Thursday, August 30, 2007

I Don't Know

How do you find time?

This is not a rhetorical question, though I wish it were. But honestly, I just don't know how anyone finds time to do anything. I don't know what I've been doing with my time, exactly, but I feel like I'm not getting things accomplished at work, or at home, or with family, or with my actual "this is what I would like to be doing with my life" endeavors, either.

But here's an update, for what it's worth.

So, BlogHer has gone and got itself some offices. Which means that I have had to remind myself what it's like for most of the country -- getting up and showering and getting dressed (in non-sweats) and showing up at a location that is not, you know, my living room. This is a huge shift for me, a complete shock to the system.

Not only that, but the offices are located out of San Francisco.

So I bought myself a car. GAH.

(A car that, it turns out, is also Breezily Elegant. Perfect! More on that later.)

But now all of a sudden I have a whole new daily routine. My commute is over an hour each way, which means I have just lost two and a half hours I used to spend blogging, and reading blogs, and who knows what else. (At least, before the conference came and ate away that time, too.)

Personal Life
Things with Ish are going well, except that my commuting an hour+ in one direction while he's commuting and hour+ in the other direction has taken a huge toll on our "quality time." As you can imagine. Shuffling two apartments and four cats and his comedy shows and my rehearsals is kind of crazy. I feel like something's got to give on that front, too.

Looking Ahead
Um. So in the next couple months, there's like, a millionteen things going on and they are all great and fun and wonderful, but I have got to get a handle on them before they run away from me and it's suddenly Christmas Eve and I'm all like, what? I thought it was Halloween.

So if any of you have any brilliant suggestions for how and when to incorporate daily blogging into my new life schedule, I am ALL EARS.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Scenes From A Life Nearly Forgotten

The whole thing was wrong. And ridiculous.

I have had a lot of corporate jobs in my life, so many that by the time I graduated college I just decided to start my resume over again. And while this post is not about those jobs (I feel suffocated just thinking about them), I'm reminded of what it felt like to show up to those workplaces after I'd given my notice.

There's nothing quite like reporting to a job you're about to leave. Those horrible tasks, the elements and people related to the job that seemed awful before giving notice become utterly absurd in those last two weeks. It's "going through the motions" to the nth degree.

I'd see an embittered secretary shuffle by miserably and think, "Wow. I care about this job even less than she does."

In one particularly bad situation, I remember my boss -- an anal-retentive, insecure, belittling man -- talking to me, explaining to me all the projects I had to complete before I left. And I felt a sad thrill in tuning his words out, watching his lips move and hearing only my own voice saying, "Just nod your head and do the work. Remember, when it's over, you will never have to take direction from this person ever again."

I bring this up because, it occurred to me recently, that's how being separated felt. I was married, and it was okay, and then it wasn't, and then it was going to end. My husband had told me we were going out of business. So I gave my then-life my notice.

This has been a great learning experience, CurrentLife, but I'm afraid that this is just not a good fit for me. I have decided to pursue another opportunity...

And everything after that point was just going through the motions.

It was the summer of 2001, the summer before 9/11. I was living alone in our house, in a somewhat remote area of Fairfield, Connecticut. I was working from home and on a reduced schedule, which meant I had far too much time on my hands.

One day, for reasons that escape me entirely, I decided to wash the duvet cover from the guest room. I had never personally washed a duvet cover before (or since, if I'm being honest). I don't know why I decided to then. Was I expecting a guest? Family? Had I had a casual encounter and then wanted to remove the evidence? Or was it simply out of boredom, or feeling like I needed to be completing some final project for a belittling man I would soon never see again?

When I set to washing the thing, I didn't bother to look up washing instructions. I figured it could be washed just like any other bed linen since it was cotton, and not that much larger than a sheet. I just stuffed it into the washer and added some detergent. The way a domestic-oriented person who wasn't me would do, I supposed. And I turned on the machine and it whirred to life and I went about my afternoon.

But I couldn't help but notice when the whirring became something of a cough, and then a sputter, and then silence.

I opened the washing machine and peered down into it. The washing cycle had gotten far enough along that the water had drained, but my cheerful yellow duvet cover was still mightily damp, and mashed along the washer walls from the force of a centrifugal cleaning. Nothing looked especially broken.

I tried to turn the machine on again, but it wouldn't go.

