Dork-a-thon 2007

Is this the Year of the Dork?

Coaster Punchman has been chronicling the dork-lights of his life. The Pug’s Marni recently shared one of her more graceful moments. That adorable Frank at Simarco Letters thinks he’s King Dork.

They’re amateurs. Time for the Master Dork to chime in.

I was born part Irish, part dork. Need photographic proof? That’s me in the spotlight during last fall’s Little Miss Sunshine Online Pageant — and that’s me in the corner. I was, obviously, voted Most Likely to Dork.

I was awarded the dork black belt for my brush with Prince Albert greatness and the unfortunate barista flirting incident.

But the dorkiness doesn’t stop there. Not even close.

Air Travel, Cup Style and last summer’s class flash helped me earn me my PhDork. And, of course, there’s my spectacular slide across the Publix produce floor. Who didn’t ooh and ahh the eyelash bonfire during my move?

There’s the time I had our group’s eight tickets for a Bonnie Raitt/John Prine show. My crowd arrived at the amphitheater that warm Saturday night … only to discover our tickets were for Friday. A bit of whispered dork charm and tears hidden from my pals — and the luck of having lawn, not reserved, tickets — and the nice Chastain ticket man let us in. I don’t think any of the eight ever knew I screwed that up.

And then there’s this embarrassing gem:

I rest my case. I could go on and on (and on ... and on ... and on), but even a dork needs her beauty sleep. And I need to stop before I share the embarrassing stories.

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Air Travel, Cup Style

1. Wake up at 4:30 a.m. for a 9:35 flight, because you’re just too damned excited to sleep. E-mail, blog, monitor airport parking situation, watch and read the news, close the suitcase, and leave at 6:45 for that 9:35 flight. (Airport is, on weekends, less than a 30-minute drive from the Cup’s cupboard.)

2. Go to Starbucks for the morning’s triple grande nonfat latte. Glad to see that the bald and beautiful Luke is barista’ing, so get in a quick preflight flirt. Favorite barista and cocktail buddy Marlene is there, getting her pre-workout espresso; enjoy chat about weekend plans, personal dramas, and Judaism. Pull out of Starbucks at 7:25.

3. No traffic this Saturday morning, so zoom through town and to the airport. Pull into excellent space, on the end, at the airport park ‘n’ ride by 7:50; get on bus at 7:55.

4. Bus stops first at south terminal and Delta ticketing, this being Deltatown. Everyone gets off but you. Airport looks quiet, slow this morning.

5. Bus takes you to far end of the north terminal and AirTran ticketing. Where 37,812 people are lined up for curbside check-in. A seasoned traveler, you scoff at their ignorance. You never check bags; you’re a carry-on traveler who uses the automated kiosk.

6. Step inside. Another 53,972 people queued to check bags with AirTran; strange that the other airlines have no crowds. Scoff again at naïve travelers, because you’re about to kiosk it and move on.

7. Step up to kiosk terminal at 8:05. Swipe card, type in confirmation number. Your reservation can’t be found. Try again. You still don’t exist. Step to another kiosk. Find that the other kiosk is also stupid. There’s a nice ticket agent behind you, checking in carry-on folks. You ask what’s wrong; he asks which flight and airport. “Oh, ma’am, that flight is overbooked and we’re having problems in D.C. today. I can get your boarding pass.”

8. Walk dejectedly to end of line, like Charlie Brown or the “Arrested Development” cast in that Charlie Brown-inspired episode. Queue up behind the 27 people you just inwardly scoffed for not using kiosk. Now inwardly whimpering.

9. Reach ticket agent at 8:55. “Ma’am, why did you get in line? I would have printed your boarding pass for you when you asked about the problem.” Curse the good manners your mama instilled in you and the 45 minutes you just wasted.

10. Dash to security checkpoint. Panic when you see the 163,478 people in front of you. Queue up in fastest-moving line.

11. Security officer on a power trip stalks up to man just ahead of you, and orders your group through a door to a new line. Whimper that your flight leaves in 25 minutes. Hateful, unfeeling officer with ‘tude shrugs her hateful, unfeeling shoulders with ‘tude and walks away, probably giggling wickedly. Begrudgingly queue up behind other traveling lemmings.

12. Whimper as you watch other travels zip through lines, while you stand and stand and stand. And panic.

13. Line finally begins to move. Irritation boils as people ahead of you wait until they get to belt to empty pockets into bins.

14. Sandals already tucked into briefcase and baubles in purse, stroll through metal detector with non-metal confidence. No ding. It’s 9:15. You’ll just make it.

15. Get to end of belt. Another security officer, this one with less ‘tude and a hint of a kind smile, waves you over. Your bags have been randomly selected for a full search. Whimper again that your flight leaves in 20 minutes. Security officer comments that you’re carrying quite a lot of baubles for so few outfits. Inwardly scoff that men just don’t understand how bauble selection ties so closely to that day’s mood.

16. Security officer then notices laptop, which must be booted up. Whimper again, because laptop takes two or three minutes to boot up, thanks to all that damn virus and wireless protection software that takes for-f*ing-ever to load.

17. Security officer announces that you’re not smuggling pipe bombs or puppies or pomegranates. You get to go to your gate … on concourse C.

18. Grab train. Foot taps in beat with your whimpering.

19. Train stops at C. You OJ it off the train, running up the towering escalator. Trip forward, as you’re wearing a long boho skirt (not the best skirt for running up that hill).

