The Longest Happy Hour Ever.

So Friday around four I was looking forward to an open empty weekend when I got an email from Gwen Bell, a fantastic sk*rty sk*rt whom I met in July in Chicago. She said she was going to be in town for a Startup Weekend and that they were kicking it off in an hour at a happy hour, which just so happened to be taking place in a pub across the street from my office.

Sprawling city of 3 million, and they were literally right across the street. Go figure. And go I went.

I thought I'd pop in, stay for a tiny bit, go home, get on with my life. But what I walked into was not what I expected. Because I walked into a business meeting. A three day business meeting.

It's a long story, but to get free beer, you had to pitch a business idea. I pitched. And they voted for my idea. So I spent the weekend meeting some truly talented, fascinating people.

This bloggity blog blog world takes you places you never expected. Places like business meetings. Really fun ones. No, really.

How I Spent My Weekend.*
(From the Eschipul Flickr File.)

Even the Hurricane Showed Up.

(From the Gwen Bell Flickr File.)

I didn't really stay for the whole thing, but enough to get really excited about the product.

Lots of people talked about it.

Someone even wrote a song about it. (And it's true, there was plenty of yoga.)

It was completely bizarre and really cool.

I have to say, if they are holding a Startup Weekend in a city (or pub) near you, you should give some serious thought about showing up. At least for the free beer.

*Oh, also, I got bangs. But that's an entirely different post.

Just a Tip.

If you eat too many cake donuts...

then you will feel like this...


Trust me on this one.

I know.

Let's Face It, Facebook. We Need To Take A Break.

I've been thinking about it. And as it turns out, I need some space. A break. Yes. A break from you, Facebook. For real this time.

And yes, of course it's you.

You're just too damn demanding. And this isn't just coming up out of nowhere...we've talked about this.

Well. For starters, you make plans without consulting me, you want me to introduce you to all of my friends, then you want to know what I'm doing every single second of the day, and I get nothing in return. Nothing. You know it's true. You just expect me to always be there for you, whenever, however, forever. To meet request after request after request after request.

Always!

I mean just tonight I stop in just to hang out for a while, no big deal, low key, and out of nowhere, Bam! you greet me at the door with:

• 2 event invitations
• 2 group invitations
• 4 superpoke friend requests
• 1 what are you wearing invitation
• 7 top friend requests
• 2 tv show trivia invitations
• 2 my questions friend requests.
• 3 likeness quiz requests
• 2 wall post requests
• 8 zombie invitations (What the hell?)
• 1 warewolf invitation (Who are these people?)
• 3 vampire invitations (Um. no.)
• 1 X me friend request (Um. double no.)
• 3 human pets invitation (This is wrong on so many levels)
• 3 cause invitations
• 1 fortune friend request
• 1 mood invitation
• 1 you're hot request (Okay, that one wasn't so bad.)

Hello! I have a job and a family and a life. And I'm just not sure I can live up to your standards.

Face it. We both know I can't give you what you need. Not now. Maybe not ever.

(Plus, on top of that, you scare me. You're reckless. Now I hear you're hacking off the La Leche League and the League of Maternal Justice. And you really shouldn't do that. They'll cut you.)

So I'm out. You keep your billions and don't call me again.

(And if you, dear reader, join the International Leagues in being hacked off about the whole lactation brouhaha, go here and see what these people are doing.)

(Oh, and if you have no idea what I'm talking about, consider yourself lucky. And warned. Run.)

Did I Mention That I've Lost My Mind?

I think I've mentioned that Karen and I are training for next January's Houston Marathon. To walk it. That's right, to purposefully walk it. Because, as I'm positive I've said before, if I run it, I'll still be walking it. So we're being deliberate about the walking from the start. Smart huh?

But maybe not so smart because get this, even with the walking-not-running, we are forced to train. Train! Because that's what responsible adults do when they lose their minds and walk 42.195 kilometers (or 26.2 miles). I believe she is doing better than I am, but I think it's fair to say we both have a long road ahead of us. Figuratively and literally. My current biggest problem with this training is finding time to do it before the Hurricane is awake or after he's asleep. It's a bit limiting, honestly.