I decided to pull the duvet out, then, to see if there was some more readily apparent washing machine woe. As I pulled, the cover caught on the center part of the machine, and I had to pull hard to pry it loose. It tore, but not too badly. I then re-examined the machine. It looked fine, aside from a few yellow threads sticking from the center of it, but it still refused to turn back on.

And I probably sighed, probably heavily.

My washing machine was broken.

I did not want to repair it. I did not want to call a maintenance man, to have him come to the house I was not really living in, to have him fix a machine I had hardly used in the few months I'd owned it.

The truth is, I felt guilty, and like an impostor. I had barely lived on my own, barely gone through the hardship of having to use coin-operated machines to do my laundry. I'd only spent one semester on a campus, and two years in an apartment where my husband did the washing, but where we had an elevator anyway. Who was I to have such creature comforts as an on-site washer and dryer? I hadn't had to work for them at all. A brand new washer and dryer are things to relish, I understood, but I didn't care about them at all. Like getting the best, most souped-up, ergonomically correct desk chair at a job you don't like. Someone in the office deserves it more.

I was in the wrong job.

I wanted to put off calling the machine repair man, to avoid this being my job, my life, but there was no excuse to be made.

He may have come that afternoon, or a week later -- I don't recall. But I do recall watching him show up at the house, and thinking how absurd it was.

The whole thing was wrong. And ridiculous.

The guy was young and attractive, with tanned skin and thick forearms. Our exchange was a little bit awkward, too, because of that. I am certain that washing machine repair men must see all kinds of homes, but the fact remained that he was an attractive guy, and he appeared at my house, and I was young, and cute, and alone, and lonely. And not wearing a ring. And cliches don't just come out of nowhere.

Of course, nothing happened at all between us. I just remember thinking it could have.

He opened the washing machine. Then he took the top off the center part like it was nothing, and saw a bunch of duvet detritus. He pulled it out of the center, like a clump of hair out of a drain.

I felt like an idiot.

"Did you put something oversized in this?" He asked, knowing full well that I had.

I admitted that I did, adding that I'd thought it was small enough. But what I really wanted to say was more like, "Look. I know this is my job, and it probably looks like I suck at my job. I don't. But it's not the job for me. Truth be told, I have no real experience with this type of thing, and I've learned that I don't want experience with this type of thing. Someday, maybe, I will care about proper duvet cleaning protocol, but right now all I want to do is be somewhere else, somewhere things like this don't matter."

I maybe also wanted to add, "And do you want to have sex with me right now, right here on the floor of the kitchen? Because we could because why the hell not?" But I didn't.

Instead, we just had a brief exchange about how he felt bad for having to charge me for something I clearly could have avoided, and fixed, if I'd known the first thing about being a washing machine owner. If I'd known the first thing about being a wife. So he wrote up some bogus report and charged me as little as he was allowed.

And then he left me alone, with my working machine and my lesson learned, tucked away for later.

At least I'd be leaving the job with some transferable skills, should they ever be needed further along in my career.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Rage Against The Machine

Oh, good. MORE issues.

Because what I really needed was another "fun" thing to add to my increasingly attractive, single, thirtysomething arsenal. You know, the one I get to haul out should Ish and I ever break up.

I try not to dwell on this, but a glass-half-empty view of my likelihood at EVER dating again goes something like...

Me, to potential suitor, summarizing: Uh huh, yes. Hi. I am a potentially reproductively challenged 32-year-old woman, living alone with two cats -- one who does tricks that I will make you watch and one whose greatest personality trait is finding new and creative places in my apartment on which to pee. There is rarely anything in my fridge. I have a great group of friends, but like, half of them are planning weddings you may have to come to, and while there I will likely cry and ask when it will be our turn, even if it's only our first date. I am close with my family because we're a lot of fun but also kind of very tragic and wait till you hear those stories. Hoo boy. And HAHA! Speaking of stories, wait till you get to the one about my wretched divorce! But no, no, I am not in any way bitter or man-hating. I mean, two of my closest friends are my ex-boyfriends. Well, one is an ex-fiance, and the other used to work for an online sex toy company, so I hope you don't have any hang-ups about THAT sort of thing. (See? With the stories?) And yes, I am gainfully employed but the nature of my job means that for about two months out of the year I will be so insanely busy I may not remember my own name let alone yours, and you will have to adjust to my intensified mood swings and uh, "whimsical" hair. I blog about my life -- yes, I love blogs -- and you will be featured in those blog entries regularly. Oh! And if you're really lucky, I will re-pursue stand-up comedy, where then everything you do will be potential fodder for jokes I tell on stage to strangers. Other than that I am relatively healthy but, right, overweight, and with a tendency to overindulge in food and drink. I don't follow sports, I don't like outdoorsy things, and I have a few issues with my body, heights, birds, bridges, an-- HEY! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

But then other times I'm like, Hey, I'm funny and nice and I have big boobs.

