So many of you have either commented or e-mailed that you want to come to Weetacon (March 5-7, 2010!) and see what it’s all about (and let’s face it, could there BE a cheaper readymade weekend getaway? Plus, I defy you to walk out of Weetacon without having made at least one amazing new bff) but are freaked out by a) meeting a bunch of new people who seem to all know each other already b) seeming like an internet stalker c) how cold it is in Green Bay in March and d) the fact that you don’t know anyone there. Trust me, guys, we’ve all been there. And yes, I absolutely know that it’s kind of unnerving and very “first day of a new school and what if I don’t have anyone to sit with at lunch” to walk into a room full of strangers, but I promise you that we take our new folks and press them into our collective bosom to the point that I sometimes worry that they think we’re a creepy cult of Pineapple Fluff (it does seem that way at times, but that’s just because everyone is just so enthusiastic about what is a weekend filled with amazing people, hilarious new experiences and a lot of butter-soaked carbs). In fact, in effort to help answer questions about the weekend, we thought we’d break the cyber barrier and have some actual authentic voice-to-voice communication before the big weekend. What a freaking radical idea.
So here’s the dealio, my little Weetacon-curious friends, below is a series of several conference calls to help answer questions, give more detail and make that oh-so-important leap from us being pretend friends on the internet. I’m going to attend all of the calls, and have asked several Weetacon alums to join (including people who were first timers last year) so that you can ask questions and get acquainted with a few people so that you will at least have a feel for the personalities behind the Weetacon bio pages.
I can host up to 96 people at one time, so even if you don’t plan on joining us in March, you can just lurk in the background and eavesdrop. I honestly don’t care! In fact, you can think of it as an extended metaphor. Besides, if no one asks any questions about Weetacon, maybe we’ll start talking about all the dirt that we’re not allowed to publish on the internet.
The conference call schedule to discuss your trip to Green Bay and any questions you may have about Weetacon 2010:
Saturday December 5, 4-5 pm CST
Number: (641) 715-3630 (Note: this is an Iowa area code, so use a cell phone with free long distance)
Participant Access Code: 960765#
Topic: So tell me why I should come to Weetacon exactly? (Alternate Topic: We promise not to steal your kidney and leave you in a bathtub full of ice)
Topic:Oh my god, how many sweaters should I bring? No seriously, I’m freaking out whenever I look at that weather map on the back of USA Today. Why is Green Bay violet, y’all! I’m going to die, aren’t I?
Where did all of my promises of updating more frequently get me? Where? Where I ask you? Nowhere. I don’t know what my deal is. I’ve heard that lots of long-time bloggers (or as we were once called, online diarists/dinosaurs) go through weird periods of non-blogging. I suspect it comes down to a question of the perfect reader: the best writers always have to figure out their ideal reader and once they figure it out, they have it made. Sofia Coppolla (see, I’m totally obsessed) basically makes movies for her friends. I don’t know who I write for anymore. That’s probably why the other thing I’m doing has kind of stalled. Oh, it’s still in my head, in that I’m kind of always in that world even when I’m on conference calls or making impossibly elaborate spreadsheet efficiency tools (oh my god, sometimes I can’t believe my life has come down to being irritated that Excel only allows for three colors in conditional formatting but seriously, Microsoft, give a girl a break), I’m still thinking about sharks and contagious brain disorders and hippies. But when it comes to making words fill up a white box on a computer, frozen. Frozen. I miss my ideal reader.
Here are some things I could write this entry about:
Fall. You guys love the fall stuff. I love the fall stuff. There was just a whole lot of fall stuff that happened, and it was all so beautiful that it felt like the biggest sin ever to do anything other than drive around the countryside with our mouths agape, just soaking in all of the gorgeous leafy goodness.
Rehab. This really needs its own entry, because damn, y’all. Damn. You can read about Trance Jen’s experience over on her site, and I think everyone else is playing their cards close to the vest. Apparently we’re feeling a bit protective of our dorky little fun weekends these days and figure that if you wanted to know, you’d get off your ass and go. Maybe that’s just me (because man, am I a bitch). Also, I think everyone now has a crush on Minneapolis.
My inherent and sometimes ill-advised blind faith in technology: Iowa. That’s all I can really say right now is that I almost ended up in Iowa before I realized that my GPS had been possessed by Satan. IOWA.
