i came, i saw, i juggled.
One year ago: I am at the Austin Screenwriters Convention. October: month of conventions.
Two years ago: I host a "convention" of Adlers at my house.
Three years ago: I work on an ER script for class.
Four years ago: I OD on a convention of Wiseguys.
Friday
We woke up before Sophia did. I'd tell you the last time that happened but I don't think it ever has.
We got out the door on time -- I had planned an hour's drive to the airport. But then I made a major mistake, one so huge I turned to Darin and said, "Don't ever let me forget this: take the 405 instead of Sepulveda." I took Sepulveda Boulevard instead of the freeway, which was a mistake of mammoth proportions. The freeway is always faster. Always. Lots of people in LA believe taking surface streets is faster. They are wrong, wrong, wrong. Trust me on this.
We got to the airport, parked, fought once or twice (traveling is probably the most stressful time for our relationship, which is unfortunate as we travel a lot), and got to the gate, where we discovered we were so late we had already lost our seats and they were going to seat us separately. I think I gave the gate clerk a look of abject horror -- either that, or I raised Sophia up as a prop -- and she gave us two seats together, at the front of the plane. So showing up late was a good idea: we got better seats.
We survived four and a half hours of SuperBun riding in our laps. I am ashamed to say Darin served as the Baby Bed on both legs of the trip, but not so ashamed I tried to take Sophia from him so she could sleep on me. Having a baby sleep on you for an hour and a half to two hours is uncomfortable under the best of conditions, which airplanes decidedly are not.
Got to Pittsburgh, where I heard my name on the PA system. Dreama had paged me, so I called her back, and she said she had just arrived at the hotel with the last load on the Journalcon shuttle, because the traffic in downtown Pittsburgh was awful -- did we want to wait for her to make her way back, or did we want to take a taxi? We opted for the taxi.
At the hotel, Darin took Sophia and I checked in. Or rather, I tried to check in. It was either checking in, or an improvised comedy routine.
DIANE rests on the marble countertop.
DIANE
I have a reservation for a
non-smoking king room.
The CLERK reads the hotel computer's screen.
CLERK
Is queen-sized all right? We
don't have any more king. And
I don't see your reservation.
Diane does her best imitation of raising an
eyebrow.
CLERK (cont'd)
Oh wait, there it is. Do you
want smoking or non-smoking?
DIANE
Non-smoking.
CLERK
Hmmm. It seems all the non-smoking
rooms in your block have been taken.
Is smoking okay?
DIANE
Why, no, it isn't.
CLERK
Okay, let me see what I can do...
(types)
All right, I've got it. Here you go.
She hands Diane two plastic card room KEYS.
DIANE
Non-smoking king?
CLERK
No, two double beds. It was the
only room left in your block.
Diane hands back the room keys.
DIANE
Forget the block, okay? Forget
I'm here for the convention. I
want a non-smoking king room.
CLERK
But we'd have to charge you more.
Would that be okay?
DIANE
Why don't you tell me what it's
going to cost, and then I'll
decide?
CLERK
(pointing to another
clerk)
Let me ask her what we can do.
DIANE
Why don't you do that.
Meanwhile, Darin was off at the Starbucks in the hotel lobby, where I had sent him to get me a latte -- I had quite the caffeine-deprivation headache. There was one person in line ahead of him. Other than the two of them, there were no other customers in the Starbucks.
Darin got up to the register and ordered my latte.
"It'll be a half hour," said the barista. "Somebody just came in with a big order."
Darin did not place my order. He told me to write Starbucks a letter. I said I would, right after I wrote the Westin a letter.
I got the room I wanted (at the group rates, huzzah) and the three of us went upstairs to collapse. Well, two of us collapsed; the third tried to pry the remote control out of Daddy's hands. I called Dreama again and discovered everyone was gathering in the lobby at 7 to go to dinner. So we did not stay collapsed for long. I dug Sophia's coat and socks out of the luggage and we took her downstairs.
There were lots of people down there. Lots and lots. And they'd all met at the reception (which I missed) and from having arrived earlier in the day. However, Darin and I had brought the Secret Weapon: Sophia was excited out of her mind at seeing so many people, many of whom paid a lot of attention to her.
Two groups set off and took what we later discovered was the Seriously Long Way 'Round to the restaurant (Dowe's on Ninth). Well, it was sort of like a bonding experience, akin to those Wilderness Experience teambuilding offsites companies are always going on.
Darin and I got a table, but no one joined us -- maybe a table with a family, including a bouncing seven-month-old, was intimidating. Especially when it became obvious it was time for the seven-month-old's dinner too. I may be exceedingly comfortable breastfeeding in front of others now, but others don't feel the same way!
After Darin and I finished dinner, we abandoned our table and went back to the "bar" section of the balcony (Journalcon had the whole balcony), where it was easier to talk to others and to bobble Her Highness, who attracted a few people. I chatted with Ryan for a while, and then Ryan pointed out Carolyn Burke, with whom I was doing the first session in the morning: "Online Journals: Past, Present, and Future." He mentioned he'd heard Beth and Pamie had "something" planned for their session, maybe a song-and-dance.
Wow. Hey. Gee, I don't feel intimidated. I mean, sure, Carolyn and I hadn't exchanged one word about our session, but...heh. Heh. Gulp.
I didn't think a lot of planning was necessary, but some was. I've been to a fair number of conventions -- science-fiction conventions, high-tech conventions (and no, they're not the same thing), film conventions -- and the panels that worked the best had had some effort put into them. Not a lot -- the highly scripted ones felt mechanical -- but not none, either. The no-prep sessions were the biggest waste of time. No one had thought out points they wanted to hit or come up with a list of questions for panelists to answer or what.
I went over to her table and introduced myself. I asked her what time she got up in the mornings. "Six," she said. What a coincidence; me too. We made a date to meet for breakfast at seven-thirty to chat about what we could talk about in our session.
Pookie reached her limits of socialization -- she had been quite the trouper, and now she let us know the bar was closing down, no last drink orders, please -- and Darin and I called it a night. We said goodbye to everyone, and another couple, Carrie and Eric, decided to walk back with us. Carrie has just found out she's pregnant, so I gave my standard pregnancy advice, which I will repeat here for the benefit of any possibly pregnant women among my readers:
If someone starts to tell you a story about her pregnancy, stop her immediately and ask if it's a happy story. If it's not, tell her to shut the hell up.
Don't be polite and listen to their "experience." Be firm and say, "I don't want to hear it." Because you don't need to hear it and you shouldn't hear it. No one's pregnancy has any bearing on what your pregnancy will be like. Pregnancy is scary enough without someone telling you what is basically a horror story. Women who have had awful pregnancies often don't get the therapy they need to deal with what they've gone through, and they substitute sharing their horrible birth stories with other moms-to-be instead.
Don't put up with it. Just say no.
Back in our room, Darin asked me what I was going to talk about in my session. "I don't know," I told him. He was a font of suggestions: I could talk about how I started my journal, about finding other journals, about this, that, or the other. I felt pressured. I always do when Darin wants me to start riffing, whether it's on ideas of what to talk about or story ideas or what to do for dinner.
It didn't occur to me until I was going to bed that 7:30am in Pittsburgh is 4:30am mytime, and I did not get up at 4:30 my time.
Saturday: The buzzer went off...
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Copyright 2000 Diane Patterson
Send comments and questions to diane@nobody-knows-anything.com