However, even though I haven't yet figured out my schedule, I have decided what I'm going to wear. Priorities. Check out my accessory of choice over at Cool Stuff. Plus I give you a little heads up on a giant athletic shoe giveaway. 50 pairs a day between now and October 25. (See, I know about this kind of stuff now because I'm training for a marathon. Which, when translated, means I'm crazy. But still, you should visit the site and register to win some shoes because hello, we're talking shoes here people. )

And have a fantastically restful weekend; think of me walking to Egypt; and while you're at it, consider staging an intervention. Please.

And So It Has Come To This

“Be yourself no matter what they say.” - Sting.

Once upon a land, in a time far far away, I said I’d never come home in the middle of the day to change clothes midstream for different audiences. Because, first of all, who has the time? And seriously, am I that vain, pathetic and shallow? I think we can definitively say the answer to that question is now ‘yes’.

I am.

In days of old, I would always get ready for work in the morning. Business casual. Business formal. Business casually formal. Whatever. I could start with a genre and then shed a coat, change accessories, details, etc. and viola newish outfit that still worked. I had it down. From morning corporate meeting to evening gala with a cocktail party tracer. Just one basic outfit with a few twists and turns in the day. No problem.

But that was then.

Now, I’ve discovered that my genres, my directions and my appointments are too varied and competing and clashing. My morning pre-school class coffee outfit can’t be conformed into my client’s-client’s afternoon meeting. Throw in a lunch with a toddler and a business meeting with an ex-boyfriend, and we’re completely out of whack. Whacked. Which is no good without the crack. So. I went home. And changed.

Three times.

In one day, I changed clothes three times. Who am I? Cher? Or any of those other chicks who only need one name but need seven different outfits in one evening. Yes.

I am like them.

So you can see why I really needed The Little Black Book of Style by Nina Garcia. Which is now officially my favorite book evaah.

"The little black book (which is literally a smallish black book) is itself as stylish as anything else on my bookshelf. So much so, I think it’s starting its own clique that the Jane Greens, Sophie Kinsellas and Candace Bushnells would all gladly give up their dust jackets to get in (while the Sylvia Plaths and Virginia Woolfs are scowling in the corner, Anne Lamott is just annoyed it doesn’t have a chapter on Northern California, and Ayn Rand thinks I’m an idiot.)"

Go to Cool Stuff to read more. Seriously. You won’t be disappointed. (Plus, there's a giveaway.)

“Confidence is captivating, it is powerful, and it does not fade—and that is endlessly more interesting than beauty.”
- Nina Garcia

And the Winner Is....

Instead of watching the Emmy's last night, I drove a few miles from my parent's place to the ACL Fest to pick up the HcQ (that's the husband con queso in case you forgot) after the Wilco concert. And what should have taken hardly any time ended up taking approximately 78,000 hours. Therefore, I missed most of the Emmy's. Lucky for us, the ScQ (sister con queso) came over to my parents to watch the show with me, and here are her takes on the real winners of the evening....

Presenters I’d Most Like to Have Drinks With: Tina Fey and Julia Louis Dreyfus

Presenter That Made You Think: “Why was Seacrest Host?”: Ellen DeGeneres

Best Emmy Mom: Katherine Heigl’s mother

Best Old School/New School Collision: Tony Bennett and Christina Aguilera duet

Best Geek Chic: Rainn Wilson

Best Interruption of the Get off the Stage Music: Tony Bennett

Best Just Had a Baby Boobs: Marcia Cross

Most Predictable Girl Power Moment: Glen Close, Kyra Sedgwick, Mary Louise Parker presentation

Most Well Preserved: Tie…Sally Field and Helen Mirren

Presenters I’d Most Like to Have as Neighbors: Steven Cobert and Jon Stewart

Biggest Rip Off: James Gandolfini didn’t win for dramatic actor

Best Comment on America: Helen Mirren, “You Americans and very generous people. You are other things as well. Some good, some bad. But you are generous.”

