Whine And Sympathy

Day 4 of the 5-day bidness trip.

To date, I've been enduring repeated assaults by conference speakers who think that mumbling every single line on an 8-point type, chart-laden presentation is the path to corporate enlightment. I've been burning through Bullshit Bingo sheets at the rate of roughly 18 per session.

And I somehow managed to lose my bra - in my own hotel room. It was in the drawer when I went to bed but gone when I got up, apparently stolen by the same Underwear Gnome that lives behind our washing machine and eats The Boy's favorite cartoon-character underpants.

From a practical standpoint, the loss of the bra doesn't REALLY matter since it has been scientifically proven that I have the tiniest breasts in the world (and verified by the internet community - my #1 Google Search referral is from people entering "small breast mother"). However, I have to present to a large group of people tomorrow; from a confidence-building point of view, I'd prefer to holster the poached eggs instead of going commando.

But what really hurt was my last phone call home, when I found out that The Boy and I were no longer on speaking terms. He is angry with me for going away. And MD told me that The Girl has been taking my picture to bed with her because she can't remember exactly what I look like in person.

To make myself feel better, I went for a run, and spaced out listening to a playlist of self-pitying mopey emo songs. I came back to consciousness and realized that I had run six miles. All in one direction - east of frigging nowhere. Since it was getting dark, I had to run the six miles back and was feeling progressively crappier with every stride.

So when I finally made it back to the hotel, I vomited spectacularly all over the shiny marble floor. Right in front of a group of fellow conference attendees that were gathered for a cocktail reception. Those delicious fish tacos I'd had for dinner last night? Not nearly as charming during the encore presentation. And although the chunk-blowing was probably from overexertion, my hypochondria tells me otherwise. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to die from tomato-induced salmonella before I get the chance to atone to MD and Spawn for my absence.

I hope that doesn't happen. I'd like to leave Spawn with some heartwarming moments of actual togetherness, rather the fading impression of my voice on the other end of a cell phone. Although MD should make out pretty well, thanks to a hefty payout from my life insurance. I'm sure he'll find himself a new gold-digging slut on Match.com in no time.

Spawn WILL like me again someday. Won't they?