I’ve been invited to present a social media training at a conference this week in Puerto Rico. Obviously, I’m a pretty big deal.
I’d like to say that the conference organizers heard about this blog and were in awe of my social media prowess demonstrated by my engrossing blogging and tweeting, but alas, I do this social media stuff for a living. So, it was through my use of social media and my counseling of others in using social media to accomplish public policy goals that I was invited. Oh, and someone else canceled.
Nonetheless, I’ve spent hours developing the most kick-ass “How to do social media, and how to do it to advance advocacy efforts” presentation that these people will have ever seen! It’s going to be brilliant. It really is only a matter of time before I become a regular on the conference circuit. Maybe I should start developing what I would say in a keynote address, since we’re probably minutes from when those invitations start piling up. Move over Carly Fiorina with your household name and inspiring stories of climbing to the top of a business empire. Kristin Brown’s here, and she writes a nonsensical, irreverent (and mostly irrelevant) blog that a handful of people read.
Hmm… So, what will I say in my keynote? What are some of my more inspirational stories to constitute my speech?
Perhaps I could talk about important life lessons I’ve learned: cool it on weird ways to ingest caffeine. Don’t be surprised when you pick up a guy at the theater and find that he may be closeted gay. Looks don’t matter. Or, maybe I could anchor the speech on the times I’ve been shamed into learning to cook for myself.
Of course, part of the speech will have to center on the ever-important characteristic of resourcefulness in achieving great personal success. I could provide sage advice: don’t be afraid to create cockamamie schemes to get what you want; sometimes genius isn’t realized immediately. Let people call you crazy along your path to fulfilling your own destiny (especially if you thoroughly amuse yourself). Surround yourself with smart people. Bring anyone along on the ride who wants to go! Aspire to greatness. Dream big. Don't sweat the small stuff. Let yourself explore. Have a plan. Fight against obstacles.
I’ve obviously got the elements of a really fantastic, inspiring speech ready to go. Let the invitations start rolling in! But, send them to the lazy river or swim-up bar at this Puerto Rican resort. That’s where I’ll be “networking” between conference sessions.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
I’m famous, of sorts
I am a known celebrity. I don’t know if you knew that. Sure, I’ve got blog readers and followers that span from Alaska to Brazil to Russia and surprisingly far beyond my immediate circle of family. (Thank you to all of you loyal readers!!) But, that doesn’t even cover the half of it. I am famous in the most valuable of realms.
Mexican restaurants.
Seriously. There isn’t a Mexican restaurant in the DC area that I can’t walk into and have someone come over and say hi. I even get hugs sometimes and sour cream hearts drawn onto my food. Can you feel the love?! There have been a couple times when I’ve thought maybe it’s a bit too much and I’m a bit too familiar to the servers, but I just can’t help it.
It all started in college when at any excuse I’d orchestrate a celebration for something at Guapo’s near campus. A birthday! End of finals! Sorority rush! A study break! A Sunday afternoon! That annoying paper cut has gone away! I had many friends who also loved Guapo’s, so I was never wanting for people to go with me. On any nice, spring day, I could inevitably find someone to talk into skipping class to sit on the Guapo’s patio with a swirly margarita and a plate of nachos.
Then, I graduated from college (no credit to the many margarita-filled class skippings!) and moved an inconvenient distance away from college Guapo’s. To my delight and the relief of the withdrawal shakes I had developed, five years later, a new Guapo’s popped up in a neighborhood where some of my friends lived! So, of course, I made people go. Many times. Wouldn’t you know that one of the waiters from my original Guapo’s was the manager at this Guapo’s?! And, even five years after the last time he had seen me, he recognized me. We even had a large group and were put straight to the front of the line for a table, on a Saturday night!