My gut has issues and hurts sometimes. I’m probably not dying.
Consequently, I’m losing weight, or so I’ve been assured by June, who is probably just trying to make me feel better about looking like I constantly have a gut ache.
My job. Wait, I don’t talk about that here. Ever. EVER.
My hatred of Old Navy and why I keep going back like the crack whore that I am for cheap sweaters.
Instead, here’s what I AM going to talk about:
Ladies and Gentlemen, I know that I wasn’t sure if there was going to be a Weetacon 2010 after my little unplanned sabbatical from work, but it’s now official: Weetacon 2010 will be held on March 5-7, 2010. There’s lots of information here and we’ll be holding conference calls to cover questions and concerns that newcomers may have regarding Weetacon (or really, so that you can get to know a few people on the phone first before you decide if you really want to hang out with us all weekend). Also, we have a theme and a subtitle for this year’s event: Technology and L33tacon! We’ll be celebrating everything that brings us together, and also, hopefully learning a few things or five along the way. It’s not all binge drinking, despite what the photos would lead you to believe.
Also, it’s November 1st, which means a very special thing near and dear to many readers of this site. Yes, that’s right, it’s Holiday Card Exchange time!
Can I get a woo woo?
So, here’s the drill on the Holiday Card Exchange: We have a little collective of Holiday Card Enthusiasts who like to send and receive cards at the end of each year, so many that we have split up into two groups so that people could decide whether they wanted to send/receive to only half the list or do the Full Monty. If you want to play along, you fill out this form with your information before November 20th, and then you wait for me to send you the final list. Then you get busy writing and sealing and stamping your cards (the number of which will be dependent upon how many people sign up in total and whether you’ve agreed to do one exchange or both. Each exchange will be no more than 40 people total and since you can add, you know that if you opted to do both exchanges, you’d be sending/receiving 78 cards, since you wouldn’t send two cards to yourself). Any questions? Hit me up in the comments!
In other news, I really have to get this site situated. It’s been like four months since the Russian hackers kicked me in the pants, it’s probably time for this site to put its big boy pants back on.
Until then, I will leave you with one of the Rehab party questions, to answer in the comments:
Which would you rather have, a butler, a maid or a chauffeur?
And why. Don’t forget the why. You’d think it was a simple question, but man, it’s more emotional than you would ever believe.
One of the things that has changed between my pre- and post-sabbatical work routine, aside from the obvious (being mentally engaged 100% of the time for instance and also, being mentally occupied 100% of the time, two sides of a very lugubrious coin) is that I have definitely stepped up the efforts in my wardrobe. Ok, I wasn’t exactly a slouch before, but while before I would have shied away from wearing any of my bazillion dresses for fear that I’d have to field snide comments about interviewing from my former boss, I now wear dresses at least once a week, if not more often. It’s fun, this dressing up, thanks in large part to the fact that I also have the opportunity to work from home at least once a week, so can temper the heels and accessorizing with the fact that I usually am wearing yoga pants (the millennial version of the jogging pant) and working sans makeup the very next day.
I’ve also been trying to push out of my comfort zone, fashion-wise. I tend to wear very non-descript Wisconsinized versions of my ideal outfits, just in effort to avoid the attitude, but I’ve decided to fuck that noise and just play with clothes. Life is too short to waste the closet space on things I only wear out of state.
Last week, I had a bit of inspiration: I had recently purchased the same version of a kimono dress from Old Navy in two colors (black and purple), so I removed the purple belt on the purple one and wore it with the black one, thereby cheaply replicating the spirit of this Kiyonna dress that I’m too cheap to buy. Then, because I’m trying to allow myself to Be Quirky! with fashion (a more difficult prescription than one would think, as I kind of disdain the Quirky) or more importantly, dress as I would if I were thin (worthy of a blog post all on its own), I threw on a pair of purple tights. Purple tights! With a black dress! I KNOW! It’s totally the kind of thing that I would love on someone else, but never do myself. Look at the little sprout, how she has grown.
Apparently because I looked so cute, the universe decided that I needed to star in my very own Romantic Comedy. Enter the wacky hijinx.