Most Needless Rant: Some guy got up, I didn’t catch his name, but he got up and started yelling at TV producers. It was self-important, maybe slightly true, but mostly ranty and loud. When millionaires rant how they’re mistreated, it’s just stupid.

Weirdest Win: Tony Bennett beat out Steven Colbert, Jon Stewart, Dave Letterman and Ellen DeGeneres for an award. Weird. But he gave a nice acceptance speech.

Weirdest Outfit: Seacrest. In a strange Shakespeare outfit. Someone said he looked like a medieval pimp. And he did.

Weirdest Bleep Moment: Sally Field. She got bleeped because she said there would be no war if mothers ruled the world. Or something like that.

Best Geek Rap: Rainn Wilson and Kanye. Like Peanut Butter and Jelly. Or Salt and Peppa. Or Kids and Cows.

Best "Green" Statement of the Night: “If entertainers start publicly congratulating each other, the earth wins.” Jon Stewart/Steven Colbert

Just the Best: Queen Latifa presenting the 30-year mark of Roots

And just like last year, I have to add the category:

Most Fab Emmy Winner Who Was Also in My British Lit After Burns Class: Angela Kinsey. You have to love her.

It Really Does Fly.

We’re quickly approaching the Hurricane’s second birthday as I’m continuing to pack up his babyhood and experiencing all the time flying clichés first hand. When last night I ran across this little idea in superhero journal about timelining your first memories. And I realized that everything that's been so monumentally real to us over the last years--while I've been stretched and pulled and changed so thoroughly that I can't really remember the me of '05 or '95 or '85 or '75--will not be deposited in the Hurricane's cognitive and conscious memory bank . And that's hard to believe. Because so much has happened in this two-year, all-nighter boot camp. And the Hurricane will remember none of it. It's true that I can’t wait to for him to make some memories. And I really can't wait to hear what he reports 36 years from now. But in the mean time, here's my version.

The First Five Memories I Have.

Age 3: One early morning, it was extremely cold outside. It was probably January, and I was suffering a bit from a sinus thing. I hawked up a giant loogie and proceeded to swallow it. Then it occurred to me. That was what they were talking about in the "big church" I'd recently attended. That was sin. I had just swallowed sin, so it would never be a pesky bother to all humanity ever again. I had gotten rid of it. I triumphantly explained the fact that I had conquered sin to my father. Because I honestly thought sin was snot. I have no idea why I thought this would be so.

Age 4: I went to see Elvis in concert with my parents. I didn’t really get who he was or what was going on but I knew every song. I kept telling my mom how much I loved his chicken suit. She finally figured out I thought the Eagle on the back of his Nudie Suit was a chicken. For weeks afterward, I told people I went to see the chicken man.

Age 5: One day I learned how to open a package of individually wrapped crackers at school. I felt extremely talented that I’d figured this out by myself. I was obviously gifted.

Age 6: There was no doubt that I was related to Princess Leia. So the Padrino (The Hurricane's godfather) and I played Star Wars on our monkey bar spaceship at recess. To be ready for the alliance's call. Of course, as a result, I needed to wear my hair in double buns to school everyday. My mom was thrilled about this development.

Age 7: Wrote my first book about The Littles, tiny people that lived in my lunchbox. Loved my idea and was convinced I’d be the youngest author in the world. A few months later, I discovered that a book called The Littles had already been published by John Peterson eleven years before. I was seriously annoyed that he had stolen my idea.

Age 8: Went to camp for three weeks in the heat of the summer, while my mom was at the height of her pregnancy with my younger sister. It all makes sense to me now. But at the time, I was really only concerned about the daddy long-legs spiders in the showers. So I didn’t shower for three weeks. In August. In Texas. But I swam every day, so I thought that counted. It didn’t.

When do your memories start?

In With the New.

I spent most of Saturday packing away the last two years. More specifically, six giant plastic bins and three canvas bags full of clothes, toys, bibs, blankets, rattles, car seat covers and carriers.

