TheMommyBlog

Friday, March 05, 2010 Me, Me, Me

I had no idea what was up with all the traffic from this baby blog, until I actually read it and realized it’s Jim Halpert and Pam Beesly from the TV show The Office.

Dude, it’s their wedding site, baby site, and video blog all in one. How cool is that? And I’m on the blogroll!

Thursday, February 25, 2010 Me, Me, Me, Other people who write

I am waaaay too pooped to write about the last couple of very eventful days in Provo with BYUTV. I will say that theirs is a first-rate operation, thorough, thoughtful, efficient, helpful, detailed, and a whole lotta fun. First class all the way. THANK YOU.

Had a blast meeting Daphne of Cool Mom (we’ve been on Momversation.com for a year together but this was the first time we’ve been in the same room!), Kadi of Girly Gazette, and Jennie of Bee Hive and Bird’s Nest, and of course, our lovely host, Rebecca Cressman.

Having said that, I will present the rest of the update with my Twitter timeline. No, really, s’funny.

Actually uttered the words junk hole talking to a total stranger about Mormon garments on the flight to Salt Lake. Thank you, #mooshinindy
Feb. 24

Salt Lake: Just got into a new hybrid, couldn’t figure out key. Why? No key. Just shove the remote in. Those younguns.
Feb. 23

Warming some sort of cockles knowing that the weekly Realtor tour is stampeding through my house. Also? I’m at BYU. Which is more unnerving?
Feb 23

Taking whitebread to a whole new level in Provo. White toast, waffles, muffins, rolls, yogurt.
Feb. 24

Venturing out to the wilds of Provo to see Bridal Veil Falls. Heck, it’s only four miles away from the hotel.
about 24 hours ago

Omg. Provo Canyon? Is a CANYON.
about 23 hours ago

I feel like I’m driving on a piece of floss between huge craggy molars and I might bump into the sides of the Canyon.
about 23 hours ago

Crap. I haven’t fishtailed like that in YEARS. Prius? You suck on snowy roads and your traction is for shit.
about 23 hours ago

What a surprise: Bridal Falls is not in season. I saw a sign, no stopping until April 1 as I slid past.
about 23 hours ago

Driving now. Shush.
about 23 hours ago

Holy crap the roads are tough here. My Prius keeps flashing a warning picture with squiggly lines. YES, I KNOW.
about 23 hours ago

That’s it. I am going back to the hotel for a movie in bed. I pulled over just to tell you that.
about 23 hours ago

Strip mall: a laundromat. Think I’ll launder my shorts. Prkd by pizza buffet, $1 store, Armed Forces recruiting office.
about 23 hours ago

Wow, thought that was going to be a nature drive. Instead I was scribbling my last wishes on the flippin Hertz envelope.
about 22 hours ago

A Hwy Patrol passed me while I tried to get out of slush. I thought he’d stop. Was prob tweeting his friends. *snicker*
about 22 hours ago

All dressed and ready for the studio an hour early. Crap. At least am modest. In dress, in dress.
about 20 hours ago

Here at BYUTV with #digitalkadi. She is a better blogger than I am. Got on the network but I can’t with netbook or iPod. #FAIL
about 19 hours ago

@byutv Yes. We’re here waiting on makeup and wardrobe. They’re taking me as I walked off the street, so be it. Shedding on my black sweater.
about 18 hours ago via web in reply to byutv

Just filmed segment with #coolmom who was a scream. Taking a big risk putting us on a couch together.
about 15 hours ago

Just had a Leslie Nielsen moment in the john with mike still on. Very hard to pee with two mikes on your belt. #PEEFAIL
about 15 hours ago

Uuuuuunnnnggghhhyawnghhh
about 5 hours ago

At gate, starbucks in hand. Ran like hell. Who could have predicted sleet? Grateful for an ice scraper in the rental.
about 4 hours ago

And SCENE.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010 Me, Me, Me

I’m here in Provo to film a talk show with BYUTV that will air in the fall. I came in a night early so I wouldn’t be walking right from the plane with all its dry air, water-retentionyness, and general travel scum to the studio. Instead, I will be going from my hotel room with all its dry air, water-retentionyness, and general lack of body lotion to the studio. Seriously, no lotion. I am using my precious facial cream on my hands and feet, and the rest of my body can go to hell.