The cuteness lasted approximately 45 seconds out of the door as I somehow managed to snag a fist-sized hole in the thigh of my tights when I opened the car door. Hookay. They were up high enough that they were above the hem of my dress, so I ran back into the house, figuring I could stop it with some nail polish rather than abandon the whole look with boring black tights. Smart, yes? But oh no, sadly, my four million bottles of clear nail polish were NOWHERE TO BE SEEN. Aha, but maybe I could swap out and instead try some Malaga Wine, which was approximately the same color as the tights?
This is where the wacky music would start in the Rom Com. Right here.
Now, this might have worked had I actually taken off the tights to apply the fix, but alas, I did not. I dabbed and daubed and then fanned and the holes and subsequent runs were stopped. Woohoo! Tragedy averted!
I jumped in the car, blazed through Sbux, because at this point I was late, and then, leaving the drive through, apparently the top was not on my cup and apparently (APPARENTLY) the cup holder was not situated correctly and voila, my coffee ended up on the leg that had already received the scrape, holes and fingernail polish treatment. Has my right leg not suffered enough!??!
I tried to look on the bright side. After all, the universe can only throw so much bad luck at you, and clearly I had gotten through all of mine before 7:30 am. Right? RIGHT!?Well, mostly.
Walking into the office, I caught my reflection in the glass doors. Still cute, still totally pulled together, except for the GAPING PALE CIRCLE ON MY THIGH. Ah, so it was lower than I thought and you could totally see it when I walked. Brilliant. I would just get through the day without making a lot of trips around the office. Except that the second I sat down, blammo, GIANT WHITE CIRCLE in a field of deep purple.
And the kicker? The splotches of burgundy nail polish had also stained my legs. And were very visible through the tights, giving the appearance of gigantic red welts. I was the corporate version of Amy Winehouse, except instead of a heroin addiction, I’m woefully addicted to Mint Three Musketeers.
At some point, you just have to give up and decide that you are doomed. At lunch I went to the fat girl boutique and got some boring, black tights, through which the Malaga Wine nail polish faux bruises were only visible to the very discerning eye.
This is why I’m never going to get a job with Anna Wintour, right there.
I have been creeped out by the Old Navy mannequins for the last year. At first I thought it was the vaguely unnerving plotlines or maybe the strange accents used for the voiceovers, but I realized what was leaving me so unsettled today: it’s not that they don’t move, but rather, they don’t move when you’re looking at them. When the camera cuts away, they have always moved and are again frozen.
They’re the fucking Blink angels. In polar fleece.
Shudder.
***
This weekend was one of those weekends when the clock seemed to slow down, as is practically never the case. Even now, I’m writing this at 6:30 on Sunday and it seems as though today has just lingered on and on. Friday night we did not much of anything: caught up on the Tivo and then watched the first two episodes of “Bored to Death” (verdict: I love it, Esteban isn’t wooed quite yet but is willing to watch it again), during which Esteban remarked that Jason Schwartzman looked weirdly like Nicholas Cage, and I explained that I wasn’t surprised, since they were both Coppolla’s, and then had to explain my unnatural obsession with the Coppolla clan. And then went into the fridge to get a snack and some wine and realized that the only bottle chilling was a bottle of Sofia and then decided that what I really wanted was water. Plain old fucking water.
On Saturday, I woke up unnaturally early, even earlier than I normally set my alarm during the work week, and knew right away that there would be no hope of going back to sleep, so I woke Esteban and told him I was going to the Farmer’s Market and he groaned, swung out of bed, and said he’d join me if I’d wait for him to get out of the shower. We packed up the pup and headed downtown, where the chilly morning and the scattered rain was keeping almost everyone away, including the vendors. Actually, we had an actual and proper frost during the week, including reports of snow far too south than is proper for late September, so I think most of the crops were either lost or sold at the mid-week market (which we also attended, although bought nothing more than goat cheese curds and a pseudo-power bar situation that really was like a peanut butter cookie covered in fudge frosting…mmmm, glorious denial). The sparse market and the fact that it started to rain harder just as we pulled up caused Esteban to opt to hang out in the car with the heated seats while I indulged in my crazy. That’s fine, mister! I get to be more farmer’s market crazy if he’s not there to rein me in anyway. I ended up with two bags of mushrooms (oyster and shitake), a fistful of lemongrass (FOR A DOLLAR), a bag of Royal plums (have been hankering to make a plum tart), a bag of Cortlant apples (ditto on warm applesauce), some of the Crack caramel corn, and some delicious Irish cheddar and untested Manchego from the cheese monger (I didn’t take my weekly wedge of Humboldt Fog, as I still had one untouched in the cheese drawer) and probably something else, but my memory grows dim in my declining years. Something like that.
