QoE attends a work conference. It's actually better than it sounds.

So.  Work conference meeting thing.  With The Boss.  Giant ass hotel/conference center.  Really giant.  Seriously.  Go look up Gaylord Opryland hotel and check out a map of that bad boy.  I walked at least two miles last night, and at least half of that was just from the parking lot.  Because I am cheap and refuse to pay $21 to "self-park". W. T. F.  

Instead I parked in the free lot that is approximately 87 miles away in the far corner of the property and hoofed my fat ass all the way across the massive expanse of asphalt.  Then I proceeded to navigate my way through another good mile of hotel bullshit.  There are no straight shots in this place.  Everything is scenic and meandering and confusing as fuck.  I've been going here relatively often since high school, and I still get lost.  It is a directional nightmare.  

I get there and start making my way through the various themed sections of this monstrosity.  The Boss calls.  Says he's arriving in a few and that I should "Find the bar nearest to the conference room.  That's where I will be."  Of course he will.  I would expect no less.

Unfortunately, there is a huge conference of some sort there and all the restaurants and bars are closed off for Private Events.  After asking two separate employees where the closest bar is, I finally found him.  And yes, that sounds as comical as it seems.

Staff:  I'm sorry ma'am, this section is Reserved.

QoE:  Yeah, okay.  I just need to know where the closest bar is to meeting room

Staff:  *look that is questioning yet also radiates disapproval*

QoE:  I have a meeting at 6.  The Boss said to find the closest bar to the room and that's where he'd be.

Staff:  Oh. I see. (how can a hospitality employee manage to radiate such disdain? it's a gift, apparently)  Go through the double doors and continue through the large lobby with the blue carpet.  When you get to the lobby with the gold carpet, you will see the Jack Daniels logo of the bar.

* Because, yes, this place is that massive that they must give directions to the sections by way of the carpeting color.  ridiculous *

I get to the bar.  It too is reserved.  Contemptuous staff guarding the entrance. I saunter on over.

QoE:  Hi.  So, where is the nearest bar that ISN'T reserved?

Staff:  *raised eyebrow*

QoE:  Find the nearest bar, find The Boss

Staff: * superior lip curl *  I do not think there are any bars not reserved this evening.

QoE: *glancing up staircase and pointing*  Oh, never mind, there he is.

We are off to a whiz bang start.  We loiter around for a few, waiting for time to go into this meeting.  Here are my notes from the evening:

Meeting Notes:

This feels like we are about to watch a pitch for a timeshare on the beach.

Yep.  Oh joy.

There’s an open forum.  This could be bad if The Boss decides to chime in.

Very bad jokes.  No one is laughing.  Tough crowd, he says.  No, we just think you jokes suck.

Highlight so far:  Free pen.  And notepad.  Whee!

Okay then.  One thing to pay attention to.  Except we use a similar program and I think ours is better.  But still, make a note to do some further comparison of the two.

Blah blah blah

Uh-oh.  The Boss just sat up and started paying attention. 30 minutes to food – Priorities.

Sweet Jesus this shit is boring.

Oh, late arrivals coming in.  Bastards.  They missed thirty minutes of this crap.  Curse my punctual nature.

This guy keeps talking about how the product is “high level”.  Yeah.  We so do not function at this high level.

And he keeps referencing juggling spreadsheets … I must be doing something wrong cause I don’t juggle spreadsheets.  But I do like a nice spreadsheet from time to time.  It brings a false sense of order and calm to the chaos.

However, feel comatose from the sales pitch.

This provided meal better not be some brown bag sandwich bullshit.  Fat girl wants good food for enduring this fuckery.

One third of the women here are wearing some form of leopard print.  I feel very beige.

It’s cold.  My fingers are numb.

The Boss just asked if I wanted to bail at the dinner break and go get bar food.  Duh.  Of course I do.  But, my sense of responsibility prevents that.  I have Catholic guilt and I am not even Catholic.  He IS Catholic and has no conscious about ditching.  Actually, just no conscious. Interesting.

The couple in front of us to the left are snuggled up.  Either they are hypothermic or this is the worst date EVER.

Onboarding program = no job for me.  That sucks. Yes, by all means, recommend a program that effectively makes my job obsolete.  Hope The Boss isn’t paying attention … shit.

Hold up note pad for him to read that says, “This eliminates my job. Onboarding is a NO.”

The Boss shows me his notepad.  The only thing written says, “Onboarding looks like a viable option.”