Plus? I got up from a post-breakfast nap and wandered to the slider in my undies (not Mormon undies, more on FB and Twitter about that, actually, more than you need to know, just your run of the mill Catholic school girl undies), pulled back to drapes and there was SNOW on the porch, snow covering the ground, and a river running through the trees behind my room.

Did I bring boots? No.

Did I bring socks? No. You know I never wear socks or nylons.

Am I still going out? Yes! Bridal Falls is four miles away? What was I thinking? I was going to eat the candy bar and microwave popcorn in my hotel gift basket and watch a complimentary movie, but that would mean… say it with me…more dry skin and water retentioyness. So I’m going.

And I’m going like the Irish Catholic school girl I was raised to be: barely prepared and with wet hair. I was never patient enough to dry it all the way and loved the way icicles formed at the back.

At least I’m not wearing post earrings. I did learn something growing up in Chicago..

Sunday, January 24, 2010 Me, Me, Me

I get a frazillion Google alerts a week for my name or blog (Thank you, everyone else who calls their blog “The Mommy Blog.”). Sometimes it comes in handy as something to put in my Press section; other times I begin to wonder whether I’m living to my full potential.

Here’s a roundup of what the other Mindy/Melinda Roberts’ are doing:

1. In October 2009, Peace Corps Volunteers Becca Commissaris and Mindy Roberts took a break from their village activities and went to Namibia for some fun in the sun and some sand-surfing…..
2. Assigning a short story for Wintersession 2010. ARCHETYPAL SYMBOLISM: UNIVERSAL RESPONSES TO TIME AND PLACE.
3. The Melindaville Blog chronicles the journey of Melinda Roberts Tyler as she writes and publishes her memoir, “Lost and Found,” which details her experiences as a victim of childhood sexual abuse, as a sex industry worker. [Read about her] experiences involving the sex industry, heroin addiction, recovery, and the process of writing her memoir.
4. Organizing outstanding sessions with David Lefkowitz on behalf of the American Philosophical Association’s Committee on Philosophy and Law at the Eastern Division meeting.
5. Melinda Roberts Photography: Serving all of Western Colorado and Eastern Utah, specializing in weddings, high school seniors, families, children, boudoir, proms.
6. CNN: Melinda Roberts has come up with strategies to assuage the fears of her kids Logan, 11, Dylan, 9, and Daphne, 7 on how to handle kids anxiety. Wait—that one WAS me. I believe it originally published with a misprint saying that I let my 7 year old watch Kill Bill with me. That was fun.
7. Showing my handmade quilts at Quilters Guild of Greater Kansas City Quilt Show at Crown Center.
8. Earning the Andrew Clark Hecht Public Safety Achievement Award with the Mount Rainier National Park’s climbing program.
9. And lastly, I most certainly am not Hotel operator Leona Mindy Roberts Helmsley [who] became a billionaire in 1997 when she inherited the fortune of her late husband, real estate entrepreneur Harry Helmsley worth 2.2 billions.

Sunday, December 06, 2009 Me, Me, Me, Travel

Two down, two to go. Am finally acclimated to the time change, but the last 48 hours have not been pretty. Funny, odd, but not pretty. Supporting exhibits on my Facebook album. I really can’t bring myself to report them here. I can’t look at some of them again, most notably the flesh-eating fish and me ducking when firecrackers went off and snorting a Singpore Sling out of my nose in the pool bar. I thankyew.

Bring on the photos!