20. Continue the OJ’ing down the concourse. Run up to gate … just as the doors close. Throw yourself against glass, pounding your fists like Benjamin Braddock, shouting “AirTran!” Plane sits there, mocking you with the same ‘tude as that security officer.

21. Walk down to next gate, ask if they can call the stew and open the door for you. After they wipe away the tears from all the laughter, they point you to customer service, where you can book another flight.

22. Queue up. Again. You’re the only person in line, but the guy getting serviced is irritated and won’t be moving soon. A nice customer service guy walks up and tells you to come with him, he can help. Glad to see that tears still work on some people.

23. Next flight to National is at 1:45. There’s a 12:30 to Dulles, but you’re a seasoned D.C. traveler and know that National is most convenient for your friend. Book the National flight. Nice AirTran man mentions that there’s wireless throughout the concourse … so at least you’ll be able to blog and e-mail during your four-hour wait.

24. Worried because you’re trying to make it to a gallery in Reston to see Renae’s photograph hanging on the wall. Call the gallery; they’re open until 5:00 p.m. Relax and call D.C. friend.

25. D.C. friend is shocked to see your name on caller ID, since you’ve never missed a damn flight in your life. (Well, except for that time when you and Dan went to San Francisco, and you’d left your driver’s license at home, and had to drive back home to get it, necessitating a rebooking for later that day. And Dan didn’t even get mad. A saint, that one.) Give friend a very longwinded version of your last 90 hellacious minutes. He adds fuel to the fires of hell, mentioning that Dulles — with that flight leaving 75 minutes before the one you picked — is just 15 minutes from the gallery. Whimpering returns.

26. Slump into gate chair, bags at your feet, and settle in for four-hour wait. Find that Hartsfield plays great music — “Don’t Dream It’s Over,” “With or Without You,” “Someone Saved My Life Tonight,” "The Way We Were." Because gate now feels like home, you feel no shame in singing along.

A Day in the Life, Part 1: She Teaches a Class

I’m a communication project manager and copywriter. This year, because I’m a bit of a grammar nerd, I’ve been given a new responsibility: developing and delivering writing classes for our employees. Some are tailored for a department, while another is a grammar/writing course for our corporate masses. I started a series of writing courses yesterday tailored for our facility services department. Their manager has made it a requirement, so I’ll teach it every Thursday this month.

The first class went well. My students were some of my favorite people in that group — the head of fleet services, the head of our copy center and the cafeteria, one of our receptionists, and two of our hardworking service guys. We covered the basics of writing a clear, simple sentence, then dove into writing a good business e-mail (really, just about the only form of communication we corporate types have today. Why write a report or call someone when you can type an e-mail?).

I was on a roll. I like the people. I’m passionate about the topic. I love performing in front of the crowd (because, after all, teaching is a performance, isn’t it?). About 30 minutes into the class, the lone female student gives me that nod … that check yourself nod. Oh, no. I glance down … and my pants are riding dangerously low on my hips, showing off my belly and my black silk panties. I’ve suddenly dropped 10 pounds, and it seems my brown silk palazzo pants — my favorite chic-yet-they’re-like-wearing-pajamas pants — aren’t keeping up with me. Or on me. With subtle grace that would make a princess proud, I jerk them back up on my hips, never missing a teaching beat. But, jeez … my pants fell down in front of the class?

They did rate me a perfect 10, though.

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Brush with Greatness: Prince Albert II of Monaco

Since Prince Albert and his dalliances are in the press again, I thought I’d share my moment in the royal sun.

I worked for the Atlanta Committee for the Olympic Games from 1991 to 1993. A couple of times a year, members of the International Olympic Committee came to town to check our progress and to hold board meetings. Prince Albert, an active IOC member, was finally coming to Atlanta for the winter meeting. The ACOG girls were going crazy, each hoping she’d be spotted and whisked away to the castle, just like Grace Kelley. My cubicle was near the door separating the reception area from the office area, so all the blondes were hanging out at my desk, hoping to “stumble” upon the prince. Albert was around, but he pretty much ignored them.

The giggling and loitering were driving me nuts, so I slipped away and went down the back hall to the powder room. And I ran into the prince and his entourage. Knowing that he had avoided fraternizing with the chicks, I gave him a brief smile and kept going. But he stopped me, introduced himself, and asked how I was. I was thrilled! The brunette trumped the blondes with one of the most eligible bachelors in the world!

After our short yet meaningful exchange, I went to the powder room, stopping in front of the mirror to gaze upon the visage that caught a prince's eye. And then I saw why the prince chose me for a chat — I had a frickin’ hot chocolate moustache across my upper lip, from corner to corner. I then realized I probably got Prince Albert’s attention because he was charmed by the “mentally challenged” chick working for the committee.

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Sex & the Southern City: Barista Boy

From time to time (read: when I have nothing to write about), I’ll share highlights from my life as a single woman. These posts will no doubt be great lessons for those of you just starting the single life. And, yes, these stories are true.

Karen and I have just finished a dinner of sushi and (many) saki martinis … which, of course, leads to ribald conversation and naughty confessions. There are still secrets waiting to be spilled postprandial, so we walk to a nearby coffee shop. A tall, very cute barista waits behind the counter. Fueled by my martini confidence, I order my latte with a flirt and a hair toss. Barista Boy repeats my order.

Me: “That’s a cute accent you have. Where are you from?”

Barista Boy: “I don’t have an accent. I have a speech impediment.”

Single girl scores again!

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