The Boss is an ass. He finds it hilarious that he’s brought me to a seminar that is demonstrating software programs that essentially eliminate my job.  Oh, the irony.

The food is surprisingly tasty for hotel buffet food. I made it through the line without a disaster. Well, except for dumping my dessert helping directly onto the middle of the dessert table.  That was pretty awesome.  I’m sure no one will notice the big whipped cream blob on the crisp white linen tablecloth.

Ok. Flaky puff pastry is NOT my friend.  I’m like a toddler over here, making table art with my food.

You know what? I love fresh berries.  But, if you are presenting something that looks like Tiramisu, it should involve chocolate and espresso, NOT berries.  Angry.  Still eating it. Dammit, it’s good.

The Boss has been gone for quite a while to get a drink.  He left his phone and keys, so he has to come back.  Though I really wouldn’t put it past him to try to escape and hide out somewhere.

Now it’s hot in here. 

Asked The Boss if I could put this three hours on my time sheet.  He laughed.  A lot.  I am guessing that’s a no. I'm totally adding it to my time sheet anyway.

Completely distracted by the bald guy in front.  How did I miss that before?  The bald spot is narrow and cylindrical shaped.  It’s like a condom shape down the middle of his head.  That’s freakish.

More crap I don’t care about.  Ignoring it to stare at weird bald spot.

Want to snap pic of bald guy.  Can’t without the presenters sitting behind me knowing what I am doing.  I do have a small amount of professional decorum. Conflicted.

Just completely zoned out and started thinking about new fall TV shows.  I have no idea what that last bit was about. Not even sorry.

The guy directly in front of us has his arm across the back of the guy next to him’s chair.  Awkward.  Maybe they are on a shitty date too.  Ha.  I am funny.

The new iPhone, in a case, is larger than a Pop Tart.  That’s weird.

Brain numb.

8:30. Finally.  Home stretch.

Bald spot is very shiny. It’s mesmerizing.

The current presenter, when viewed from a certain angle, and with eyes slightly squinted, slightly resembles David Boreanaz.  Spent almost his entire presentation thinking about Buffy & Angel. Have no idea what he talked about.

Parting gifts.  That’s nice.  Bluetooth speaker.  Multi cord charger thingy.  Can we say re-gift? Yes.  Yes, we can.

Synopsis:   

  

Free pen and parting goodies

Decent food, despite the Tiramisu deception.  That was bullshit.

New product offering that makes employing me totally unnecessary

So, meeting over.  Now it's 9 PM and time to make our way out.  The Boss declares that he has a "free night out" so he's hitting a bar.  I decline.  I ask if he's going to drive me to the Outer Rim so I don't have to walk, alone, at night, all the way across 100 miles of asphalt to my vehicle.  He laughs and tells me I am on my own.  Then he piles his folders and parting girts into my arms and tells me to take his stuff too.  He REALLY is an ass.

I follow a herd of conference attendees as they seem to know a shortcut.  Alas, it IS a shortcut.  But, I end up in a different area of the section where I entered and go out a different door than what I came in through.  Shit.  I have no idea where I am.

(Interesting fact.  If I have a map, I can figure shit out.  Left on my own, I have pretty much zero capability of visualizing where I am and where I need to be, thus rendering me pretty much useless for navigational purposes.  Like now.)

I start walking.  Through a large parking lot.  I get a good quarter of the way around the perimeter of the hotel.  Where the fuck am I?  This does not look right at all.  Dammit.  Spot valet guys.  Ask them where lot I need is.  Explain that I came out a different door than I went into and have no fucking clue where I am, or which direction I need to be going in.

They look at me like they think I am probably drunk, possibly mentally unstable. Tell me I am going in the wrong direction.  Of course I am.  Turn around and head back the way I came.  Keep going about halfway around the hotel in the proper direction.  Again.  Alone.  In the dark.  Juggling an armload of folders and small boxes of parting gifts.  Finally find lot and make it to vehicle.  Curse The Boss all the way to pick up The Minion from The Mother of All Evil.

It's almost 10 AM.  Guess who hasn't called or come in yet.  Bastard.  I hope he is hung over and miserable.

Hormones are fun, she said sarcastically.

I started getting irritable last night.  After snapping at POF during dinner prep for no good reason, I decided that I had to be hitting my PMS stride.  I could go from happy to rage in a single sentence.  Fun times.