About eight years after I had graduated, I stumbled upon another delicious Mexican restaurant in a different neighborhood (I’ve thought about doing a taco tour of DC, but haven’t steeled my stomach for that kind of one-day taco intake. Let’s say I’m in training). And, again! I walked in, and there were a couple of my old friends from college Guapo’s greeting customers! No one else got the enthusiastic bear hug of a reception that I got, which was probably for the best, considering how startling it was for the friends I was with. Apparently they didn’t know just how well known I am in certain circles. I guess there’s no Page Six for the Mexican restaurant set.
Once, I thought I was falling from grace and needed to start plotting my Britney Spears-style comeback when I walked into a particularly favorite restaurant and the hostess asked while she was seating us, “Have you been here before?”
What?! At this point they should be throwing open the doors for me and chanting my name as they see me approaching! “Have you been here before?!?!?!” What kind of question is that? Shouldn’t the staff t-shirts have my face on them by now?
Boy was I relieved when the waiter came over to the table and said, “Oh! Hi! Wow, twice this week, huh?” Maybe I was relieved and perhaps a little sheepish, actually. He hadn’t even been the one to serve me the previous time!
At first, I thought all this was embarrassing. Obviously, I probably indulge in a few too many tacos a little too often. But then I thought about it. I mean, sure, it’s prestigious to be popular among the ritzy society glitterati or to be so well known that people camp out in front of a hotel you’re staying in just to catch a glimpse of you. But, when’s the last time one of their admirers offered a member of the royal family free queso?! For me, it was yesterday.
So, if a girl’s going to strive for notoriety, my particular brand of fame sure seems to taste the best!
Mexican restaurants.
Seriously. There isn’t a Mexican restaurant in the DC area that I can’t walk into and have someone come over and say hi. I even get hugs sometimes and sour cream hearts drawn onto my food. Can you feel the love?! There have been a couple times when I’ve thought maybe it’s a bit too much and I’m a bit too familiar to the servers, but I just can’t help it.
It all started in college when at any excuse I’d orchestrate a celebration for something at Guapo’s near campus. A birthday! End of finals! Sorority rush! A study break! A Sunday afternoon! That annoying paper cut has gone away! I had many friends who also loved Guapo’s, so I was never wanting for people to go with me. On any nice, spring day, I could inevitably find someone to talk into skipping class to sit on the Guapo’s patio with a swirly margarita and a plate of nachos.
Then, I graduated from college (no credit to the many margarita-filled class skippings!) and moved an inconvenient distance away from college Guapo’s. To my delight and the relief of the withdrawal shakes I had developed, five years later, a new Guapo’s popped up in a neighborhood where some of my friends lived! So, of course, I made people go. Many times. Wouldn’t you know that one of the waiters from my original Guapo’s was the manager at this Guapo’s?! And, even five years after the last time he had seen me, he recognized me. We even had a large group and were put straight to the front of the line for a table, on a Saturday night!
About eight years after I had graduated, I stumbled upon another delicious Mexican restaurant in a different neighborhood (I’ve thought about doing a taco tour of DC, but haven’t steeled my stomach for that kind of one-day taco intake. Let’s say I’m in training). And, again! I walked in, and there were a couple of my old friends from college Guapo’s greeting customers! No one else got the enthusiastic bear hug of a reception that I got, which was probably for the best, considering how startling it was for the friends I was with. Apparently they didn’t know just how well known I am in certain circles. I guess there’s no Page Six for the Mexican restaurant set.
Once, I thought I was falling from grace and needed to start plotting my Britney Spears-style comeback when I walked into a particularly favorite restaurant and the hostess asked while she was seating us, “Have you been here before?”
What?! At this point they should be throwing open the doors for me and chanting my name as they see me approaching! “Have you been here before?!?!?!” What kind of question is that? Shouldn’t the staff t-shirts have my face on them by now?
Boy was I relieved when the waiter came over to the table and said, “Oh! Hi! Wow, twice this week, huh?” Maybe I was relieved and perhaps a little sheepish, actually. He hadn’t even been the one to serve me the previous time!