Friday, December 04, 2009 Me, Me, Me, Travel

It’s four o’clock, 33 hours after we left home, and the sun is rising over the river in Bangkok. It nearly knocked me over when I opened the blackout drapes. Happy birthday to the King of Thailand. Now I am going to close the drapes and go back to sleep.

Monday, November 30, 2009 Me, Me, Me

Stumbled on this and played with it, but didn’t think it would be so funny, or so just in the end.

Congratulations on being the creator of a new Evil Plan (tm)!

Your objective is simple: World Domination.

Your motive is a little bit more complex: Love (Yes, it works)

Stage One
To begin your plan, you must first seduce a diplomat. This will cause the world to sit up and take notice, amazed by your arrival. Who is this despoiler of all that is good and nice and true? Where did they come from? And why do they look so good in classic black?

Stage Two
Next, you must seize control of the pacific ocean. This will all be done from a island of mu, a mysterious place of unrivaled dark glory. Upon seeing this, the world will tremble, as countless hordes of winged monkeys hasten to do your every bidding.

Stage Three
Finally, you must send forth your time machine, bringing about the end of all things. Your name shall become synonymous with fuzzy bunnies, and no man will ever again dare roll his or her eyes. Everyone will bow before your dashing good looks, and the world will have no choice but to restore your credit rating.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009 Me, Me, Me, Family

Sitting on the deck at My Guy’s tonight… it’s odd. I’ve been here two days now doing my Fran Dresher thing (complete with botching one of the kids’ appointments showing up late to pick him up) and I’m noticing things that have been below the RADAR before now.

For one thing, this house is in a regular neighborhood in Santa Cruz County, busy streets, shopping centers, stop signs, traffic sounds; but there is also this constant, underlying sound of the surf on the beach nearby—I don’t know where, haven’t been to the coast near here yet, have to check Google Earth to see—the rush and the gush of the water on the shore that’s been here forever and will be here long after this house is flattened by time and pace and whatever comes next. Listening to the pound of the surf slowly focuses my eyes on the stars, so many of them, I’m actually recognizing constellations. Not that I am practiced in this, I grew up in Chicago and had to learn about stars and constellations from books, but they are so sharp and pronounced that I can’t help but draw imaginary dotted lines on a clear, creamy parchment, looking from Orion to the Dippers, and to King Kong, and all the others.

Looking at the sky, I saw.

I see that even after this second trying day of keeping My Guy’s kids alive until he returns from work that I have been rewarded. All that I have been missing, all that I have wished for whenever I passed a field with a white horse grazing in it, whenever I tossed coins in a fountain with my children (quintupling the wish when I threw in a nickel), all the times I’ve run a red light, kissed my fingertips and touched the car headliner for luck… it’s here. It’s here.

I don’t know how to describe it.

I’ve been happy. I’ve been comfortable. I have been in love, and wanted it to go on and on.

Now I just am.

I belong.

Whatever happens during the day—not that I condone violence, but I know what turns Mr. Hand into Mr. Fist—I have this to look forward to, this quiet time on the deck, perhaps having a smoke, because it gives me a reason to sit here for a set period of time where otherwise I would think of unfinished tasks and go back inside after a glimpse. I can watch the stars, trace where we saw the blimp chart its path from south to north this afternoon, put my feet up, and listen to the stars. I sense that the Universe is repaying me for my patience, faith, perseverance, and dogged hope. I almost can’t verbalize it, it’s so fragile and forever and hitherto unknown (not unlike purple prose on this site) that it’s enough to acknowledge it with a sidelong glance, and say thanks for what awaits me tonight, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

Thank you.

Thank you for not forgetting me.

Thursday, November 12, 2009 Me, Me, Me, Family

I spoke to my elderly aunt last evening—well, I left a couple messages and she asked a friend to call because it was too much effort for her—and I got to thinking about the people in my life, and all the people in every one of your lives too. Truth.

