Posts Tagged ‘john curley’

Planes, Trains, and Playa Meltdowns

August 30, 2012


I had my first official playa melt down yesterday.  I am taking it really easy today.

Really easy.

In fact, I am taking it so easy that I am going to go take a nap here in just a few moments.  I am tired.


I am tired.

It is so hard to sleep when the sun is coming through the tent at 6 a.m.  I wake up, run to the loo and try to sleep as much as possible.  I generally can’t stay in bed past 8 a.m. I can’t get back to sleep as it gets hot way too fast.  I did have the chance to sleep in a trailer the night before last, but as I was trying to make a lot of things happen yesterday I was up quite early.


I wanted to make sure that I had every possible angle to take care of so that I would have the time to go for an airplane ride!

Getting ready for lift off

Airplane ride

I ran into an old friend who flew in from Boston and saw me as I was headed to a meeting and offered a ride.  I said yes in a heart beat and asked that I be able to bring one more person with me.

My darling Erica, my right hand woman, the best volunteer ever, ever, ever.

And John Curley’s partner.

I have gotten to spend some really nice moments with them since I have been here.  And she is such a help.  I don’t know that I could do it without her.  The drama factor is higher than some other work enivironments that I have been in, shocker, consider where I am, and she is a steady solid rock.

She was the first person that popped out of my mouth.

And I did not know that she was a little nervous about flying.  I forget that not everyone is interested in going up in a four seater Cessna.

Me, I can’t wait to climb aboard.

Apres the flight

Erica lands on the ground safe and sound.

But she was such a trooper.

She even steered the plane a little!

I just sat back and enjoyed the view.  It was a pretty awesome view, despite being poor visibility.

There was a lot of dust and smoke on the edges of the horizon and the mountains were fairly obscured.

Unfortunately, as well, the plane’s windows were very dusty and the visibility just through the airplane’s windows was poor.

None the less it was an awesome experience, more so just to have Erica be along for the ride.  I have known folks who have never gotten to go up in an airplane at Burning Man and I have gone twice.

The price of the plane ride was high, though, and I literally did not realize it until later that day when I was having my melt down in the living room over a dirty sock.

Yes, that is correct.

I lost it over a dirty sock.

The whole team landed yesterday.  The living space was taken over and that is not a bad thing, it was just what was happening.  I did not have  a place to decompress and when I came back from a long day, a late dinner, and intense work strife, all overly dramatic and silly, I broke down.

I just wanted some god damn privacy to have my cry.

I thought I would source a little space on the dusty couch in the corner.  I would take some wet wipes and sit down and just breathe and attend to my hands and dip them in coconut oil and wash away the day.


Instead there was mister dirty sock laying on the table next to misses abandoned stinky shoe, also laying on the table.

I lost my bits.

I lost my pieces.

I just stood there and shuddered.

My tent too hot, too dusty, too much.

I cried standing up shuddering.

I tried to go to another trailer, which was the hottest box of dust ever.  I thought I was going to throw up from the smell of dust in my nose and the dryness.

I went into another.


No thanks.


Bottles of Jack.

Fuck me.

I went back out and tried the hot trailer again, sobbed for a minute and then pulled it together.

I got the wet wipes, the coconut oil, a coconut water, turned off the radio, sat down and just sat.




I asked the friendly stranger to not touch me and I put some good music on my Ihome music cube and closed my eyes.

Tears ran down my face, and I breathed in and out until I could feel myself get back into my body.  After much-needed moisture fled my body I needed my hydration, so I got more coconut water and then I cleaned my paws.

I was exhausted.

Secret sauce?

I am really tired now too.

Slept in the tent last night and up by 8 a.m.  Breakfast, write, iced latte, meeting,  walk around camp, lunch, down load some photos and now, well, now I nap.

Hopefully I may actually go to Burning Man today.

But first to sleep.

And perchance to dream.

Paris is Burning (Man)

August 8, 2012

My heart is yearning, Paris is burning (man), Paris is burning (man).

Double whammy.


Where the hell do I even begin?

Let’s start with:

Your request has been approved for Carmen Martines (aka: Media Mecca Fluffer)

Your confirmation # is (fill in the blank, I ain’t posting up my Burning Man ticket number in case one of y’all decides to get your happy ass to roll call at the gate and try to use it.  Won’t matter none any how because I’ll be getting my paper ticket in person this Thursday)

Message: Thank you, Carmen!

(1) – Gift – Black Rock City 2012

I am going to Burning Man.  In less than twenty-four hours my ticket was approved, early arrival was approved I was confirmed as the Media Mecca official fluffer (nutter) and I got a tent from Jennifer, a sleeping pad from Megan, and yes, that’s right, a ride to the event from Mrs. Fishkin.