After that, we hit Sbux, where the barissta asked us if we knew whether the farmer’s market was still going on (apparently we are extremely well known at Sbux, so much so that Esteban tried to be nice and bring me some hot tea on a Work From Home day and the barisstas gave him iced and insisted that it was the right order because I NEVER order hot tea. Which is correct. I never do. But it was 38 degrees outside, so cut the guy some slack.), then we went to what I now think of as “the Good Church Rummage Sale”. It is good because it is amazing. Seriously amazing. When Mopie lived her, she got a bunch of stuff for her apartment there, and it’s also the place that I got my enamelware-top table that’s in my kitchen (that Esteban depises, but I love so very much), as well as an antique camera for a dollar. I love the Good Church Rummage Sale more than is reasonable or just, because apparently all of the old people who go to said Good Church are in the process of decluttering their houses and sending the most amazing stuff to the rummage sale. I could pretty much die, and we were there right when it opened and it was, again, glorious. I believe that I twittered that I would like to come back as a packrat in my next life, because oh my god, the stuff. The STUFF! Esteban had urged me to practice restraint, and believe me I did, to the point that I wasn’t even going to take a completely pristine, never used bar set that would very much be at home in an executive’s bar at Sterling-Cooper. It was six dollars. Still shiny. I doubt it had ever been used. Six DOLLARS. I let it sit there while I made my rounds, scoring a bunch of awesome vintage games for Weetacon (can you say Operation races? Synchronized Twister!?), another tiered chrome stand that complements but does not match my other two (I am broken when it comes to tiered plates, people) and a little vintage Eames-y glass cannister that is narrow enough to fit in our medicine cabinet to hold my eyeshadows (which are annoying even me). I was going to make another round when I spied another antique camera sitting on the table and actually squeaked and then wanted to shove old ladies out of my way to get to it. Esteban found me there, still lingering over the Don Draper bar set, and he agreed that it was amazing. I regretfully admitted that we didn’t have any room for it, not one place in our house that it would be at home, and yet, Esteban said to take it, so I did, even though it defies all of my intents and attempts to declutter the house.
I have a weakness and it is mid-century modern.
Esteban did not come away completely empty-handed, as he had spied a garment steamer, similar to the one he bought me (that has been plagued with persnickety issues) for like four million dollars a few years ago. This one was bigger, had a nicer hose (SNORT!) and was five bucks. I agreed that it was a good gamble to find out if it worked, and if it didn’t, we could pitch it. We left having spent $16.50, and were accosted by someone in the parking lot who had wanted the steamer but apparently they wouldn’t let him hold whatever big item he was trying to put on hold, so he had missed out, but tried to gloat that he got a very cool looking professional shoe shiner. Oooh, we’re all lucky that I hadn’t known what the hell that thing was, because mid-century AND having to do with shoes?! Damn.
We hung out at home for a bit, doing housework and generally flailing our arms about in glee that we had an entire weekend free from plans. Esteban wanted to swing by Titletown, where they were having some kind of German festival to celebrate the tapping of their Octoberfest beer, plus he really wanted to try the new beer. I was happy because mmm… red cabbage. Seriously, I cannot think of a German food that I do not like. Meh, maybe rye bread with carraway. In fact, all carraway can go to hell as far as I’m concerned. We got to their “bier garten”, where the polka band was just setting up, and had lunch. Esteban said the beer was surprisingly hoppy, and then got to dork out about brewing with the brewmaster, talking about their various hops growing experiments (our garage has been sacrificed to Esteban’s passion for beermaking, with hops growing up the outer wall) while I chilled out, ate spiesbraten and drank their homemade Sno-Cap rootbeer, which is delicious.
After lunch, we went home to get the pup and then drove to Appleton, which we’ve now decided has the best dog park for small dogs in a 50 mile radius. Yes, we’ve done copious trials and testings. The bonus is that it was the final meeting of the pug lovers association in the area, which meant crazy people who like to dress up their dogs.