Ever since her stroke, my aunt has been reluctant to talk on the phone, and there are really only two family members in touch with her and I haven’t even met the other one. We’ve talked for forty years, extensively, laughed, learned, argued, everything you do with someone who is a significant influence in your life. Whenever we visited my dad in the summers in Ohio, we would always spend a couple of weeks in Connecticut with them. She and my uncle owned a small, artsy theater in the tiny town of Litchfield (it was tiny then, lemme tell you) where we saw Tommy and An Unmarried Woman, and Harold and Maude, all sorts of films we’d never have seen in our natural habitats. We sold candy and cleaned up after the movies, pocketing any change or other treasures that had fallen from visitor’s pockets. We thought we had the greatest gig in the world.

Each year, they took us to New York where we saw a Broadway play. We saw The Wiz—not the Michael Jackson debacle—the one with Miss Mills and all the great jazzy, bluesy characters. We saw Little Orphan Annie with Sarah Jessica Parker. Yes, we are the same age. We saw The King and I with Yul Brenner, and The Pirates of Penzance with Kevin Kline, Linda Ronstadt and Andy Gibb at the Theater in Central Park. Over the years, we wore the soundtrack LPs thin of all of those productions, and to this day I can still sing most of songs.

I’m going down this road to point up the fact that only several people have these memories, and there is no one to pass them to unless we tell them. My aunt was a terrific source of family lore, and when I took up genealogy she was right there with me, filling in blanks and asking for research. To this day she does not use a computer or have email.

And now, she will not come to the phone. She called just to say, “I can’t talk, I have so much to say, I will write you a letter.” And then a family friend filled me in on health details. She sold the car because there’s no chance she’s going to regain the ability to drive. She has a visiting nurse, and refuses to see visitors, even me. This is a woman who climbed trees with me and marched us all over her thirty acres looking for that one black walnut tree my uncle swore was out there.

We can’t wet-jack human beings. We can’t plug into their brains and download all this stuff, this wealth of memories. It used to be that we had letters and records, to be discovered in an attic or as part of an estate, and much could be pieced together from the scraps. Today, nearly everything is stored electronically, and since the dawn of email, the art of letter writing has gone straight down the drain. Nowadays we communicate in bits and bursts, not even well thought out at that, tiny thoughts or jokes or reminders that, pieced together, would give us no clue what a person’s life was like and how she lived. And if she used AOL, good fucking luck sifting past all those forwards only to find platitudes or Power Point files filled with photos of cute kittens.

In the same way, our present is suffering as extensively as our past. With everything going paperless and so much news and communication happening online, there is no way to track that shit down. You have to have the exact URL. And even then, pages get changed or disappear, and there is only so much the WayBack Machine/Internet Archive can do. Believe me, I’ve tried to piece together my first web sites. A lot of memories were recorded there, and were lost in the stampede of migration when blogging software was invented. We didn’t have a clue what we were doing, but it was modern, and fast, and earth-shatteringly important.

And I’m not just talking about our personal lives, the details of our days. I’m talking about bills, deeds, checks, medical records—the things that used to supply so much information but now are password-protected on some old Gateway computer with Windows 95 and AOL standing watch. How will we know about how WE migrated? How can we find anything about anyone without violating privacy? I have enough trouble finding my own stuff; forget looking for anything pertaining to someone else.

It used to be that when one was successful, it was tangible, visible to all, in your home, your acreage, your stature in a community where everyone knew everyone else. When you suffered setbacks, or lost all you had, it was tangible in the empty canning jars in winter, the too-dry fields, the flour bin that no longer emitted a puff when you opened it. You knew when you were running out of food, out of cash, out of time.

Today, you can cruise through your life fooling yourself into thinking that because you still have a home, a car, electricity and cable, you are making it. The bad credit reports, the collections, the unpaid bills…all of that is invisible to the outside world—not that you live in a community where everyone knows each other anymore—and sometimes it is invisible to us.

I look around my home, at my children, and at myself, and can almost believe that everything is okay. It’s only when I happen to screen calls poorly and pick up for a collection agency, or when my bank calls to offer me some new service or coverage, especially for loyal customers, that I am jolted back into reality.