ANYWAY, just when I thought I had a handle on myself, my issues*, I go and discover I have a NEW and SPECIAL issue, and isn't that so great!

Dear Invisible Internet friends Therapists, I suffer from Tech Rage.

All my life, I've been all, "I don't have anger issues." I drive like a completely sane person, for example. Someone decides to cut me off, and (perhaps with a few choice words), I let them. If service at a restaurant is rude or exceedingly slow, I may get a little annoyed, but I don't let it get to me.

Getting angry doesn't solve anything, I say. It's not worth it to get upset, I say. Life is too short, I say.

Yeah, well. Turns out, I say none of these things when it comes to internet connectivity.

Instead, I instantly go from being a completely normal, level-headed person to a stark raving lunatic if for some reason my internet connection seems slow.

I actually use expressions like that.

I have also found that I can string obscenities together like poetry if for some reason my wireless connectivity is spotty.

(Mother fucking refresh kiss my ascii page loading cocksucking son of a bitmapping...)

Although that's nothing compared to the downright OUTRAGE I feel if some area doesn't have internet access at all. The way I see it, if my damn stupid cell phone has more than one bar, I should be able to watch YouTube. Simple as that.

And then there are those times when Google hiccups, and I don't just get angry, I get panicked.


You know?

It gets worse, though. Because in addition to anger, I have learned that I have a ranting, ridiculously ornery old man living inside me(!). And he comes out whenever I am confronted with bad web design and usability.

Seriously. Me at a poorly designed site is like a Mean Grandpa who's accidentally wandered into a new-fangled restaurant. I am disoriented and scared, and my only recourse is to complain about everything.
What kid of place IS THIS, anyway? THIS doesn't look like anything I've ever seen before. I can't even find a MENU. Wait, that's it? THAT'S the menu? WHY IS THE TYPE SO DAMN SMALL? And why aren't the prices even listed? Can you at least turn that godawful music DOWN? Who's in charge here? Do you know anything about customer service? Don't talk to me like I'm a child just becau-- That's it. I'm leaving.

And then to ensure that I am living up to the standards of my Inner Mean Grandpa, I make sure I fill out the site's version of a comment card in a curt yet detailed manner, explaining in painstaking detail why they have lost a customer forever.

Of course, the only thing worse than having these issues is trying to resolve them via "customer support" which makes me so livid so quickly I can barely stand to write about it. But you know what I'm talking about, the kind where you call because something is seriously wrong with your tech gadget and the first person you speak to on the phone is required to ask you the most ridiculous questions you have ever heard, just to see if you can pop a blood vessel in your forehead in time to meet your boyfriend's parents.

Yes, Ma'am, I understand completely the trouble you are having, Ma'am. Now may I ask, Ma'am, have you checked to see that the equipment is plugged in?


But it can't just be me, right? You get this way too, right?



*Totally a self-help book waiting to be written. You know, instead of Our Bodies, Ourselves it would be My Self, My Issues.

Saturday, August 11, 2007


In case you were unsure, that is the sound of a large cat, growling.

"Large cat" as in "cougar."

The Loose Interpretations (for those of you not following along, that's my a cappella group, currently comprised of 11 women, most of whom I'm older than) had an outing a couple weeks ago, where we went to dinner and then went to a club.

When we arrived at the club, we were almost the only ones there. Within an hour, the place was packed.

Mostly with boys.

Mostly with boys who seemed much, MUCH younger than me.

It's entirely possible that the average age of club-goers was 24 or 25, but for whatever reason, the gap in our ages -- what with me being all of a geriatric 32 -- seemed like a canyon.

At first, I felt very uncomfortable. Young man after young man poured into the club, trying to look cool and collected. And while sometimes I can pass as a twentysomething, there was no way that these guys were going to notice me. Judging by the rest of the crowd, and even my gorgeous fellow group-members, I was too old, too heavy, and too clothed. (Well, and judging by the girls in the ladies' room, I was also too sober, but that's another story.)

