So I Married an Epidemiologist

As I pulled a t-shirt out of the dresser recently, I realized that my summer wardrobe is largely determined by the fact that my girlfriend is an epidemiologist. She gets a lot of t-shirts from events related to her work, so, I am a walking billboard for health issues. My chest screams "NO MAS!" and my back gives links to sites about HIV and STD's. Sometimes, my chest whispers "AIDS Walk" and my back simply advertises for various sponsors. One of my favorite and most comfortable shirts says, "World Refugee Day" on the front. There are some I won't wear though. One says, "STOP DROP AND ROLL" and has a big picture of a condom on it. I'm not a prude - I object to the shirt because 1) it's ugly and 2) I think "STOP DROP AND ROLL" is a stupid slogan. Luisa wears that shirt all the time, however - despite my pleas. There is another shirt that simply has a picture of a giant condom as a parachute. I don't even remember what it says but the condom is a heinous salmon color and the whole things is just ridiculous and unappealing. I appreciate a free shirt now and then so it's all good. Poor Luisa gets no social work t-shirts. The only one I could think to make anyway would say, "Don't Let the Bedbugs Bite".

Eat Drink and Feel Scary

I make some of my best decisions when I am hung over and/or sleep deprived. At least that’s what I think in the moment, a moment that is clearly filled with optimism of delusional proportions. Every idea is brilliant! My problems will be solved! It was in this very state that I decided to eat my way through the BlogHer Expo halls. I figured that eating would settle my stomach which would stop me from feeling shaky which would improve my mood which would lead to extroversion. How could I go wrong?

The first thing I saw when I stepped into the expo hall was a booth for Jimmy Dean and a batallion of corn dogs laid out in front of an enthusiastic young rep. A corn dog would be perfect! Protein is always good! I bellied up to the bar and said in my perkiest voice, "I’ll have a corn dog!" She replied in a voice perkier than mine, "Here you go! But they’re not corn dogs – they are turkey sausages wrapped in maple flavored pancakes!" I was slightly disappointed but tried to out-perky her once more by saying, "GREAT!" like a drunken, lesbian Tony the Tiger.

Turns out that drunken lesbian tigers do not like breakfast on a stick. 

Next up was a booth promoting something. What? You want more detail? Did you not determine my state of mind in the paragraphs above?! All I remember is that there was a picture of Caillou and I was hoping for some Caillou merch because Zeca loves Ruca. I know you’re thinking, "What? Wait – who is Ruca?" I haven't totally lost it - Ruca is Caillou in Portugal. There was no Caillou merch, however. Apparently, it’s produced by Canadians and they hoard it like gold bouillon. All was not lost, however, because they had big sugar cookies covered in suspiciously smooth and shiny icing. Was I daunted by the plastic look of the cookies? Hell no! I took one, ripped open the bag and took a big bite. Chew. Cough. Gasp. Chew. Pray for more saliva. Chew. Swallow. Finally. No one in their right mind would ever take a second bite of a cookie like that. Well, almost no one. Let me tell you, the second bite was just as bad. 

Soon after the cookie incident, we came upon the Pillsbury booth where they were decorating miniature cupcakes. Mini cupcakes are so happy and hopeful! I ran over to get one but something told me that it was a bad idea. That "something" might have been Deborah or a particularly nasty wave of nausea – I can’t remember – but I didn’t have a cupcake. Somewhere around there, though, I ran into the Terra Chips booth and tried their new, exciting flavor! I can’t remember what it was called but it was something like Thanksgiving Curry at Old Country Buffet and it tasted just like it! Kudos to you, Terra! I looked into my tiny martini glass full of curried chips and said, "I can’t do this. Really." And then, like a vision, Elmo appeared. You might think I was hallucinating by that point and I would too if I hadn’t found this picture on my Blackberry:

I was a haggard, haggard blogger - sick, tired and a little creeped out by how hot and sweaty Elmo was. I limped past the Play Doh booth and briefly considered eating some of that. Salt helps sometimes. But, instead, we went to a booth that was giving away spanx and I got a bag of Pirate’s Booty- organic cheese puffs in Cheetos clothing. About 5 booties in, I knew I’d made a mistake. It wasn’t just the Pirate’s Booty – it was the whole plan. That's right - I had an epiphany in the expo hall and I knew I needed water. There was no water. There were Playtex bottles and Thermos water bottles but there was no frickin' water. There was a Got Milk booth, however. Milk has water in it, right? Milk – it does a body good, right? My body needed some good-doing so I stumbled to the booth like a rhino to a stream and grabbed a bottle of skim milk.