Today, when my bank called to praise my loyalty and long standing with their fine institution, and offered some fabulous for-esteemed-members-only program, I said, “Isn’t this the same bank, that ran a now-routine credit check in an effort to minimize risk and stop hemorrhaging bad debt, raised all my rates to thirty percent, then lowered all of my credit limits to the hundreds, and then canceled them completely? Didn’t I used to have stellar credit with you until I lost my job and stopped receiving child support and then unemployment payments? And as soon as I couldn’t keep up with one, maybe three, payments, you cut me off at the knees? I used to have twenty grand in credit just sitting there, my safety net, to be used in catastrophic emergencies. Now you’ve canceled or crippled all of those emergency accounts, even though all but one had ZERO BALANCES on them and perfect payment records? Are you still with me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So as an underemployed, uninsured, divorced, sole-support mom of three, I cannot fathom giving you one penny for a program I don’t need—no, don’t tell me that it’s free for thirty days, I know that I will have to be the one to remember to cancel it a month from now, because you sure won’t remind me as it’s a cash cow for you with all the suckers grabbing that free trial—I won’t engage in any further commerce with your bank despite having been a customer for twenty years. All that time I trusted you with my living, my future, my safety nets, and as soon as you saw an opening you dropped me like a steaming turd. So, no thank you.”

“Okay, ma’am, I’ll put a note in the record, and… you have a nice day.”

Sure. Soon I’ll be sufficiently distracted by the pull of my writing, my children, my email, and the evening’s chores to forget for a while that I’ve already been pulled down by invisible wolves, along with countless others.

And we won’t have a clue who the others are, because we don’t live in a community where everyone knows everyone else, and always takes care of its own.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009 Me, Me, Me, Bad Mood Dude, Family, Momversation

I’m floored with another! fifth disease! flare-up! and all three of the kids are home sick with various and sundry illnesses. Gooooooo Roberts! I actually took one to school, only to have him call from the office at ten past nine for me to come back and pick him up. Me? Oh, well, let’s see: arms and legs in agony, extremely tired, swollen feet and ankles, fuzzy cognition (shut up). When I put it all together this morning I suddenly realized why my abdomen has been hurting for three days. It’s just been a while since the last flare-up, and eight months since the first. Yep, nothing like childhood diseases in an over-forty body. Comedy gold!

More evidence of impaired cognition and ability to function: I just realized that FOUR Momversation videos have posted since I last updated my episodes, and they are good ones. Some funny, some not so much. And the one I’m to record today on overcoming depression should be an all-out scream fest. What happens when you don’t feel up to talking about depression? Do you just stare into the camera? Put on The Cure in the background?

Did You Take Your Husband’s Name?

Kids and Gun Play: Good or Bad?

Funny Wedding Day Stories (I’m in this one. Oh, yes, I am.)

Dealing with a Miscarriage (Didn’t appear in this one but am all over the subject in the comments.)

Talking to Your Kids About Race (Today’s episode.)

If you need me, I’ll be… not answering email. You might catch me by phone, because the ringing drives me up a wall. Carry on.

Thursday, October 01, 2009 Me, Me, Me

Let’s just get that out of the way, shall we? Whew. All kinds of awkward avoiding that topic, but my fiance and I broke up quite a while ago—end of May, beginning of June—and I’ve been trying to respect feelings, etc.

I’m happy, he’s wonderful, and I can’t keep it quiet forever. Especially since he’s taking me overseas for his 40th in December. Please, no cougar jokes. He’s made them all already.

If you’re coming to Humanities West’s lecture series at the War Memorial in SF this weekend you’ll get to meet him. It’s on Copernicus, Galileo, and Kepler: Redefining Our Place in the Universe. Tickets still available, could use more sales, my mom’s running the show and really needs more attendees! She’s pouring her heart into this organization and this program and membership is down. Support the arts!

