Breakfast at Hillary's

Okay, where to begin. Friday, my dear friend Diana called me and told me she
was on her way up for an event with Hillary and would I like to come, too? Well, since the only thing I had to do this weekend was replace my mailbox (the door fell off the old one; I bought a new one for $5 and made the exchange in about three minutes so it wasn't a big whoop) and since it had been a while since I had seen Diana and since we are the two halves of the New Age Couple (sorry, Kevin), I said yes.

Girl Talk

This led me to the Wyndham (which always makes me think of Buffy's
replacement watcher), where I passed the evening with Lady Diana engaging in delightful
conversation about a number of things and helped bring the signs down to the ball room
where the big do was going to be the next morning. We got to see Hillary enter the hotel,
and she was not looking like she felt well. Diana had already expressed her concern as to
Lady H's well-being (Diana had been to an event down in Miami the night before with a
hoarse Hillary). Wrapped in a pink, um-thing-kind-of-like-a-really-wide-scarf-I-am-gay-I-should-know-what-this-is-called-but-can't-think-of-it-at-the-moment and looking a little tired, she quickly boarded the elevator along with enough of her staff to make sure that no one tried to hitch on to her star, so to speak. Now, the real stitch was that Diana's room was on the same floor as Hillary's. So we waited to get up to Diana's dinner, which meant that we enjoyed (a term here employed looser than a goose's stool) an elevator ride with three men: two older, one younger, all three involved in a wedding the next day. Not a wedding to each other, though: it wasn't a Massachusetts moment. Although I think the young man
was the groom: Diana said they were a tacky couple getting married, and he certainly looked the part.
Anyway, one of the older men was regaling the other two with how he was going to ruin someone because of something by telling all the people he knew about what a dirt bag this other guy was; I felt that he should really rehearse his Soprano's routine a little more before trying to take it on the road. Then, we had a little elevator hiccup, which meant that we got enjoy even MORE time with them (although, as part of a karmic restitution program, the universe did decide to put the groom's one cute friend on the elevator with us). Finally, we made it to the room and a little while later, Diana's dinner finally made it up to her.
So while Miss D enjoyed a steak with coffee beans (I know it's been a while since I ate of the cow flesh, but I don't EVER remember it being that way), we chatted some more and looked at baby pandas (which turned out to be mama panda eating bamboo: hey, I don't got a degree in pandathology) and checked Kevin's blog, talked about my slacker-ass not blogging, and so on. Then we had a problem.
When room service left the tray, they left a number to call when one had completed one's dining experience so the tray could be picked up from the room. However, this being later in the evening (technically, very early the next morning), they weren't answering the phone. So we had to deal with the tray. Because Diana is a classy lady, she didn't want to leave the tray in the room all night, stinking up the place, but she also didn't want to put it into the hallway where it might be tripped on by Secret Service or Hillary making her way to the ice machine. So, being the gentleman that I am (why the fuck are you bitches laughing?), I graciously offered to take the tray and place it somewhere that it would not leave an odor or cause a tripping hazard. I took the tray and left it on the table in the elevator lobby one floor below us. Thus, our one dilemma of the evening solved, we set to our final chatting and went to sleep.