I am overwhelmed with gratitude, love, joy, excitement.  I cannot tell you how many times I “eeped” out loud and jumped up and down.

I’m going to Burning Man, I’m going to Burning Man, I’m going to Burning Man.

I am so excited.  I got the time off approved, my GM just sat right down and the computer and said just tell me what dates, of course you’re going.  In fact, he told me that some one had put in a request for the weekend of Burning Man (not to go to the event, some other trivial thing, ya know) and he told me that he did not approve it because despite me saying I did not think I was going, he thought I was.

I am!

I talked on the phone with my Media Mecca Mistress Ms. Lee Anna this morning and confirmed it all up.  She has put me down on the official map for the event, I will be camping next to her and Megs and John Curley (oh stop my heart is just going to beat with joy out my chest, I get to be next to Curley too!) and Will Chase and Megan and Lee Anna and Nurse.

I am dying.



In my wildest I did not see this happening.  I just did not.  Amazing what happens when I get the hell out-of-the-way.  Amazing what happens when I stop insisting that it has to go this way.  I am no longer playa nanny.

I am now the fluffstress.

I am going to get silly with the moniker, you know I am.

Stephanie saying to me, “you know, I mean, you know, don’t you, your mouth just screams blow job.”


Fluff this bitches.

Now add to the happy mix this news, just in:


Departing Flight Leaving San Francisco, CA  (SFO) at 10:20 AM on  Thursday, November 1,  2012
Arriving Paris , France  (CDG) at 8:40 AM on  Friday, November 2,  2012
Flight From To Travel Time/Class
American Airlines
 Flight 2137
San Francisco Intl (SFO)
San Francisco, CA
10:20 AM
Dallas/Fort Worth Intl (DFW)
Dallas, TX
3:45 PM

Oh yes, that little thing.
That is the second ticket confirmation I received today in my gmail inbox.
I am moving to Paris.
It is on.
I fly out Thursday, November 1st, 2012 @ 10:20 a.m. from the International Hub at SFO to Paris.  One brief layover in Dallas then over night to Paris.  Arriving at Charles De Gaulle Friday, November 2nd at 8:40 a.m.  Just in time to hit the morning markets.
Oh holy mother of God.
I have done it.  The ticket is bought.  I am moving to Paris.
I am moving to Paris.  I am moving to Paris.  I am moving to Paris.
And I found a ticket for about a hundred less than I was thinking I was going to spend.
Yes, mom, I bought a round trip ticket, so if anything should go wrong, I have an out.  If I get deported, not going to happen, I have an out.  If I hate it, not going to happen, I have an out.  I bought one with a three month turn around time, as that is how long my passport is good for when traveling to Europe.
Mrs. Fishkin reminded me to talk to Ellen, who I had totally spaced about, moved to Paris and had lived there and I completely forgot about that.  I nannied a few times for her and I definitely need to sit and chat with her and with Robyn, who is has been pointed out to me as well, lived in Paris.
I called Barnaby when I got home tonight and left a message.  I said I’m ready let’s do this.  He called me back and said, pull the trigger, I will see you in the city on Saturday.
So I pulled the trigger.
My bank account is now significantly less fat, but I am still solvent for this month.
Mrs. Fishkin also told me, time to tell the Universe that you need more money.
Ok then.
I would like to make more money, Universe.  However, I don’t want to work more hours, I don’t think I could possibly cram another hour of work into my schedule.  Mrs. Fishkin said ask you and you will receive, but be specific, and I realized, shit, I have asked before and gotten just that, more money.
I also ended up working for crazy neurotic parents that drove me up the wall with their micro-managing.
I want to work some where creative and fun, somewhere I learn more and get to be of service, utilize my people skills, I am good with people, have fun, did I say have fun?  Yes, be in the mix in the culture. Get to see people I love, engage with the community, write, and be paid well.
Live abroad.
Like, oh, in Paris.
Oh my gosh.
I just got off the phone with John Ater, I called him first.  I got to thank him, and he said, “honey, I didn’t do anything, you did all the work.”
I agree to disagree, a tiny bit.
He listened to me, he told me to breathe, he told me to follow my heart, he told me to write, he told me to stop stepping on my own neck, he told me to be grateful for the pain because that is what turns me toward my higher power and the spiritual solution.
He told me the truth.  He told me I was lovable and worthy of love.  He showered me with love, still does.  I am forever in his debt and if I am able to pass along just a modicum of what he has given me, it won’t be enough to express all I have received.
I am the luckiest girl alive.
I am going to Burning Man and I am moving to Paris.

I Am Not My Job

January 21, 2012

Or the absolutely horribly unflattering pictures of me that have been taken over the last few days.  Trust me, they are bad.