Saturday, September 19, 2009 Me, Me, Me

Ok, Internets, I need help. I keep waking up at the same time (three a.m.) after having the same dreams. These dreams inevitably involve, variously:

1. my old dorm room (only it isn’t);
2. college campus (only not);
3. some kind of rugged terrain that I’m often navigating on some clearly ill-suited conveyance, like a skateboard or feet that work like one;
4. the care of some pet that I hadn’t realized was my responsibility;
5. the inventory of some room or closet full of clothing—I know that if I can’t pack it all I will never see it again, and I usually have a plane to catch;
6. missing said plane, having to buy a first class ticket on the spot, usually to Paris though I have no business going there;
7. a jumbled class schedule so that if one thing is shifted I never know where the other one is or when it’s starting; and
8. my favorite, some sort of lethal game of hide and seek, either in a neighborhood with alleys and backyards (a la Chicago) or in an old, cavernous house.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? (props to a friend of Lee’s for that gem.)

There is always some sense of loss or worry, and it’s never about money, which, you know, you’d think would have my subconscious panties in a bunch.

There—I’ve supplied at least a half dozen interpretable neuroses and phobias; get to work!

Monday, September 14, 2009 Me, Me, Me, Other people who write, Family, Entertainment

So I arrived home Saturday night from Los Angeles, ready to collect the children from their dad’s Sunday morning. Order of business: get meds, allow brain chemistry to restore prior settings, collect children, hang out. Instead, I picked up only two, left the third still having a sleep over at dad’s, took one immediately to a playdate and the other to my house for thirty minutes and then to a playdate with the sleepover playdate’s brother. Why that needed two parents and four trips is beyond me, but then what isn’t, these days?

Am totally exhausted, but learned a ton this weekend from Sony Pictures and Sony Electronics. We had two intensive days of photography and video workshops, followed by places in the paparazzi pen at the red carpet premiere of “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs,” one of our family’s favorite books. I had no idea how they were going to make that wonderful though relatively short story into a full blown feature, but they did a stellar job. They worked on it for five years, so I suppose IT HAD BETTER BE GOOD. We had a chance to interview some of the stars Friday before watching the movie with a thousand of our closest friends at the Mann Theater in Hollywood.

Sony sent us home with some lovely gifts, including the HD Handycam HDR-CX100 and the Cybershot Exmor DSC-TX1. We also received instruction on the Alpha A380 DSLR, but had to leave them behind, following the Drug Dealer’s Credo: the first rock is always free; after that you’re on your own.” Tons of photos on Flickr from the Sony Mom group, practicing all over the Sony Pictures Lot and the W hotel where we were twice the age of everyone there.

Can I just say that we totally fell in love with the directors of CWACOM? They are like twelve years old and we wanted to just eat them up, but that would have been insulting to a couple of guys who have accomplished more before thirty than many before fifty, what with that side project, “How I Met Your Mother” and all. We had a blast talking with them, and heard that we were the most fun of all the interviews. They had each group in separate rooms at the Four Seasons and rotate the actors and directors through the rooms for fifteen minute interviews. I have no idea how long we went over, but we would not let them leave. It must have been okay, from the tweets we saw later from Philip Lord: “you guys were the hit of the premiere/the junket/our weekend. Warm wishes & let us know your readers’ reax 2 flik” and “mommies have mad internet reach y’all; follow @TheOnlineMom @TheMommyBlog @TheGoToMom @sourwine @EZF_MomBloggers or be left behind.”

Anyway, after so many days of holding equipment to my face and walking in high heels for an entire day all glammed up for the red carpet, I am WRECKED. Thrilled, but wrecked.

Oh, before I forget, I have a Public Service Announcement: PR people? If you are going to send perishables by Fedex, please be sure there will be someone in town to accept deliver. Thanks so much.