Sure enough, this morning I had some acne breakouts on my chest.  I can deal with that.  But what’s this?  Acne.  On my scalp.  WTF?!  Okay, that’s new and not so fun.  Have you ever hit your head on a cabinet or shelf and had a sore spot?  It’s like that.  In about 4 places.  With what feels like bumps the size of a golf ball … though I looked in the mirror and they are really tiny and not huge and freakish at all.  So that’s a plus at least.

Anyway, hormone overload.  Short temper. Grrrrrrrrrrr.

I got up at 4:30, as always, to pack POF’s cooler for the day.  Now, I know there are two schools of thought on alarms.  The people that have one or two alarms on their phone, programmed to go off automatically every day as needed.  And the people that have like 30 alarms set on their phone, none automatically.  Guess which one is POF?  This makes me crazy.  I mean, how hard is it for a grown man to set a freaking alarm?  Too hard, apparently. 

I packed his lunch, and went back to lay down at about 4:50.  Because I am grumpy and hateful and want more sleep.  He woke up as I came back into the bedroom.  I asked if his alarm was set.  He said it was.  It was not.  So, when my second alarm went off at 5:30, he was still there.  Asleep.  And he was pissy because he usually leaves the house by 5:15.  Lots of muttered curses and big sighs and frustrated huffs followed.  And it was generally my fault, as it always is.  Because apparently I am supposed to ensure that he remembers to set his alarm.  Really?  You need an alarm every day.  How can you not remember this on your own?  Baffles me.  Makes me want to hit things on a good day, so you can imagine how I feel with PMS Crazy.  Seething rage is a good description.

Anywhoodle …. POF is out the door in 5 minutes.  I did get a text later to say he made it without being more than a few minutes late, so that is a good thing.  He has to drive over an hour to his work site, so he does allow a few extra minutes for traffic fuckery.

That leaves me.  Still angry with PMS Crazy.  I shower.  And, oh look.  A sty is popping up on my eye.  FUN.  Add that to my lumpy acne scalp and boob zits, and I am feeling like Quasimodo level attractive.

The Minion does not want to get up. I get snacks packed, my lunch packed, and throw a waffle in the toaster.  Holy shit.  You would have thought I’d drawn and quartered the kid over that damn waffle.  He didn't want it toasted.  See, my kid is odd in that he eats his frozen waffles frozen.  Straight out of the box.  It’s a thing.  I don’t care as long as he’s happy about it.  I have tried it myself, and they aren't half bad.  Whatevs.  Moving on.  He REFUSES to eat said waffle.  Battle of wills ensues.

Regardless of The Waffle Standoff, we manage to get dressed and ready to go with about ten minutes to spare.  So I relent and give him a frozen waffle.  He eats and we gather stuff up to leave.  By this time, we are needing to go ASAP.  Two minutes difference in departure can make the difference between a 5 minute commute to school with hardly any line and a ten minute commute with a good 10 minute line. Twice in the last week I have had to actually park and walk him swiftly to the doors so he wasn’t late because we got stuck in the later traffic.

I start to pull out of the driveway and all hell breaks loose.  He wanted the LeapPad.  It’s inside because he knows we don't do the games in the morning thing anymore.

Here’s the deal.  Before, when he was in preschool, we had about a fifteen minute drive in the mornings to the other side of town.  I would let him take the LeapPad or Nook and watch a video or play a game on the way to school.  Now that we are a mile from school, I have stopped doing that.  Drop off line is serious business, and you have to be ready to deploy like a paratrooper with military precision when you hit your mark and stop the vehicle.  There is no sitting in the parking lot for ten minutes waiting for him to finish his level or his favorite part of the cartoon.  Shit is serious when it comes to kindergarten arrival times.

Well.  I told him that he wasn't getting the LeapPad because we were already getting behind schedule and would be late.  He lost his fucking mind.  I slammed the van into park and jumped out.  PMS Crazy kicked in.  I opened that side door and jumped in, chewed him a new ass, threatened to spank him, and then got back into the front, barking orders to buckle up.  He was crying and yelling back at me.  It was not a Proud Parenting Moment.  It was a PMS Crazy Parenting Fail.  Big time.

We head to school.  I angrily inform him that this tantrums over stupid shit MUST stop.  Not in those exact words.  I was using the serious, angry mom tone. He informed me that he did not care and he was MAD at me and NOT talking to me.  Fine.  I didn't feel like talking to him.

We are inching forward in the traffic line and he tells me that when we get to school, and get to the front of the line, and he opens to door to get out, he is NOT giving me a hug and telling me bye.  And I said that was fine because I didn't feel very huggable right about then.  Angry silence ensues.

