Falling Up

I'm a do-er not a thinker.

While at the Emma Bowen Foundation conference in NYC in June, I made a very poor choice. Life is full of them, but this one left me bleeding and limping in heals for 3 days. No, I was not mugged; I fell up a down escalator.

I had to run back to my room to send a quick email for work before the conference started. As soon as I stepped onto the escalator to the lobby, I realized I had left my computer in the conference room. Now, when you are on a staircase and you realize you forgot something, you instinctively turn around and walk back up the stairs. This is a more difficult instinct to deal with when that staircase is moving in the opposite direction. On an escalator, your gut reaction should be to wait it out to the end of the moving vehicle and play it cool as you step back onto the opposite escalator and wave to the people you were just riding with.

When I turned to run up the moving treadmill, I immediately fell and tripped down an estimated 4-5 steps (it's difficult to say because the whole thing was moving at the time). I bounced back up embarrassed to have fallen on a (thankfully) empty escalator. That's about when I realized my knee was throbbing and my pair of industrial black tights were turning a discolored black.

At this point, I was a little disoriented, so instead of going back to the room to send my email, survey the damage and change tights, I marched right back into the conference room and sat down for the rest of the day. Sure I noticed the blood drying to my tights and the inability to bend my now grapefruit-sized knee, but I had a conference to attend.

At the end of the day, I hobbled back to my room to change into dinner attire. When I went to take off my tights, I realized just how bad it was. The tights had actually acted as a scab for the eight hours I sat in the conference, and ripping them off was literally like pealing my skin off.

Turns out there are no band-aids in hotels anymore, so I had to to walk in the middle of downtown Manhattan to the nearest drugstore with one legging pulled above my knee, so the clotting didn't happen all over again.

Hot. Effing. Mess.

Three takeaways from this experience:

1) Do not text the word pussing (meaning the junk that comes out of wounds, not the other thing) to Big Texas (my mom). It just doesn't look right in writing.

2) Never wear tights when I could potentially fall down.

3) Never wear tights.

I'm Tanner Than You

I struggled with naming this blog. Seven days at the Ritz Carlton in Cancun, Mexico leaves you with a lot of time to people watch. Based on my observations, here are some title suggestions:

Kids and Their Obnoxious Parents
Kids and Technology
Kids and Louis Vuitton
When I was Ten…
I’m Going to Need to See a Manager
Built-in Floatation Devices
Bag of Bones
My Fair Behind
Eduardo y Yo
Buenos Dias, Buenos Aires, Same Thing
I Don’t Work on Vacation
Virgin Sacrifice

Instead of telling just one story, I organized the more interesting titles into chapters of my time in Cancun. Enjoy the circus.

I’m Tanner Than You
That’s all.

Obnoxious Kids and Parents
Children after age seven should not be allowed to leave the house until they turn sixteen. First they grow brains and loud mouths and then they hit puberty and they become unbearable. I was a kid once. I know. I don’t believe in only child syndrome. Only rotten parents and spoiled children, which I have seen plenty of in Cancun. There were too many times I wanted to interrupt a tantrum to inform the child he or she was probably a mistake. I refrained. I went on a lot of great vacations with my aunt as a kid, but I don’t think I ever hit her, requested better seating at a restaurant, or stripped naked and led her on a game of “catch the naked kid.” (All things I’ve seen here).

-Little girl on elevator: “Daddy I preferred the Ritz in California to our villa in Vail, Colorado.”
-One little boy to another little boy: “I was talking to the guy at the pool and I said, ‘You don’t have one? Well then I’m going to need to see a manager.’”
-Five year old boy to his mother: “Mommy get my iPhone.”

Obnoxious Kids and Technology
I would like to point out that I have never felt so ancient since arriving here. I haven’t seen so many children under ten with iPhones, iPods, iPads and Kindles. I doubt they know how to turn the page of a book with out a button. I told my dear friend J about this, and she asked if I threw the kids and all their toys in the pool. I would have; however, with all the silicone parts around here, all would have survived by grabbing the nearest floatation device. This brings me to my next chapter.