When I came home there was a box out front, a PR package from Gorton’s fish. It was full of exciting, new Gorton’s fish products, packed in what used to be dry ice. I’m sure it had been in the 100 degree heat for a day or two by the time I opened it and was hit by the wall of stench. So, basically, I went from chatting with iCarly’s Miranda Cosgrove and snapping closeups of James Caan from the paparazzi pen to clearing out rotting fish left on my doorstep. SO LIKE MOTHERHOOD TO DISH UP THE JUXTAPOSITION.

I don’t have all the cords I need to transfer the video, they are in the box being shipped for me from the event. Lots of good stuff, including Mr. T talking about how boys should love their mothers, James Caan deftly steering his wife and kids clear of the rabid mommy bloggers at the end of the red carpet, Miranda Cosgrove saying hello to my daughter on camera, and the directors, Chris Miller and Philip Lord saying what fans they were of a friend of mine who loves “How I Met…” Hilarious. “Hi! We like you too! We suited up for you!”
Anna Faris was amazing, so down to earth, was a geek at heart, loved insects as a child, and completely won me over. Bill Heder slayed me with the stories about the Dateline NBC guy he’s parodied on SNL. He said he and his wife would just be sitting around on Sundays, watching the show and marveling at how the host could drag a five minute story out for two hours. Then I watched the SNL clips. The guy is seriously funny, though a little scared he’s going to get into an elevator with him at 30 Rockefeller. And Neil Patrick Harris, well, I can’t say how funny and friendly he is.

OK! Off to film for Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Channel, twice, and then ABC New Now later on. Oh, and laundry and school runs. And lord know what else, but if I owe anyone anything out there and you haven’t received what I promised, lemme know. I need a kick in the pants.

Thursday, September 10, 2009 Me, Me, Me, Bad Mood Dude, Travel

Hey everyone, it’s time for another installment of “Mindy Gets on a Plane!”

For some reason, air travel is a little more… interesting for me than for most. Take Cincinnati (please). I ran roughly two point four miles to catch a connection ten minutes after landing and learning my second flight had been canceled. I was running with my bags, shoes off, phone to ear, taking notes on my kid’s Nintendo DS pictochat because I didn’t have a pen when the PR person started rattling off new gate information.

I think that was the week after I fell into the rose bush. But I digress.

I was set to fly to Los Angeles this morning to visit Sony Electronics to check out some new cameras and to Sony Pictures for the red carpet premiere of “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.” Yes, me, on a red carpet. Has anyone seen “Miss Congeniality?” That’s about what I’m expecting: a full pratfall followed by a shoulder roll.

Anyway, I checked my itinerary before leaving the house like any good girl, and realized that the hotel and flight reservations were made in the name of Mindy Robertson. Oh, boy. What were the odds I’d get through security? My name is Roberts.

I called the airlines, only half-hopeful that anything could be done and almost a little relieved because I have so much to do in the next few days that would be just so much HARDER to do from the W in Westwood, with Sony Pictures all up in my grill. When I finally got a customer service rep, I asked what the chances were that I’d get to check in with a different name.

“It’s in the name of Robertson, and I’m Roberts. The person who made the reservation is named Peterson, so I can see what happened.”

“Do you have the reservation number?”

“Not on what they sent me.”

“Do you have the last four digits of the card used to make the reservation?”

“It was made by SONY PICTURES, no I don’t have the number.”

“Okay, let me see what we can do. Hang on, is the name on your license Mindy?”

Crap. “No. It’s Melinda. I’m not getting on that plane, am I?”

“Let’s see.”

*hold music, interrupted occasionally by bad airline humor*

“Okay! The name has been changed for you.”

“Really? Just like that? You actually changed it from Mindy Robertson to Melinda Roberts?”

“Yes!”

“I’ve got a few more reservations to check that might be in the wrong name… kidding. But thank you! I’d better scoot!”

Hurdle #1 down.

I had barely enough time to get dressed and scram, racing (at a respectable 65 miles per hour) to the airport in record time.