Yes, I have become one of them.
I’m sorry, but if you have a pug, I’m pretty sure that it’s in the constitution that you must dress it up. Either that or pugs appeal to people who like to humiliate their animals. I don’t know, but Aveline was a shark and she was very very popular. Esteban said that I had a “dog-gasm” whenever a new pug appeared in costume. But seriously, people: pugs dress up day! Best day ever!
It was a very cool afternoon (mid 50’s) so Ave spent 90 minutes straight running around playing with other grunty friends, with the whole park echoing in raspy, asthmatic grunts. At one point, she had a stick and there were five other pugs chasing her. She’s not used to being the fastest dog in a pack, and she seemed to relish the attention. Bitch is a bit of a diva, what can I say?
We headed homeward, mostly because I had only brought a hoodie and also, didn’t want to pee in a portapotty that probably hadn’t been emptied since it was set up in spring. We kept Ave up, despite the fact that she really really really really wanted to nap, for about an hour because we had plans to leave and wanted her to spend her time in the crate sleeping rather than being irritated. Yes, the dog owns us. If we had to put the cat in a crate, I doubt that we’d ever leave the house.
I had it in my craw that I wanted to go to a drive in movie since last weekend. The local drive in (and by “local” I mean one that is 34 miles from our house) had kind of a lousy selection last week, but this weekend was showing The Time Traveler’s Wife and also Halloween. Esteban didn’t want to see the first movie and abjectly refused the second, so we looked at the other local drive in, which is up the Door about 75 miles away. We both didn’t mind seeing either feature, so I packed up some snacks, a blanket and a pillow and we loaded up the truck (because you can’t snuggle in the Murano… another failing) and headed east.
It was a gorgeous drive. The gloomy day wasn’t allowing for the typical Wisconsin light show with the autumn colors but even in the diffused light, it was amazing. I saw at least eight incidents of deer grazing in the pastures and wooded areas, and more hawks and angles of geese than you would believe. It doesn’t hurt that the Door penninsula is absolutely breaktaking. The air was crisp, red apples were weighing down the branches in the orchards and it was just the kind of night where you want to turn up your collar and breathe deeply the smells of wet leaves and smoke and just the slightest suggestion of snow.
We got to the drive in shortly after the gates opened and I went into the old snack house and ordered a pizza, a bucket of popcorn (with real butter, something you only get at independent theatres), a soda and a box of Dots. Total bill? $17. Plus, we paid what constitutes matinee prices to get in. Insanity! I did bring a few snacks along, things that were not replicating what was available at the snack shack, things like grapes and Humboldt Fog and a bottle of Layer Cake Cabernet Sauvignon, which was totally illegal to have inside the truck and you know what? I don’t care. It went very nice with the pizza and if there are any law enforcement personnel reading this, we drank it outside the vehicle.
I had totally forgotten how much nicer it was to see a movie at a drive in. You see, I kind of hate people. I hate crowds. I don’t like being too close to strangers. It’s not something that affects my daily life, but it does put me on edge a bit in crowded places where you have to be close to other people, places like restaurants, airplanes and movie theatres. And I’ve just come to accept the anxiety and my inability to relax as part of the price of admission, but at a drive in?! Holy hannah, I have none of that because I’m protected by the sanctum of my car! I can just roll up the windows and they are out there and I’m in here and it’s all good. Plus, at the drive in, you don’t have anyone sitting behind you, kicking your seat. Well, no one you couldn’t turn around and punch back, anyway.
We only watched the first movie (Julie and Julia, the former sections being a little unsatisfying but the latter being amazing and well worth the movie ticket) and the second wasn’t so compelling (Inglourious Basterds, or however you misspell that) that we wanted to postpone the 75 mile drive back home. It was the right decision, as Esteban felt a cold coming on within seconds of the first film’s credits and was in full on pitiful mode by the time we were halfway home. Similarly, I held it together until about 10 miles out of town and then could hardly keep my eyes open any longer. We were both very grateful to do the nightly household closedown rituals (take the dog outside, check the doors, appease Jincy, etc) and then go to bed, with promises of sleeping in on Sunday.
