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Wednesday, July 30, 2008

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Bustle in Your Hedgerow:
a Blogher Tale


It's been nearly two weeks since I left for San Francisco. I told someone yesterday that I've been on intensive, week-long, spiritual retreats that were easier to come back from than Blogher.

"You never want to leave, and you never want to come back," Patrick said to me with a hug, a day or two after my return.

He's right. I am seen, known, loved.

It took me days to get around to unpacking, but it's done. The boarding passes have been thrown out, receipts stacked, clothes and shoes put away. The only thing I haven't gotten around to is flushing the text messages from my Blackberry. When you have three days worth of panels and parties to attend in a strange city, and the exercise of finding your friends is taken straight from a page of Where's Waldo, you accumulate a lot of text messages.

Everytime I go to delete them, I can't quite do it. They are like souvenir matchbooks pocketed from faraway and long ago places. If I could keep them in a giant brandy snifter on my dresser, I would. If I were to transcribe them, they wouldn't mean a thing to anyone, but to me each one is shorthand for a moment that was brimful of emotion: euphoria, silliness, excitement, or some other feeling turned all the way up to 11.

It's not like my life in Little Rock is a flat, empty expanse devoid of great friends and good times. I am rich in both. My coach didn't turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of midnight Saturday. But I have to confess to you, when I heard the little chime signal alerting me to a text message for the first time in a couple of days since the conference, I nearly knocked over a chair to get to my phone and was sad beyond reason when I saw that it was just some auto-alert.

I'm much better now, thanks. Moving on. Operation Delete All happens today.

Before it does though, I want to pull one matchbook from the snifter and tell you a story that goes with it.

My last text message of Thursday night, sent from a shuttle bus to friends back at the hotel at twenty three hundred hours and change, reads as follows:

desperately teryimng to make it back from kawasawkis to the people'S party

"Kawasawkis" refers to Guy Kawasaki, tech guru and gracious co-host of the Kirtsy party, held at his lovely home in Hawaii. Actually, I'm told it was in Palo Alto, but the shuttle ride from the Westin St. Francis to Guy's was epic, like the Kon-Tiki expedition. It should have taken little under an hour to get there, which was more than most of us had bargained for, but our driver got lost, so by the time we pulled into the gate, we had eaten Doug. Tough, but savory. Like jerky.

I'm kidding of course. We didn't eat Doug. I didn't eat anything. Not since...uh...the night before, unless you count Starbucks coffee and what they serve these days for snacks/meals on airplanes. Pictures of lobster and steak dinner torn from the pages of Skymall magazine. See, sometimes when I get wound up about something, I forget to eat. When I hopped on the shuttle to Guy's, it didn't register with me that I'd been on the road for fourteen hours already that day without sustenance, or that it might be a problem. I am, afterall, a mommy blogger, and we feed on the shame of our families.

I am a moderate drinker. I enjoy a glass or two of wine about half the evenings of the week, and the occasional ladies' night out. How three or four glasses of organic, artisanal chardonnay turned my blood into 90 proof can only be explained by a combination of an empty stomach, physical exhaustion and a general state of over-stimulation. That, or Bossy slipped me a roofie. I dimly remember giving a video-recorded interview to my friend Stephanie Roberts, which was probably as intelligible as the aforementioned text message (Stephanie, any bids you get for that clip, I will top). I sort of remember seeking out Guy near the end to say my best Miss Manners thank you, before walking down the long driveway to catch the very last shuttle.

The second-to-last had just left, and there were only a few of us waiting in the dark by the gate. "It's on it way now," someone said, just about the minute I realized I had swilled three or four glasses of organic, artisanal chardonnay and had never once visited the powder room. Suddenly, I really, really needed to powder.

I evaluated the options. It was an awfully long way down the driveway, back to the house. The last shuttle would pull into the gate any minute. It was at least a forty-five minute drive back to the hotel, IF our driver could find it.

So I did what any girl raised in a place with wide open spaces learns to do.

As god and several close, personal friends are my witness, I peed in Guy Kawasaki's bushes. In my defense, it was organic, artisanal pee.

I never made it to the People's Party. By the time the shuttle dropped us back at the hotel, I was near to crying with exhaustion. I took the elevator to my room and collapsed on my bed. When I woke up, my first thought was, "OMG, I peed in Guy Kawasaki's bushes." I wondered what Miss Manners form of apology was called for.