Really?  You’re going to put this on Facebook?



It apparently does not matter that I lost over a 105 lbs, you still managed to get a double chin in almost every shot you took, what the flying hell?  Seriously?  Head of marketing my ass.

Oh, I know, I’m being overly critical, but it’s my photo people, me, a representation of me on an internet page that has 20,000 friends.

I wanted to run screaming into the bike lane and get run over by the commuter cyclists heading home before the monsoon hit. I don’t work there. I don’t work for you, I don’t want to work for you, yuck. Stop following me around and taking pictures of my double chin.  I thought I had lost that.  Apparently not.

Good lord.

And might I mention, just a thought, I know I hate my profile, but could you perhaps not shoot the camera underneath me?  I think, maybe I’m wrong, maybe it’s because the woman taking my pictures is all of a negative 1 in the clothes section.  I am not kidding, my fore arm is bigger than her waist.

But I think, that the most flattering angle is usually shot from above?  Not below the person.

Christ on a stick.  I hate these pictures, they make me want to cry.  I know I am also hormonal or some such heap of chemical baloney.  Or maybe fed up with working in hipster central where everyone is tiny and I picked out the wrong helmet, I like the Nutcase, I’m not cool enough to wear a Bern.


Fact is.  No picture is good enough.

OH, now I really lie.  I actually have had some awesome photos taken of me, John Curley, Arin Fishkin, Keith Carlson, have taken some amazing photos of me.  But the ones I had taken today and Wednesday were not flattering.

And I know I don’t look like those awful things, but man it put a poor taste in my mouth.  I suppose it’s just more humility.  But I left work so upset and so annoyed.  I just wanted to spit.  I did not know how to tell my co-worker to not post them up and please, further, do not write about me, I don’t want to read it.  I don’t want to see it.  I just want to pretend this whole week in pictures did not happen.

Yuck and double yuck and oh wait, there’s more?  I get to take a “year book” photo on Tuesday for the website.


If you cannot hear the acrid irony dripping from my voice, be sure, it is there.


At least with Face Book the damn post will be up and gone and done and over.  With the website that picture will be up as long as I work there.  I am tempted to pull a prima donna act and just let them take a photo of my glasses and my mug of tea.

There–that’s me, nothing else.  No pictures of me with my too big cheap hoop earrings or my tattoos or my used jean jacket.  Nada.  I don’t work there.  Nope you did not see me at this shop, I work at another down the street.

Big deep breath.

None of this is real.

I am not a photo.  I am not a series of poorly taken photos either.  I am just me.  And I don’t always look pretty and I don’t always look how I want to look and I certainly do not photograph how I want either.

If I got what I wanted, the world would be a troubled place.  Fact is I don’t know what’s best for me.  I just know what I think is best for me.  I am not my image.  Looks fade, beauty changes, bodies change.  Time marches on and I can choose to let myself be upset about of all things a Facebook post, or I can get my gratitude on for what I do have.

A job that I actually am starting to do really well at.

A bicycle frame freshly painted from West Coast Powder Coating.  A new messenger bag, which matches my new bike frame, from Rickshaw Bag Works–a gift–from the company from one of the reps.  And a really nice gift at that, I even got to pick out my colors, it was not just serendipitous that my bag matches my bike, it was planned out.

I am not my job.  I am just a worker amongst workers.  And I know that I am far from alone in having had bad pictures taken.  I have had bad pictures taken before and they did not kill me.

They did not.

Neither will these.

And odds are the post may not even be run.  The GM could tell I was a little put off by the photos. I did not have the temperament to discuss it rationally with him.  I was a little over the whole thing by the time I was leaving and a bit curt about the experience.  I restrained what I wanted to say and I left it to the marketing team to decide what photo they wanted to use.

Hopefully they will not use the one that Carlos said I looked like Frankenstein in.  Jesus, Carlos.  It was a bad picture, but was that really necessary to say?

I just shrugged and walked out the design studio and go my bag and my bike and went off to ride in the rain to my next destination.

Holy crap.

I am sensitive.  I was angrier than I realized.  I vented on poor Bethie and on Joan and they were both sweet as pie.  And Carolyn.  Who told me, Face Book is not real.

Oh yeah.

And all the ladies commiserated with me.  I don’t know a single female over the age of twelve that is not sensitive to a poorly taken photo.  It really did remind me of bad school photos.

The nice thing is, in the end, it’s just like a co-worker told me a few weeks ago–“when I get upset about things at work, I remind myself, ‘hey it’s just a bike shop‘ and then I don’t feel so bad”.


It’s just a bike shop and I am so much more than just a shop girl or a bad photo.

Thank God.

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