At first, I thought all this was embarrassing. Obviously, I probably indulge in a few too many tacos a little too often. But then I thought about it. I mean, sure, it’s prestigious to be popular among the ritzy society glitterati or to be so well known that people camp out in front of a hotel you’re staying in just to catch a glimpse of you. But, when’s the last time one of their admirers offered a member of the royal family free queso?! For me, it was yesterday.
So, if a girl’s going to strive for notoriety, my particular brand of fame sure seems to taste the best!
Monday, October 24, 2011
A foray into a different land
I went to Kansas City once.
That may have been enough. It’s weird out there! Everyone’s nice. Like really nice. Unnervingly nice. It’s peculiar. I don’t know if I like it.
I was there with two coworkers for a business meeting. One of the coworkers grew up in Missouri so understood the whole strange sweetness in the people. It wasn’t unusual to her, so she didn’t think to warn the rest of us East Coasters. I wish she had. I was unprepared.
When I started telling people I was venturing into the Great Midwest, people told me about the barbecue. Oh, did they tell me about the barbecue. There were apparently two real choices for good barbecue and everyone had an opinion on which was better. Was it the BBQ place inside the gas station or was it the place at which they yelled at you when you walked in?
The Midwesterner coworker was really pulling hard for Gates, the place where they were promised to yell at us. Yell at us? Huh? She conspired with our driver, who agreed. (The driver, by the way, was a woman! I don’t know what’s happening in the Midwest, but girl power is alive and well!! No job is just for men! Get it, Midwestern ladies!) Gates it was! All the way from the meeting to this supposed Mecca of meat, the coworker and our driver made a very special point of preparing us for what we were about to walk into.
Apparently, as soon as we stepped into the line we would be screamed at for our orders. The warning was to be prepared. Look at the menu before you got in line. Be resolute in your order before you made it to the counter. Don’t look back. Don’t look the servers in the eye. Don’t blink! Don’t panic!!
So, of course, when we got to Gates, we made careful business about the menu board before the line, expecting the Soup Nazi of barbecue to own us if we made a mistake or stuttered in the least. It was nerve wracking. I was anxious, but I was ready. Pulled pork. Potato salad. Let’s do it.
Then the yelling started.
“Hey honey!! You ready, sugar?! What can I get you?! What you want today?!”
Wait. That’s the screaming barbecue version of the Soup Nazi? I. Don’t. Understand. They were niiiice. They were loud, but they were very gracious, sweet and patient.
Naturally, we became fast friends as I chatted over what the best sides were and what I should order. Midwesterners are crazy for being intimidated by these glorious women! And boy was the barbecue delicious!! My boss can’t stop talking about how awesome his burnt ends sandwich was. To this day, I still hear about it regularly. He’s right, though. I’d go back there again to visit my meat-slinging friends.
Full and happy, the driver drove us back to airport, and then she did the most bizarre thing. Dropping us off, she hugged us, each of us. HUGGED us. Our driver HUGGED us! Hugs! Hugs all around! Her arms, my body. HUGGING.
I got on that plane back to DC and respectable, polite distance and familiar hostility between people, clicking my heels and saying, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”
That may have been enough. It’s weird out there! Everyone’s nice. Like really nice. Unnervingly nice. It’s peculiar. I don’t know if I like it.
I was there with two coworkers for a business meeting. One of the coworkers grew up in Missouri so understood the whole strange sweetness in the people. It wasn’t unusual to her, so she didn’t think to warn the rest of us East Coasters. I wish she had. I was unprepared.
When I started telling people I was venturing into the Great Midwest, people told me about the barbecue. Oh, did they tell me about the barbecue. There were apparently two real choices for good barbecue and everyone had an opinion on which was better. Was it the BBQ place inside the gas station or was it the place at which they yelled at you when you walked in?
The Midwesterner coworker was really pulling hard for Gates, the place where they were promised to yell at us. Yell at us? Huh? She conspired with our driver, who agreed. (The driver, by the way, was a woman! I don’t know what’s happening in the Midwest, but girl power is alive and well!! No job is just for men! Get it, Midwestern ladies!) Gates it was! All the way from the meeting to this supposed Mecca of meat, the coworker and our driver made a very special point of preparing us for what we were about to walk into.
