Quote of the Weekend
Long story longer:
Stacy was in town for a night on Friday while she was en route to a business trip in Israel. She lives in San Francisco now and is 14 weeks pregnant, so for her own comfort as well as for a dose of awesomeness, she finagled a layover in New York. We spent the night catching up — let me tell you, it's mind-blowing when your closest friend since you both were six years old is about to become a mother — and she told me about a convention she went to this month.
In the weeks leading up to the convention, she began to get a little worried. The guy organizing the event sent e-mails in which he kept using cheesy mountain-climbing metaphors ... metaphors you never want to hear in a business environment for fear of migraine-inducing eye-rolling. I started referring to him as The Crampon Guy. There was, apparently, lots of "I look forward to reaching the summit with you" type blather. Ugh. That's worse than getting one's ducks in a row and being on the same page. Stephen Covey is probably rubbing his palms together, whispering, "Brilliant!"
Turns out, the convention was extraordinary. They hired a motivational speaker to lead it (it was far better than that sounds), and the man climbs treacherous mountains and skis down them, as one does. There were all these interactive problem-solving activities using scaling Mt. Everest as a metaphor for team-building, trust and risk. Again, it was executed much better than it sounds. Stacy said this success was entirely at the hands of the speaker himself: He was charismatic, kind, intelligent, attentive and approachable.
"Marla," she said, "you should have seen him." She took a deep breath. "Oh. My. God."
"Hot?"
She gasped. "He was ... he just ... he ... Marla, he's our type."
"Dark?"
"Uh-huh."
"Lanky?"
"Yep."
"Good teeth?"
"The best smile ever. His eyes glittered. He's tall and wiry and has great skin and he's Australian, so the accent."
"What's his name?"
"Shane."
"Oh. I don't like that name."
"Yes, but — "
"The name kind of ruins it."
"Yes, but, OK: If you have that hair and that smile and you're that tall and perfect and have great hands and are so charming and have that accent, your name could be Asshole and I would still love you."
She has a point.
She comes back through New York on her way home in about a week. We intend to discuss the creation of a prototype of a man named Asshole who is hugely appealing to women. We think we can pull it off.
Stacy was in town for a night on Friday while she was en route to a business trip in Israel. She lives in San Francisco now and is 14 weeks pregnant, so for her own comfort as well as for a dose of awesomeness, she finagled a layover in New York. We spent the night catching up — let me tell you, it's mind-blowing when your closest friend since you both were six years old is about to become a mother — and she told me about a convention she went to this month.
In the weeks leading up to the convention, she began to get a little worried. The guy organizing the event sent e-mails in which he kept using cheesy mountain-climbing metaphors ... metaphors you never want to hear in a business environment for fear of migraine-inducing eye-rolling. I started referring to him as The Crampon Guy. There was, apparently, lots of "I look forward to reaching the summit with you" type blather. Ugh. That's worse than getting one's ducks in a row and being on the same page. Stephen Covey is probably rubbing his palms together, whispering, "Brilliant!"
Turns out, the convention was extraordinary. They hired a motivational speaker to lead it (it was far better than that sounds), and the man climbs treacherous mountains and skis down them, as one does. There were all these interactive problem-solving activities using scaling Mt. Everest as a metaphor for team-building, trust and risk. Again, it was executed much better than it sounds. Stacy said this success was entirely at the hands of the speaker himself: He was charismatic, kind, intelligent, attentive and approachable.
"Marla," she said, "you should have seen him." She took a deep breath. "Oh. My. God."
"Hot?"
She gasped. "He was ... he just ... he ... Marla, he's our type."
"Dark?"
"Uh-huh."
"Lanky?"
"Yep."
"Good teeth?"
"The best smile ever. His eyes glittered. He's tall and wiry and has great skin and he's Australian, so the accent."
"What's his name?"
"Shane."
"Oh. I don't like that name."
"Yes, but — "
"The name kind of ruins it."
"Yes, but, OK: If you have that hair and that smile and you're that tall and perfect and have great hands and are so charming and have that accent, your name could be Asshole and I would still love you."
She has a point.
She comes back through New York on her way home in about a week. We intend to discuss the creation of a prototype of a man named Asshole who is hugely appealing to women. We think we can pull it off.
posted by Marla at 7:43 PM
2 Comments:
Love. It. I just spent about 45 minutes reading through your blog and now I feel like we've finally caught up and I know what you've been up to and you are healthy, happy and as hilarious as ever. But then I realize it is totally one-sided. I know how you are doing, but you have no idea what I've been up to. I'm finally writing again! Not the day job marketing writing, but freelance article writing. The fun stuff. About home decorating and gardening. Housey stuff. The pay is shite, but that's OK. I love it anyway. And I love you! I will email you soon. lurve, Halle
His name could also be Meat Pole and yes, I would still love him.
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