But as I continued to observe, my few moments of self-doubt changed. I went from a few, fleeting moments of feeling inadequate, to feeling --

-- gosh, don't hate me --


I mean, I was as surprised as you are. I was all set to have to put on my emotional "I don't really care" armor...but I never did. I just sort of felt satisfied.

Yes, I'm older, but I'm also wiser and more experienced. Yes, I will spill things down my shirt all the damn time, but I do know how to hold myself, handle myself in the larger sense. Not to mention I'm financially stable, gainfully employed, and have a group of friends and family I would go to the ends of the earth for.

And uh, not to creep out all my NON-invisible friends who may be reading this and/or related to me (hi!), but let's just say I know my way around the bedroom.

So there I was, with these thoughts whipping through my head, and I had to laugh at myself. Because I realized that in the context of our club outing, I was a cougar. Ha!

(Okay, not really. Especially as I was NOT on "the hunt." But still.)

It's one thing to enjoy dollar beer specials in a sort of ironic way (ahem), but it's quite another to enjoy them because you cannot afford anything else because you spent two months' rent on your damn phone which you refuse to use for any actual conversation, but still seem incapable of leaving in your pocket for three consecutive seconds lest you miss a text message.

Ah, the texting. And the hair product. And the Bud Light bravado.

It was awe-inspiring to watch the clusters of boys buy cheap beer and rounds of even cheaper shots for themselves, just so eventually they'd get up the courage to talk to any of the cute girls in clusters on the other side of the room. (They didn't even have the courage to make eye contact with the bartender, which I sort of understood since she was about 2.5 seconds away from having her boobs pop right out of her shirt.)

So there they just stood -- hordes of hormones, drowning whatever social graces they may have had in a thick, clumsy coat of Jager, posturing and cheers-ing each other at the end of the bar, creating an impenetrable forcefield of cologne.

Leaving me and my curvy, comfortable, cash-positive self to sashay over to the other, cologne-free end of the bar, where I was served immediately. (Probably due to the fact that I was ordering high-end liquor and tipping well.) (And not texting while so doing.)


I'm probably sounding a bit bitter, and I really don't mean to. I just didn't know. I didn't know places, people like this existed. Was twentysomething dating always like this? Did I not notice it before? Or did I manage to avoid it?

And why? Why, girls in your 20s who may be reading this, do you partake? Surely there must be other options...

This past weekend, my cousin, Nate was in town with his girlfriend, who is my (aforementioned) would-be/could-be/long-story-but-we're-not-actually-related "cousin," Liz. And they came out with me and Ish and a few other people, including PinkJaime and her friend and his friends.

Now, when I say "his friends," I mean two guys. One was very tall and built like a football player and one was shorter and lean and fit and had a couple facial piercings. They seemed a bit reserved, but also nice and polite. I said to Jaime, "they're kind of cute." And she replied, "yeah, and they're like 12."

In the dim bar light I hadn't noticed how young they looked. But on second glance, they could have passed for teenagers. So rather than hang out near them, I returned to my group of friends.

I learned a long time ago that men in bars -- especially the young ones -- do not have much interest in talking with:
A) Girls who they don't want to have sex with, or
B) Girls who are at the bar with their boyfriend

...and I had to figure I was both.

The concept of making friends, engaging in casual conversation, and networking is usually completely lost on the 23-year-old guy, especially in a bar situation. I have found myself wanting to tell more than a few guys to CHILL OUT, I AM NOT HITTING ON YOU, I AM TRYING TO ENGAGE YOU IN CONVERSATION BECAUSE I AM A HUMAN BEING AND THIS IS A SOCIAL GATHERING AND THAT TALKING THING? SPEECH? IT IS MY PREFERRED MODE OF COMMUNICATION. AND NOT ONLY THAT, BUT I CAN ENGAGE IN SPEECH WITHOUT EVEN ONCE THINKING ABOUT YOUR PENIS.

But I never do say that, mostly because I think I'd make it about halfway through the sentence before he'd return to texting. Well, until he heard the words, "your penis."

Anyway, this is why it came as such a surprise to me when about 30 minutes after our introduction, the shorter of the two young men approached me.

"Kristy?" he asked, a bit tentatively. Perhaps he wasn't sure if he'd heard my name correctly and wanted to be sure. But the mere fact that he'd approached me, and remembered and USED my actual name to engage me in conversation absolutely floored me.