In other words, the Hurricane’s babyhood.

I was so tunnel-vision focused on this task… getting it gathered, sorted, and piled for redistribution…that I fell into that middle school syndrome. You know, where you forget that the whole world isn’t experiencing exactly the same thing you are at any given moment.

This occurred to me as I was standing in the grocery line a few hours later and received a call from a number I didn't recognize. I answered it, and on the other end people were screaming and a friend of mine was (very excitedly) saying something about being a few feet away from Matthew McConaughey. And I thought. Wow. Not everyone is cleaning and going to the grocery store today. For some reason this fact reminded me that I needed to call my friend who, around here, goes by the name Super Zoe.

If you read the Queso very often, more specifically, the Queso comments very often, then surely you’re familiar. Besides being a professional blog commenter, Super Zoe is a wonderful person, former teacher, and current curriculum expert. Also, she hands-down knows more about fashion that anyone else in the universe. Plus lots of other stuff too. And she’s a great friend. And I owed her a phone call. So as I was packing up the car with groceries, I dialed her number. And she answered without saying hello. Instead, she started with maybe the best greeting ever…

SZ: I should warn you, I’m drunk.

GcQ: Well hello. That’s an interesting way to answer the phone.

SZ: I’m just saying. At least everyone around me is telling me I’m drunk. So I must be. I’m at a party. And I just want to warn you in case you’re thinking you’re having a regular coherent conversation with me. Because you’re not.

GcQ: Oh. Okay, well should I call back later?

SZ: No. Now’s a good time. I just wanted to warn you.

And then we had a hilarious and delightful catch up, where at one point she began to chastise me because I haven’t been posting oh so much on the Queso and on Cool Stuff and definitely not on Hurricane Tracking. Specifically I believe her issue was with the lack of Hurricane Tracking posts (because seriously, there really can never be enough Hurricane sightings).

But I got the gist on all. And I really agree with her. I’ve seriously been halfassing the posts lately. And I hate that. Plus, the banner keeps disappearing. Weird.

So this September, I’m bringing Queso back. Yeah. I’ll be posting here (at least) every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And I’ll be posting at Cool Stuff (and yes, at Hurricane Tracking) every weekday. Now that school is in session and McConaughey is back at football games, I need to get back in the rhythm of things. Plus, what the heck else do I have to do after eight when the Hurricane’s nestled all snug in his bed?

And speaking of beds, along with sorting through all things baby blue and packing up and passing on my little love’s babyhood, we’re making some changes around Casa con Queso. For starters, we’re (finally!) starting to think about moving our always-on-11, full-steam-ahead Hurricane to a little boy bed. Read: no rails to keep him in. Imagine: a Hurricane roaming the house at night to raid the fridge for Jello. I’m just saying. I’ll have plenty to blog about. Plus, I will no longer be sleeping.

Taking School By Storm

The Hurricane hit his school full force today "graduating" from the Duckling class to the Busy Bunny class. Well, they've got the busy part right.

Last year, he was only a tad bit beyond clueless on the first day of school. He didn't really know where he was. He barely even knew who we were.

This year, he woke up bright and early, went straight for his shoes, grabbed them, shoved them in my direction and said "Shoes!" like a diva demands diamonds.

He then stopped...he never stops...looked at me sheepishly and said, "I go to school today?" Yes, our non-talker talked. He was that excited about school.

But the stopping didn't last long. We quickly got ready (chanting school! school! school!), made our way up the street, and he literally RAN! (that's right, RAN!) in. He went straight into his new class, made his way to the play kitchen station, picked up a plastic banana and started eating it.

And then it really started. The year officially began when grabbed a Busy Bunny Class hottie and kissed her right on the mouth. He was that excited about school.

It's going to be an interesting year.

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And speaking of learning and kissing and kids growing up way too fast, I reviewed a smart book...Girlology: Hang-Ups, Hook-Ups and Holding Out...over at Cool Stuff today. Check it out. It's a really good book. And there's a giveaway. Plus, a few 1980s references. What more could you want? Really.