Apparently, as soon as we stepped into the line we would be screamed at for our orders. The warning was to be prepared. Look at the menu before you got in line. Be resolute in your order before you made it to the counter. Don’t look back. Don’t look the servers in the eye. Don’t blink! Don’t panic!!
So, of course, when we got to Gates, we made careful business about the menu board before the line, expecting the Soup Nazi of barbecue to own us if we made a mistake or stuttered in the least. It was nerve wracking. I was anxious, but I was ready. Pulled pork. Potato salad. Let’s do it.
Then the yelling started.
“Hey honey!! You ready, sugar?! What can I get you?! What you want today?!”
Wait. That’s the screaming barbecue version of the Soup Nazi? I. Don’t. Understand. They were niiiice. They were loud, but they were very gracious, sweet and patient.
Naturally, we became fast friends as I chatted over what the best sides were and what I should order. Midwesterners are crazy for being intimidated by these glorious women! And boy was the barbecue delicious!! My boss can’t stop talking about how awesome his burnt ends sandwich was. To this day, I still hear about it regularly. He’s right, though. I’d go back there again to visit my meat-slinging friends.
Full and happy, the driver drove us back to airport, and then she did the most bizarre thing. Dropping us off, she hugged us, each of us. HUGGED us. Our driver HUGGED us! Hugs! Hugs all around! Her arms, my body. HUGGING.
I got on that plane back to DC and respectable, polite distance and familiar hostility between people, clicking my heels and saying, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
When “men’s” fashion fights back
Now, I appreciate a guy who is aware of his image. I mean, I’m in PR and I’m also obsessed with make-up and beauty treatments, so image is something I’m acutely tuned into myself. Sometimes, though, a guy can get a bit carried away.
I dated a guy who turned to GQ as if it were his personal style advisor. This might be a triumph for many guys, and I certainly enjoyed his attention to current trends and fashion. When we’d find ourselves having endless conversations about whether he could pull off particular looks or when, for weeks after a new GQ came out, I could count on having pages laid out for me that we’d then dissect at great length, it became more than amusing.
Some of our most frequent conversations:
“What do you think of that guy in that cardigan? Do you think I could pull off a cardigan? No, only hipster or gay guys can wear cardigans, right? Well, maybe I could wear a cardigan. No, I can’t do the cardigan look. I’d be too Mr. Rodgers. Yeah, I think that cardigan is cool, too, but I couldn’t wear that. Could I wear that? No. Cardigans wouldn’t work on me. Cardigans?”
“I think only girls and a very particular type of guy can get away with a vest.” Of course, then, at least three times a month, we’d revisit what sorts of guys actually fell into that “particular type” and whether he was one of them. Really, at least three times a month.
There were also some notable style mishaps.
One time he came over to my house after an evening out with the guys. My first reaction when I saw him was, “Whoa! Was this a theme night? Are you dressed as a homosexual gas station attendant?!?!”
His response? “This shirt is cool! Why has everyone made fun of me for it tonight?!”
Eventually, I had to admit that it was a good top. “No, you’re right, babe. This is a nice shirt. See, it looks great on me! Can I have it?”
And then there were the jeans he wore to my birthday party that have become famous. They had studs on the pockets and pink trim. Theories abound about whether they actually may be women’s jeans. He insists that they’re just especially trendy men’s jeans. Since they’re Rock & Republic jeans and were very expensive, he may be right—except that R&R also makes women’s jeans, so your guess is as good as mine!
Apparently, he ordered them online and didn’t take a look at the rear view of them on the website before he clicked “Buy.” Then, he got them, liked the way they fit and couldn’t decide whether the sparkles on the butt were a deal breaker. I’ve got several friends who still, many, many months later maintain they were.