First mistake, coming right up. I parked at the wrong terminal. I KNOW. SHUT UP.

I actually crossed the whole parking lot, walked all the way through the baggage claim, past security, and to the end of the counters before getting that sinking feeling in my gut.

And then I walked aaallllll the way back to my car and braved the exit attendant. “I, um, parked in the wrong lot.”

“Don’t do that! We were all worried! Wondered where you were!” Funny guy. “That will be one dollar.”

“Stupidity tax.”

“Yep.”

“See ya.”

So the other terminal is in the next county, and everyone has a different accent there. Seriously, by the time I parked again, walked to check in, lumbered through security (almost walked through the detector with my back pack on. I took off my shoes, but not my luggage.) and jogged seventeen miles to the gate, I was tired, hungry, irritated, and breaking a major sweat. So, not all that different from how I am normally.

Wanna guess how much time I had before boarding? Like TWENTY MINUTES. I HATE AIRPORTS.

Oh, and isn’t Southwest the most persnickety airline you ever did see? They have you line up under signs with numbered groups on them, and ask that you have your boarding pass out, preferably printed side up, and that you arrange yourself in line roughly according to the order assigned on your ticket. I was Group B, Number 34. I felt like an idiot trying to find my place. Am I cutting? Does it matter? The guy behind me was all agitated because his number was lower than mine and I was all, “Don’t even ask me to switch, buddy, because we’re getting on that plane ten seconds apart in the end.”

Just before the doors closed, one other guy and I were waiting under the Group B sign. Just us. I started giggling. The guy turned. I said, “This is just like the scene in ‘Meet the Parents’ where he’s standing all by himself while they wait to board his section.

He laughed. “Sir, please step aside, we are not boarding you yet.”

I snickered. The gate attendant called us. We suppressed more laughter. I thought I should explain. “You see, it’s like that scene in ‘Meet the Parents’? When there’s just one guy left to board?” He held his hand out, waiting patiently for my boarding pass. Apparently, he didn’t understand my accent.

And then I was standing in the aisle, holding my black bag, turning left and right, looking for a place to stash it. I started laughing again. I thought, you’ll have to pry this bag out of my cold dead hands, so step off bitch.

Hey, time to turn off all electronic devices and look for my driver.

*putting on big sunglasses*

Update: He was holding a sign that said, “Mrs. Robertson.”

And I have a studio! SWEEEET.

Friday, August 21, 2009 Me, Me, Me, Other people who write, Social Communities and Groups, Technology

If the name fits… ahahahaha! At first I typed “bane.” Lord help me.

I’m speaking on a panel with the ever lovely Beth Blecherman of TechMamas and Silicon Valley Moms Group at the Chicks Who Click conference in Palo Alto tomorrow!

Overview
We are Chicks who Click—Minds that are creative, connected and looking to collaborate – with dynamic women- to be the best in our fields through social media. Chicks Who Click not only know tools such as blogging, social networks, conversations and communities, but understand the smartest ways to use them to achieve personal and career goals.  We are also educating our communities on the importance of encouraging girls and young women to pursue careers in technology.

At every Chicks Who Click event, we will share how to make your relationships count, we will empower you to use your social toolbox and we will help you refine your personal brand.

What
A one-day Social Media Conference for Women incorporating networking, education and empowerment with like-minded women, achieving great heights in the area of Social Media.

Who
Chicks who Click is a community of women that are growing and flourishing through Social Media. Our vision was to create a conference, a think tank, if you will, for women to come together to listen, teach, experiment and connect with like-minded women face to face, stay connected through Twitter, Blogging, Facebook or Flickr, and to empower each other in achieving great heights in our careers and journeys; and lastly, to collaborate our efforts as women in the male-dominated field of technology.

Visit Us Online!
Follow Denise Smith on Twitter @Deetells
Become a fan on Facebook!
Follow the Conference on Twitter at #CWC09
Read our Blog at chickswhoclickblog.net