I'm too shy to do it myself. I'll be the red and white doofus who's popularity will be in direct proportion to the drink ticket distribution.

Anyone else freakin' out?