Knowing the way he thinks—especially about himself—I know that he just really, really enjoyed how they showed off his assets, and he probably, not so secretly, really appreciated how the sparkles drew more attention to his butt. I’d agree that they did fit him well and weren't so bad, especially paired with a sequin and feather, Las Vegas-style headdress to complete the look!
Sometimes we all make style mistakes that we can appreciate as pushing boundaries or attempts at trend setting. The important thing is to have a good attitude about them and be able to laugh at yourself. Thankfully, this guy usually did. I wonder, though, after all the teasing he got that night, whether he’s ever worn the pants again—or the top I was forced to give back to him. God be with him if he has!
I dated a guy who turned to GQ as if it were his personal style advisor. This might be a triumph for many guys, and I certainly enjoyed his attention to current trends and fashion. When we’d find ourselves having endless conversations about whether he could pull off particular looks or when, for weeks after a new GQ came out, I could count on having pages laid out for me that we’d then dissect at great length, it became more than amusing.
Some of our most frequent conversations:
“What do you think of that guy in that cardigan? Do you think I could pull off a cardigan? No, only hipster or gay guys can wear cardigans, right? Well, maybe I could wear a cardigan. No, I can’t do the cardigan look. I’d be too Mr. Rodgers. Yeah, I think that cardigan is cool, too, but I couldn’t wear that. Could I wear that? No. Cardigans wouldn’t work on me. Cardigans?”
“I think only girls and a very particular type of guy can get away with a vest.” Of course, then, at least three times a month, we’d revisit what sorts of guys actually fell into that “particular type” and whether he was one of them. Really, at least three times a month.
There were also some notable style mishaps.
One time he came over to my house after an evening out with the guys. My first reaction when I saw him was, “Whoa! Was this a theme night? Are you dressed as a homosexual gas station attendant?!?!”
His response? “This shirt is cool! Why has everyone made fun of me for it tonight?!”
Eventually, I had to admit that it was a good top. “No, you’re right, babe. This is a nice shirt. See, it looks great on me! Can I have it?”
And then there were the jeans he wore to my birthday party that have become famous. They had studs on the pockets and pink trim. Theories abound about whether they actually may be women’s jeans. He insists that they’re just especially trendy men’s jeans. Since they’re Rock & Republic jeans and were very expensive, he may be right—except that R&R also makes women’s jeans, so your guess is as good as mine!
Apparently, he ordered them online and didn’t take a look at the rear view of them on the website before he clicked “Buy.” Then, he got them, liked the way they fit and couldn’t decide whether the sparkles on the butt were a deal breaker. I’ve got several friends who still, many, many months later maintain they were.
Knowing the way he thinks—especially about himself—I know that he just really, really enjoyed how they showed off his assets, and he probably, not so secretly, really appreciated how the sparkles drew more attention to his butt. I’d agree that they did fit him well and weren't so bad, especially paired with a sequin and feather, Las Vegas-style headdress to complete the look!
Sometimes we all make style mistakes that we can appreciate as pushing boundaries or attempts at trend setting. The important thing is to have a good attitude about them and be able to laugh at yourself. Thankfully, this guy usually did. I wonder, though, after all the teasing he got that night, whether he’s ever worn the pants again—or the top I was forced to give back to him. God be with him if he has!
Monday, October 10, 2011
Work sparks
There’s a guy whose company shares office space with my company, and he is not ugly. So, obviously, I’ve zeroed in on him as the next potential Mr. Kristin Brown target.
Our interactions are those that will fill romance novels one day: I say something witty and brilliant; he looks overwhelmed, laughs, says something less than witty and borderline boring and goes on his way. Can you feel the excitement of burgeoning love?!
Like in high school when a crush would find excuses to just happen to be near your locker, the frequency with which he passes by or lingers near my office has definitely increased. I think we can all agree that clearly all this Kristin is working for him!
I’m pretty sure that I’m going to find that he’s less than smart if we ever eventually go out, and then I’ll be stuck with him at work. He seems nice, though, and has a good, professional job. And, at this point, that seems like just about enough!