I've decided a living amend is in order. I feel I owe it to Guy and his family to become the best and most successful writer I can be, so that they can turn the event into a colorful anecdote for future party guests; the sort of outre behavior that you expect from celebrated authors. Something we can all spin as more Hemingway-esque, than Anna Nicole Smith-ish.

If that doesn't work, perhaps it will satisfy Guy to know that the next night, after Maggie's party (where I drank mostly water), I came down with a raging bladder infection. I swear, it went from zero to "shoot me now" in the space of 30 minutes. I've never experienced anything like it. My sainted roommate called the hotel doctor and made not one, but two, trips to the drugstore at 4:30 in the morning, and by daylight, had nursed me back to wellness. I blamed it on lack of sleep, dehydration, and Spanx, before I remembered Guy's bushes, and knew without a doubt, it was the revenge of Kawasaki's hedgerow.



Blogger Lindsay said...

Awesome. Every girl should have at least one or two drunken public pee stories. It is the marker of a most fantastic night, when done in extreme moderation.

Yesterday's post was amazing and I am sure so many readers were sad to relate. Hope yours, mine and others' ships come in.

1:12 PM  
Blogger elaine said...

Peeing in the bushes is very Kyran-esque. Now, doesn't that make it sound elegant? Like a ballet movement.

Also great idea about how to repay Guy for his hospitality.

2:16 PM  
Blogger Kathy said...

Kyran, your friend Jennifer Pyron sent me to your blog and I'm so glad she did! I'm hooked on your wonderful writing right out of the gate.

And I nearly peed my pants laughing when I read this post. I attended BlogHer, but I didn't come home with any stories nearly this good! Looking forward to reading more.

OK, go drink some cranberry juice!

4:00 PM  
Blogger Jennifer H said...

I've heard of bloggers being Kawasaki'd, I just didn't know it meant that.

Of course, now, there might be references to getting Pittman'd. :-)

4:41 PM  
Blogger Shelley said...

My family is so used to me reading lines from your blog out loud to them! I could hardly get this story out, I was laughing so were they when finally heard about your Kyran-esque moment! (Great description Elaine!)

8:55 PM  
Blogger Motherhood Uncensored said...

If there's a bush to pee on, it's definitely Guy's (not that I know).

10:01 PM  
Blogger SUEB0B said...

That Guy, he has some connections in strange places. I'm just sayin' he can make stuff happen.

11:58 PM  
Blogger kirida said...

Oh the drunken pee stories. I think we should all have one of those.

8:20 AM  
Blogger Assertagirl said...

I wasn't at Guy's party but I spent the week following BlogHer in Palo Alto. It's really lovely! (Send me your number and I'll text you. :) )

9:03 AM  
Blogger Katherine Gray said...

Does this mean I can release the photo? ;)

And FWIW, we watched you give that interview--with your languid arm movements and gentle toss of your hair--and just gazed on in awe. "How does she do that?" I asked. You made it look effortless to reveal...whatever it was you were talking about. I would have been a ball of clenched muscle and giggled too much.

3:34 PM  
Blogger Kyran said...


God only knows what I said.

As I think I told you the next day, I don't need a publicist, I need HANDLERS. Let me know if you're free next July. ;-)


3:49 PM  
Blogger Kyran said...

holy smokes, I just remembered I took a couple of ativan on the plane that morning...surely it didn't stay in my bloodstream all day? if so, it would explain a lot.

4:01 PM  
Blogger jenB said...

You were fine! It was cute! the bush peeing I mean. and NONE of the photos turned out. SWEAR!

1:33 AM  
Blogger Chris said...

I found your site through "Ransom-note-typography" last evening. His site is new to me too. I'm anxious to read more. You use language beautifully...

I'll be back.


10:41 AM  
Blogger MOI said...

This comment has been removed by the author.

5:24 PM  
Blogger gto said...

Fun story Guy just Tweeted about it on twitter coinsiding with his removing sewer pipes from his yard

2:57 PM  
Blogger Sarcastica said...

That's hilarious!

I have a funny drunken pee story, but my ending was more embarrassing - I, in my drunken state, thought it would be alright to pee down a concrete hill. Not so much. I peed on my shoe and my pants. I split beer all over me to try and cover the scent but ya it was pretty embarrassing heh

8:55 AM  

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