Built-in Floatation Devices
The number of fake boobs, butts, lips, tummies and thighs around here could save Venice from sinking.

My Fair Behind
The amount of times I’ve been to the hotel gym outnumbers the amount of times I’ve been to the gym in the last three months. I would like to say it’s because the facilities are beautiful and they pass out cold towels that smell like menthol, but it’s really because everyone here weighs negative 4 pounds.

Eduardo y Yo
I’ve made several friends with the staff around the hotel, mostly because I’m not afraid to speak Spanish with them. I think they appreciate someone who tries, and I appreciate them correcting me when I say something a little off. Eduardo at the pool brings me ice water in the morning and Jorge the bar manager knows l get my aunt a Diet Coke after dinner. (He also knows I am partial to tequila sunrises). I’m not dumb enough to think these extra perks are something reserved just for me, but I also know a little kindness goes a long way.

Buenos Dias, Buenos Aires
My aunt doesn’t speak Spanish at all, so I do my best to speak with the staff in Spanish for her. (There’s something about English that comes out so angry and rude when we order things). In an effort to be nice, my aunt greeted the housekeeper with “Buenos Aires!” She must have realized her attempt failed because she asked me what the greeting was again. I told her you say “Buenos dias” in the morning. You say “Buenos Aires” when you refer to the capital of Argentina.


I Don’t Work on Vacation
I’m sorry I’ve ignored your emails, phone calls and text messages, but I do not work on vacation. I promise the minute I get wifi on the plane, I will begin to respond to the requests waiting in my inbox, but there is something terrible about writing a report, strategic plan or press release while sitting in a beach chair. I think sunburn is guaranteed when you try to mix business and pleasure in this way. My aunt has spent 40% of this vacation sitting at her computer in the hotel room working on a large project for her fancy job that pays her enough to allow her to take me on vacations to the Ritz in Cancun. My theory: If in order to afford a vacation this nice, you have to work the entire time you are here, it’s not worth it.

In all, the trip was fantastic, warm and relaxing. Some time away was just what I needed after a crazy busy semester and an even nuttier one to come.

I'm Only a Butt-Dial Away

The only downside to having a Blackberry (aside from the disconnection with any real people because you are addicted to your phone) is that you butt dial everyone. Particularly anyone with a name that starts with "P." For me, this means my butt continually calls my grandfather (Pa for short) in the car, walking to work, or at the bar. I'm not too worried considering he never has his cell phone on (why he even has one I don't know), but I'm sure he's listened to many muffled conversations about hair products, daily gossip, and counseling sessions with heartbroken friends.

Personally, I can spot a butt dial from a mile away. Because my name starts with an "A," it's pretty common for me to get a few a week. I typically let it roll to voice mail if it's A) a number I don't recognize, B) a person from high school I haven't talked to in 4+ years, or C) an old coworker.

Aside from everyone's multi-talented dialing derrieres, I've received numerous accidental texts, which I like to call "butt-texts." This is a talent I haven't quite mastered myself. A few weeks ago, a friend sent me a text that was clearly not meant for me. It's too bad it didn't make it to the actual recipient because I think it was an attempt to flirt. Don't worry, it wasn't quite a Brett Favre or Tony Parker text. Clearly uninterested in this kind of discussion, I kindly sent a reply letting him know I received his message. I know he was embarrassed because he quickly said it was a joke text to a buddy (yeah right). I know he was embarrassed; however, it was definitely worth the stomach ulcer I got from laughing so hard.

In the words of Ryan Seacrest, "please dial carefully." I know you do not wish to send me your dirty texts, drunk walks home or cry sessions with your boyfriends. It's nothing personal because, frankly, I enjoy them. I just want to save you the embarrassment. Control your butt.