Maybe not all early twentysomething boys are so clueless, I thought. Maybe I was being unfair. Maybe the good ones do exist.

I smiled and nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"Do you have any gum?"

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Knitting Help Needed! The Tiny "White Blanket Project"

Dear Internet and Blogworld and Knitters and Crafters,

My very close friends, Missy and Dan, recently gave birth to a sweet baby boy.

15 weeks early.

15 weeks!

It has been an incredible story, watching this tiny little baby fight for his life, and grow, and succeed. He's doing an incredible job.

And the hospital, way out there in Nebraska, has been an amazing facility -- providing the best technology and care.

Except, really, for one very small thing.

The hospital is host to a lot of preemies, but it cannot provide enough preemie-appropriate blankets.

Missy explains the situation in her letter below, but I was thinking it would be SO GREAT if some or even just one of you out there with a little bit of time and inclination wouldn't mind sending a soft, soothing blanket to a preemie in need.

What do you think?

Here's the info -- please feel free to ask questions!

: : White Blanket Project : :

My son, Jonah, was born June 1st, arriving 15 weeks prematurely and on
the threshold of viability. He weighed 1lb 8.8oz, was 12.75" long and
was given an APGAR score of only 2. He spent his first 6 weeks of
life on a ventilator, unable to breathe on his own. He fought
pneumonia and only barely avoided having heart surgery. Today, he
weighs 4lbs 0.9oz, is taking a few of his feedings by bottle each
day, and is breathing on his own with supplemental oxygen. He is
still struggling, but he is finally having more good days than bad.

The hospital provides blankets and bedding for each baby, but these
have been washed so many times that they are scratchy and faded. All
babies enjoy the feel of soft textures against their skin, but for
premature babies this is even more important. They have so many
unpleasant experiences each day, having a soft blanket can go a long
way to soothe them. I made a soft white blanket for Jonah early on,
and since I have made blankets for a few of the other babies when I
can. I wish I could make blankets for all of them, but I can't. So, I
am asking you for help.

I am collecting white blankets, knit from soft, machine washable yarn
or sewn from soft white fabric. These will be washed and given to the
nurses to give to other families in the NICU as they arrive. Not only
will your contribution give comfort to a small baby as it struggles to
survive, having a blanket made just for their baby helps parents feel
supported during this very difficult time. These blankets don't need
to be very large, only 20" x 20".

Time is of the essence. If you are interested in participating, the
blanket(s) you make will need to be mailed no later than August 25.
Please email me at for a shipping

Thank you very much!

Jonah thanks you, too!

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

I'm Baaaaack

I feel like I've actually used that as a blog title before, but frankly I'm too lazy to go look for it. Oh well. Let's just pretend it's the first time, k?

So let me just state -- again -- for the record -- that getting back into regular blog posting is hard. There's a build-up of all these things I thought about writing but then didn't, and it's kind of weird to start writing about that funny thing that happened that time four months ago.

But I think it'd be even weirder to write about random serious things from out of nowhere.

Thus, I have no idea what I'll be posting about, but I will be posting. Hurrah.

* * *

My apartment, for what it's worth, looks like a cyclone came through it. There isn't a single clean surface anywhere, which isn't maybe all that shocking, but looking at the mess just exhausts me. I have no motivation to clean. Instead, I just randomly straighten the one corner of my desk that wasn't messy in the first place, and then go sleep at Pete's.

I don't think my cats mind when the apartment is messy. In fact, they use the clutter -- magazine stacks and clothes piles and un-put-away suitcases and un-torn-down boxes -- as makeshift beds and hideouts. I sort of think that cats are zen enough as is, you know? What the hell do they need feng shui for?

I am mostly decompressed from the last few months of my life, wherein every moment of my consciousness was (at least in part) devoted to the conference.

I say "mostly" though because just last Friday night, I woke Pete up to yell at him about where he'd put the name badges. WHERE ARE THEY? WHERE DID YOU PUT THEM?

I accosted him in the middle of the night about this, while I was both panicked and unconscious, which is a fantastically sexy combination let me tell you.

When he then got kind of uppity with me (the nerve!), and insisted that he did not have them and I was forced to consider this, I woke up.

Me, blinking into the darkness: Was I dreaming?

Pete, grumpily: Yes.

Me: Was I talking to you?