Our interactions are those that will fill romance novels one day: I say something witty and brilliant; he looks overwhelmed, laughs, says something less than witty and borderline boring and goes on his way. Can you feel the excitement of burgeoning love?!
Like in high school when a crush would find excuses to just happen to be near your locker, the frequency with which he passes by or lingers near my office has definitely increased. I think we can all agree that clearly all this Kristin is working for him!
I’m pretty sure that I’m going to find that he’s less than smart if we ever eventually go out, and then I’ll be stuck with him at work. He seems nice, though, and has a good, professional job. And, at this point, that seems like just about enough!
Thursday, September 29, 2011
The anticipation must be killing you! An update.
The date with the 24 year-old wasn’t so bad! He turned out to be smarter and more mature than many of the 30-somethings I’ve gone out with! The biggest 24-years-wise attribute he had was his assumption that we’d just jump right into bed. Oh, boys… Don’t worry; I set the kid straight with all the grace of a lady.
Major red flag (and isn’t there always something?): the young man doesn’t own a TV!!! I’ve been out with a different guy before who also didn’t own a TV but, instead, had a telescope. In an apartment building, on a crowded street, in downtown DC. That guy seemed a touch creepy. At least the 24 year-old wasn’t that unnerving!
Considering I count TiVo as my most prized possession, just ahead of the jewelry my dad has given me for milestone birthdays and my popcorn maker, I can’t imagine what he does at night in his tiny, tiny, studio apartment without TV. I can tell you he’s not exercising in there. He’d put a hand through the window with one jumping jack! What does he do during drinking-wine-on-the-couch time without TV?!
So, obviously, I’m not sure there’s a lot of synergy there. I will, however, entertain another date, should he ask. Hell, I’m not doing a whole lot else (except catching the new seasons of so many great TV shows)!
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Not quite a cougar
I have a date tomorrow. With a 24 year old. Yes, I know that puts me ALMOST at cougar status. Shut up! It is still far from being a cougar!
I realized in meeting him that there are some almost-significant differences between 24 and 31. (Seriously, isn't 7 years difference still grounds for "kitten," or at the very most, "puma"?) For instance, some big differences are
I’ll keep you posted!
I realized in meeting him that there are some almost-significant differences between 24 and 31. (Seriously, isn't 7 years difference still grounds for "kitten," or at the very most, "puma"?) For instance, some big differences are
- I found myself making out with him outside of a bar in the middle of a very busy stretch of sidewalk. At 31, not a completely shining moment. At 24, maybe I'd tell all my friends. (I mean, please. I still did tell all my friends. Come on, I was making out, in public, with a really, really cute guy still in his physical prime! Shouldn’t everyone know?!)
- When he asked me out, he suggested a college bar at which I might need to put something down on the bar stool before I sat. I gently persuaded him to go to a place that was a little more interesting--and well, hygienic, maybe a bit more grown up.
- In getting ready for the date, at 24, I'd fall out of bed after a nap, slap on some lip gloss and mascara and be ready to roll! At 31, I'm searching frantically for my favorite wrinkle filler cream, and there's a tiny gray hair sticking up on the top of my head I can't quite grab, taunting me. Either way, you can count on the fact that I’ve got a glass of wine in hand!
- If the date goes well, we might want to extend the evening. If we go back to his 24 year-old's place, it might mean cheap beer out of his roommates' kegerator, sitting around a sticky beer pong table. At my house, we'd drink nice wine over a pile of financial statements on my lovely, clean coffee table. Oh, who are we kidding? I don't have "investments," well, beyond the 4 different 401(k)s I still haven't gotten around to rolling into one at my current job.
- At 24 to prepare for the potential “night cap” at my place, I might shove all the clothes from the floor into the closet and shut the door. At 31, I contemplate taking down from my refrigerator the numerous birth announcements and 1st birthday party invitations with smiley, happy babies staring off of them. Potentially intimidating for a young man?
I’ll keep you posted!
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