It was not a good day for rhinos in the expo hall. 

The rest of the day is a blur. Did I eat dinner? I don’t know. I do know that I ended up at the Heartland Brewery that night. I don't know what time I got there and I don't know what time I left. I had only one drink before realizing that I needed to go to bed. I walked away from good beer and better company, wandered back to the hotel and did just that.  It was the best idea I’d had all day. Sleep - it does a body better.

Never Let Them See You Sweat

I arrived in New York for BlogHer and it was approximately 173 degrees. I was prepared, however. I had my shorts. I had my t-shirt. I had my short little socks and my short little hair. So, I was undaunted when Lesbian Dad suggested that we walk from the hotel, through Central Park to the Museum of Natural History. With spirits high, we set off on our journey. We walked and we talked and the sun beat down upon us and we walked and we talked and New York is bigger than I thought and the sun was hot and the breeze was like a feverish child's breath and I didn't have water and I started to sweat but we walked and we talked and I sweated some more and we finally arrived at the museum and it was air conditioned and I never wanted to leave but I had to leave. I was supposed to meet Deborah at the hotel in an hour and I knew it would take close to that long for me to get back so I bid Lesbian Dad adieu and headed back out into the heat and walked some more. I tried to distract myself by imagining that I was walking through Central Park on a gorgeous fall day but couldn't give myself over to the illusion completely because my boobs were sloshin' in their cups and my girly bits were so wet that my pants were wet and I was certain strangers were turning away from me, shaking their heads and thinking, "What a shame...and she's so young..." But, chafing be damned, I forged on through winding path after winding path until it suddenly occurred to me that nothing looked familiar. Where was the guy renting the bikes? Where was the big green field with people lazing about? Where was that one path that wound through the trees and had that little sign about the freshly planted grass? WHERE IN THE HELL WAS I? I took a path to the left and told myself that I had seen that little rock before, that the railing looked familiar but it was a dead end. A DEAD END! I didn't want to frighten the locals so I kept my panic to myself and pretended to enjoy the scenery, snapping pictures with my Blackberry and alternating between a fake smile and a look of contemplation. I appeared to be appreciating the beauty when, in reality, I was thinking, "I'LL NEVER FIND MY WAY OUT OF HERE AND I WILL DIE OF HEAT EXHAUSTION AND SOME HAPLESS JOGGER WILL FIND MY SWEAT SOAKED BLOATED BODY WHILE THE THEME SONG TO LAW AND ORDER PLAYS ON!" Yes, I had my phone and yes I had a map but my fear of looking stupid was greater than my fear of death. So, I studied the view and plotted my course. Eventually, I emerged from the park and there were street signs with numbers, numbers that guided me back to the hotel. I felt like the Girl Who Lived. I stumbled into the hotel looking like a contestant in some sort of lesbian Sweat T-Shirt Contest.  Let me just say that there are people who love the smell of their own sweat. Some of these people work in earthy crunchy cafés so that you can't tell whether it's the soup of the day or the server's arm pit that smells like cumin and onions. Some sweat lovers hang out at gyms and claim that their sweat makes them feel alive. I am not one of those people. I hate to sweat. How much do I hate to sweat? I knew you'd ask so I made you a handy chart:

By the time I got to my room, my clothes were stuck to me like a stinky wet suit. The only things that were dry were my socks and my mouth. I took a shower, put on a clean pair of underwear and laid down on the bed. There was only one thing that could cool me down and help me forget the sweat - the mini bar. I broke it open and made myself a gin and tonic. It might have been the best gin and tonic I have ever had which is a good thing because, when I got the bill, I discovered that my little G and T cost $25. It was worth every penny - you haven't lived until you've had a $25 gin and tonic while pantsless in New York.