Pete: You were yelling at me about name badges.

Me: Oh. Sorry!

So no, not entirely decompressed, then.

A week before the conference I woke Pete up very similarly, demanding to know about the sponsor fees. He was no help then, either.

Thursday, August 02, 2007

I Stubbed My Toe On My Cat: A Final BlogHer Sound-Off

That's not any kind of metaphor.

Yesterday morning I was hobbling to the kitchen to get coffee and was not quite awake and realized the cats needed food and so I walked in the general direction of the cats' bowl and damn it. The stupid cat collided with my foot and I STUBBED MY TOE ON MY CAT.

Gosh, it's good to be back.

So hey! Have you seen that internet thing lately? Haha. Apparently, bloggers? They have things to say about the BlogHer Conference (tag: blogher07). And I truly want to respond to each and every one of them to explain some things, but I am just so tired.

Especially because I believe, deep in my soul, that Elizabeth Edwards joining us at our cocktail party (uh, not to mention frickin' Amy Sedaris) should outweigh the existence of the potholder. But what do I know.

So here are some random thoughts, directed at no one in particular and everyone at large. And then I'll shut up about it already.

* * *
Well yes. There WAS a turkey in our exhibitor area.

You know, when I think of eye-catching displays, enormous roasted birds do not normally spring to mind. But what kind of out-of-the-box thinking is THAT? I mean, if you're a turkey company, and you want to show that you're a turkey company, what are your options, really?

My official stance is to remind everyone that Butterball actually gets that women bloggers are important, they get that we should be recognized and they get that we should be supported. (If they really thought of us as 1950s housewives, they wouldn't have shown up at a blogging conference.)

I don't know what to tell you about the pot holders. Sure, a thumb drive would have been more immediately useful, but no one in my family has ever suddenly needed a few extra megs of storage when taking a turkey out of the oven.

And honestly, regardless of how you feel about the whole thing, remember: you now get to say that you were at a tech conference with a turkey. With a turkey!

* * *

The City of Chicago has a lot of rules. A LOT of them. And also taxes. And fines. Like, did you know that there's a 3% soda tax? Or that our caterer could have lost his license for letting attendees leave with bottles of wine, even though the nice people at Hess were willing to give the extras out? Or that moving one single air wall would have cost FOUR HOURS of labor?

And see? It's not just us, either!!!

* * *

The Oops wine people give aprons out as their swag regardless of conference. It's like, their thing. They do not believe that women should be in the kitchen; they believe that red wine stains.

(Somehow I have a couple red wine stains on my laptop. How this happened is a mystery to me. Apparently my laptop needs an apron, too.)

* * *

I don't think there's much I can say about the cheese. But I can tell you, it was no walk in the park keeping it refrigerated.

* * *

I still don't get Twitter.

* * *

I nearly wept with joy when I arrived at the Navy Pier before sunrise on Friday and whipped open my computer and saw the phrase: "...Would you like to join the wireless network, 'BlogHer'?"

A joy to behold.

* * *

The shuttles cost approximately 18 billion dollars. (They would have only cost 17 billion, but we paid that extra billion to have a dedicated dispatcher ensuring that all five shuttles were running all day.)

I do not know why the drivers didn't know where they were going. I don't know why they just sometimes stopped showing up. I don't know why they weren't labeled, a la BLOGHER SHUTTLE. And I really don't know HOW you can get into an accident when you're driving at 3 miles an hour in Pier traffic.

But I, too, would sure like to find out.

* * *

Finally, I have noticed that a few of you have been questioning that odd, cube-y thing you had in your rooms at the W. The one that looked like it was...uh...a decorative pillow covered in...wiry...fuzzy...hairlike...

I do believe one of you called it a pube pillow.

Now, I did not stay at the W, so I cannot speak first-hand to the hotel's decisions regarding pillow fabric, or any other textiles for that matter. I can tell you that I watched the entire season of Top Design and none of that made any sense to me, either.

The best I can offer is that probably the wiry cube is a very hot home accessory in Europe and we just haven't caught up (you know how Europeans are about hair...). I very much doubt that the W was trying to send subtle messages to BlogHers by placing it in the rooms.

I'm glad you liked the Bliss products. Perhaps next year they, too, will offer nipple cream.

* * *

Thanks to all of you for posting so much feedback -- the good, the bad, the ugly.
None of it goes unnoticed.