My life as a sign monkey

The next morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, we skipped on down to the ballroom to receive our assignments. Now, Diana's friend who had gotten her (and, by extension, me) into this gig had asked for our help but not really specified in what capacity we would be serving. When we went down, someone else told us that we would probably be needed on the registration table. That was not particularly palatable, so we went to Diana's friend who told us that we would be "troubleshooting" which was far more agreeable because it meant we could basically do what we wanted to do. Then we passed out signs to people once the room started to reach capacity.
I need to jump back in time here for a moment, for I am leaving out one of the best bitchy parts. When I had come down with Diana and the troll told us to do registration, Diana walked off for a bit and I stayed by the table because I was holding the tickets and didn't think it would be wise to just leave them and didn't really want to go a-wandering with them either. While I am standing there, minding my own business, this woman comes over. She whispers to me "What do you have? Let me see." in a tone that one wouldn't use on a retarded dog. I had already disliked her for wearing a hoochie skirt at what should have been a very professional deal; and now I had been talked down to. Not a way to get on the short list of my burgeoning friends. She did not actually put her hands on the tickets to tip them to her view or move to take them, but she didn't really have to, either: I was holding them in such a way that anyone that close inside my personal space could have seen what they were. Then she said "Oh, the tickets! They look nice!" in a tone that I am sure was meant to send my retarded little tail into a fierce wag. I made a sort of non-committal noise/gesture and she went on her way, on to spread her condescension to others. As she walked away, I christened her "Leg-olas". It wasn't until later that I noticed the sag of cellulite on her left knee and her unfortunate shade of toenail polish: aubergine. And as Diana said, the mules were a mistake as well.
Okay, zooming back to the present: Diana and I are in the room, watching as the people file in. I am scouting for hot guys, because, well duh! I am a homo, and a guy, and these are Dems, and therefore they are usually homo-friendly and also because they drink. Hehe. Diana and I are supposed to pass out signs to the people, but not too soon and not too late: at exactly the right time. I later understand that people are far too serious because, honestly: what difference can a few seconds make as to sign distribution? I start working my side of the room, when I see that a few people have already helped themselves to my stash. Bastards! That's when I discover what I just said above and remember that I am supposed to pass the damn things out anyway, so they saved me some work.
Now, I don't know how many of you have ever tried to press something on the public, but it's not an easy job. Early on, I learned the trick of handing someone a stack of signs and asking "Can you help me pass these down? Thanks!" while walking away before they can say no. I resorted to my charms. Um, okay: I put on a (badly) faked Southern-y accent that is only truly authentic after I have spent a few days "back home". I said "much obliged" and "I thank-y kindly" (note that it is not "I thank you" but instead "thank-y"; NOT like "spanky" but like "you" without the "ew". It's a pronunciation that only those who actually live anywhere in the true South can ever master) more times than I care to admit. I had a woman ask me who I was and what my job was and I told her that my job was passing out signs and that I wasn't anybody. She insisted that I must have a name, so I told her. She wrote it down on her pad, but I doubt that I will get a mention in whatever she publishes. Anyway, the funnest sign to pass was the one near the back of the room.
We'd pretty well reached saturation by this point: now it was a matter of finding people who would look you in the eye so you could press your sign on them. I spotted a pair in the back who looked game and asked the woman if she would like a sign. She told me she didn't know what to do with it afterwards. I told her I was sure she could think of something, which was when I realized what I just said. She had a look in her eyes, while her friend cracked up next to her. I sort of blushed a bit, debating whether to stammer something out, but she took it in stride. He told her that he was sure he could think of a couple of things if she couldn't and she told him that he'd never be a bigger dyke than her. She took the sign, though.
My least favorite bit was getting the signs to the young democrats. They were all duded up, and not really in the mood to work with us. They were supposed to be part of the cutaway shot, waving their signs like crazy, but they weren't doing such a good job, and it made difficult because the crafty older people had scooped in before them (late, as usual) and took the front of the section they were supposed to be standing in. I went over twice to make sure they all had signs and were going to wave them; then after I met up with Diana on the other side of the room, I firmly resolved that they needed to be poked with sticks. I didn't get to poke them, though. There were a couple I really wanted to poke, too. And not with a stick, if you get my drift.

Weekend at Burn-ies

Now, the morning event was over and Diana and I were whisking over to the afternoon affair, which is always more exclusive than the morning deal. The hoi-polloi get a turn, but we know where the money is, too. Anyway, this was a pretty nobby do: fancy catered table of snacks with a menu. A menu for the snack table: now that just screams nobby! Of course, the cheeses had melted under the glare of the sun. The glare which I realized was shining on my poor bald head. My poor bald head that had no sunscreen on, because I hadn't really anticipated being outside for great stretches of time. My poor bald head which is now a bright pink, which someone generous might call rose blush, or someone realistic might call pre-cancerous. Anyway, we listened to the ad hoc speech, got lined up for the photo shoot, had our pictures taken, and decided to skip the luncheon. Well: Hil was on her way out, we didn't know anybody, and the likelihood of us finding a quiet corner where we could make fun of people was just about nil. So we scarpered.
Then I led us on a near fruitless expedition in search of lunch. Tampa sucks on the weekend, and I ended up taking us to Hyde Park which happened to be having a ginormous (just doing my part, Diana) art thingie. Which meant that the two restaurants (one of which closes at 2:30 on Saturday for some unfathomable reason) were running at capacity and beyond. So, we found this little place sort of across the street, and it wasn't too shabby. Although I started to wonder if perhaps there had been fishy bits in my meal, since I was starting to not feel so good once I got home, which I suppose just as easily have been sun poisoning.

All in all, it was a good day: I got to spend time with my friend, have a picture with Hillary, and say bitchy things about people I don't even know. Of course, that isn't nearly a patch on what happened the next day. I'll tell you all about it real soon. Kisses!