We get to school and the line is short and moving swiftly.  I tell him to go ahead and move up to the middle seat so he’s ready to jump out.  He refuses.  Says he’s not ready to get out.  I tell him that he has to because we are almost there.  We stop.  He won’t budge.  Then he bursts into tears.  Tells me he’s not ready to get out because he’s sorry and he’s going to miss me today.

Well, fuck.

Now PMS Angry turns into PMS Sobbing and I have to get out of the van and go around to the side door and try to coax him out as he’s crying.  And that is a BIG no-no.  You no NOT exit your vehicle in the drop off line.  Finally he shuffles forward and I grab him in a big hug and kiss his head, telling him I love him.  I turn around and set him down, and here comes the Assistant Principal to tell me to get into the van.  And then she sees the tears.  She stopped.  Didn't say a word.  Just took his hand and started telling him what a big fun day they were having, gently leading him toward the doors.  I called out a goodbye and jumped back in because everyone was waiting on me.  That woman deserves a cookie bouquet or something for that.  It was the perfect act of kindness that I needed in that moment.

I pulled out and headed to work.  And lost my shit.  I cried like a lunatic, then sat in the parking lot for a good 5 minutes trying to get my shit together so I didn't look like a PMS Crazy when I finally walked in. An office full of men is NOT equipped to deal with that.  Ever.

Still reeling from my emotional roller coaster, I texted my bestie.  She has two kids, so I knew she could relate.  I poured out my tale of woe.  And she knew just what to say:

Bestie:   Poor Momma. He will be okay. He will get to class and forget about the morning.

Me:        I know it. My hormones are making me crazy.

Bestie:   Find a book or bury yourself in work. It’s all good. I yell at the oldest all the time and she’s fine.

Me:        Heh.  That’s funny.

Bestie:   At least you don’t have to be PMSing with two teenage girls also

PMSing. That’s me. Poor husband.

Me:        Good Lord.  I’m pretty sure God knew I couldn't handle a girl. LOL

Bestie:   Oldest just said no aunt QoE needs boys. Haha

Me:        Yeah.  I’d be on the news if I had girls. Truth.

     I love her.  And her sister.  But I could not live with her. All with PMS.       Someone would not survive it.  I’m guessing it would be me.

     You deserve a freaking medal or something for that shit.

And just like that, I felt better.  I am still on a PMS Crazy roller coaster of emotion.  Right now there’s no coffee, and I can’t decide whether to break shit or cry.  But I know that when this day is over, I am going to go get my Minion and give him a big hug and then everything really will be okay.  Unless he refuses the hug.  Then I will resort to the Force Cuddle.  That’s what I call it when he doesn't want hugs but I make him endure them.  He actually Force Cuddled me for the first time a week ago, and it was just the best. 

I need a donut. Chocolate glazed.  This office’s survival today may very well depend on it.

the very short one where i think i broke the blog ... but maybe didn't

Ya'll.  I am not what you would call technologically capable.  I am woefully ignorant of this stuff.  It traumatizes me.

So, I was screwing around and broke the blog.  For a moment, I thought I had broken the blogger site, and possibly the internet itself.  Al Gore was about to send me a harshly worded letter.

Suddenly, all the pictures that I had put in the entries were gone.  Gone, I say!  And I tried to put stuff back and it just made things go sloooooooow and then things looked weird.  And then nothing would happen at all.  And Oh My God, Hold Me.

But I think I got it fixed.  I am still traumatized and woefully ignorant.  And Lord knows I need a big dose of chocolate and a hug.

Please note, I have no clue what I did to cause the problem, and I am equally unsure what exactly I did to fix it.  All I know is that pictures are back and the thing is loading.  So, yay me.

Damn.  Shit like this is why I sometimes consider day drinking.  At my desk.

Talking about body parts with my kid makes me awkward

The Minion hasn't really started asking a lot of questions about where babies are born or anything like that, so I've dodged the bullet so far.  But he does occasionally ask me if I pee out my butt or something like that, and it makes me pause.  The other day we got into that general discussion about boys vs. girls and peeing.  And it made me realize two things.

      I really don’t have a name for my nether regions.  I never refer to it by anything specific.

             When I do refer to said region, male or female, I generally use some sort of ridiculous term like nether region or dangly bits. 

It started as a joke years ago, making fun of those silly romance novels with their amusing phrases for sex and genitals. And then it became a habit.  It’s become so normal for me to throw out one of those terms that saying penis or vagina feels weird and awkward.  Kind of like the way you might refer to your husband as Honey or Daddy and then, when you call him by his actual name, it just feels wrong somehow.