My First Date

I had my first informational interview with a PR agency last week. It turned into more of an interview than I thought. I was having an I-feel-like-I-was-hit-by-a-truck day with seasonal allergies and a rough cold, and I hadn't straightened my hair in a month. I was looking a little bush woman and sounding a little phone sex operator. Hopefully, the agency is into that.

Now, not that I know a lot about dating around (I've been with the same person for 100 years), but I imagine it's a lot like informational interviews. You take three hours to pick out an outfit that says "I'm interested but not trying too hard;" you leave an hour early and sit in the parking ramp going over how you'll introduce yourself; and you spend the entire conversation trying to read the undertones of your date's body language and word choice. Unfortunately, I don't have a lot of practice in this area since I can wear flannel pajamas, eat an entire pizza and burp (just another Saturday night) in front of Matt without the slightest hesitation.

Anyways, I felt like a zombie and as the interview gets started, I noticed she was asking more questions than I was. I came in just trying to figure out if an agency was where I wanted to be and I left applying for the internship. I guess even the living dead can compete.

I truly believe when you approach something to learn, you end up getting more than you bargained. People are more willing to connect with you and help you out when you have a general interest in them. I think people appreciate that kind of networking because the relationship is mutual. It's hard to keep that mentality when careers are so competitive, but things seem to just fall into place when you approach the job market in a less-hostile manner.

The Bucket List

Well, tomorrow came and went. Here is the list of new projects I created:

1. Pick up knitting...again.
2. Learn to cook.
3. Work out more.
4. Read a book for fun.
5. Get 8 hours of sleep.
6. Create a budget for the rest of the year.
7. Set up informational interviews at an agency, corporation, and nonprofit organization.

Projects 1-6 look a lot like the bucket list of an empty nesting 40-something. When I really think about it, my nest is pretty empty. I live alone in a studio apartment; I can drink wine on a Tuesday without judgment; and I'm suddenly realizing how much time I have on my hands without other people in the house. I am my mother.

Project 7 is something that just needs to be done. It's one of those things you put off until it's almost too late and you panic. Panic mode on. I'm addicted to job searching. I get a rush from the idea of employers continuing to post job openings on mnprjobs.com or mima.org/jobs despite the jobless economy. It's a total buzz kill when I realize I can't apply for any of these positions until I'm closer to graduation in the spring.

Working as in communications at the same company for 4 summers and several other internships helped me get my feet in the door, but without an internship or event planning project this fall, I feel a little stale. Hopefully Project 7 will help.

If not, I will knit myself a reindeer sweater and revert back to Projects 1-6.

...And then I was bored.

I had lunch with my dad today. I told him that I was enjoying a more laid back view of life. After staff directing the Maple Grove Triathlon over the summer, I was enjoying the break from 2am coffees, WalMart runs and frequent nightmares that no volunteers showed up.

I had lunch at 12pm. By 1:30pm, I had talked myself bored. The fact is, I'm not one to sit around and wait for the next thing to fall into my lap. Sure, it's good to relax and take a break from a work marathon, but enough is enough.

Tomorrow, I find a new project. Boredom solved.

Trophy Husband

Everyone deserves one. Someone who you are proud to show off and (more importantly) someone who isn't completely embarrassed to be around you. Matt and I met at Culver's, and our first date was at Chipotle. I'm not too worried about embarrassing myself.

My good friend Courtney asked our guys to plan a double date, so (of course) they picked the trashiest bar around, Cowboy Jacks. You can throw peanut shells on the ground. Enough said. C and I went along with it. Upon arrival, the boys immediately started to plot how they would become trophy husbands while C and I brought home the bacon. Unfortunately for them, C and I will probably work with non-profits for the duration of our lives. Looks like someone else will have to get a job.

Apparently, Matt wants to be a PGA golfer. When he makes all his money through winning the masters, I get my turn at being the trophy.

Yeah, right.