So, here I am.  Awkward.  I know eventually these discussions need to happen.  And I am willing to let them come about naturally.  But then I panic.  I mean, he’s five.  I don’t want to give him TOO much information.  And I don’t want to get too technical or complicated so that he just doesn’t even understand what I am saying (and I might have a tendency to do that).  I also don’t want to give him wrong information.  And finally, I just want to avoid it.  I mean, I know if I throw out a new and odd sounding word like vagina, he’s gonna latch onto that baby and work it into every conversation.  And that is probably just about the last thing I want to deal with.

And I realized that I have a touch of prude to me.  I will blame it on being Southern.  This is something that ladies just do NOT discuss.  Yet, at the same time, I don’t have a problem with seeing or hearing about sex, or even discussing it myself.  In most circumstances.  Yet, I get with my kid, and I just have a total panic and freeze moment.

Maybe it's because I know this stuff is important.  For him to have a healthy view of himself and others. For him to understand the importance of bodily function and self-respect and privacy and all that.  For him to, eventually, understand the concepts of respecting others and intimacy and responsibility and all that.

I want to be open and honest.  I want to be the mom that he can come to about anything like that.  In theory.  The reality is that I get uncomfortable and a little red-faced and I tend to stammer a bit.  My default response to some things has become, “I can’t really explain that in a way that you can understand at 5 years old.  When you are a little older, we will talk about it.”  Naturally, this leads to a million questions about how old is old enough and when and all that.  I have a feeling I might even resort to the whole “ask your father” response as time goes on.

So I am at an impasse.  I don’t want to give the kid ideas before he’s even thinking about things, but I also don’t want him to be doing teenage shit without anyone to guide him in the right direction.  I want him to talk to me.  I am also terrified at the prospect of him wanting to talk to me.  I know I will catch him in an awkward and embarrassing situation at least once.  I dread it.  I hope I handle it with a sense of humor and not make a total idiot of myself.  I’m fairly certain one of us will be scarred for life.  I’d rather it be me.

And none of this mental musing helps me at all because, for the life of me, I still have no idea what to say now when he asks me how I pee.  The usual response of “sitting down” isn't cutting it anymore.  And quite frankly, I feel even more ridiculous saying hoo-ha, or something similar. 

Then I have this image in my head of my kid telling his girlfriend he’d like to “stroke her lady bits”, and after I stop laughing, I realize that’s not gonna cut it either.

It’s actually embarrassing for me to even talk about now.  I mean, everyone has a nickname for the genitals, right?  And everyone casually uses slang terms and phrases, don’t they?  It just makes me all kinds of awkward and uncomfortable.  I can’t say “the p word” without feeling like my face is on fire and everyone is looking at me.  It’s just not proper.  Ladies do NOT say those things (said in that prim genteel Southern tone).

I wonder if it’s because I never really had those kind of talks with anyone as a kid growing up.  You just didn't talk about that kind of stuff.  I knew what a period was, and why it happened (thanks to that 5^th grade film we had to watch), but there was never any sort of mother-daughter bonding moment like something out of a tampon commercial.  There was no big fanfare, no declaration of womanhood.  Honestly, I don’t even think I said anything when I did start my period.  I knew the deal.  I knew where the supplies were.  I started using them.  It was just never really discussed.

At least not that I remember.  And there’s a chance that I have totally blocked out some meaningful exchange … that happens from time to time.  But, I am fairly certain that my mom wasn't even aware that it was happening until several months in.

Same goes for sex.  Thanks to health class I knew about safe sex and diseases and how babies get made and all that.  But there was never really any actual dialogue about it at home.  The sum total of her talk to me on sex was, “Don’t.”  So, naturally, I did.  I wasn't always responsible or careful, and to be honest, it’s nothing but pure luck that I didn't catch any diseases or get myself in a whole lot more trouble than I did. 

Bottom line, I don’t want my kid to have a kid while he’s still a teenager.  But I also don’t want to be either the mom that goes into detailed speeches about anatomical function and what’s “normal” and all that crap.  But I also don’t want to be the mom that can only sputter out something like “make sure you wrap it up” and then hastily leaves the room.  That whole “ask your father” response is looking better and better.

Somehow I just know I am going to hand him a book called something lame like Your Changing Body and then tell him to consult me with questions after he’s read it.  Sweet Jesus.