Earlier this month I attended the Mom 2.0 Summit, a blogging conference that no blogger should ever miss, especially in the years that it is held in Miami, at the Ritz-Carlton, beachside.
Really, it’s worth leaving your coughing child for.
I’d been looking forward to the conference since the 2011 one ended. Seriously, I bought my ticket on May 6, 2011. I was looking forward to meeting the writers I admired, reconnecting with friends and of course spending quality time with my beautiful blonde roommates, Stacy and Loukia.
I pictured tranquil evenings of talking into the night when we’d lie down on fluffy feather-free pillows and as Mr. Sandman sprinkled the sleep ointment upon us and we’d drift off to the Land of Nod and wake up refreshed and re-energized and stretch in our beds and then maybe head down for some yoga and filtered water.
I was excited because absolutely nothing could go wrong with that plan.
And then, as I was packing my bag for a weekend of fun and relaxation, I saw this fucking tweet:
But I sort of assumed that she tweeted that as a joke, like one may tweet “I sure hope I don’t relapse and go on a murderous spree again, stabbing my roommates, because how many times can I be found mentally incompetent to stand trial before the legal Russian Roulette catches up with me?” as an attention grabber.
You know, if Twitter suddenly allowed more characters.
So I went upon my merry way and flew to Miami without a care of the world, save for the economy and terrorism and the whole world going to hell in a handbasket.
And then I got to Miami, and since we all have lives to lead, and we have learned about making a long story short, let me fast forward to the point when I went to sleep and then woke up because it seemed that our country was under attack.
The noise I heard was deafening. And not quite human.
Loukia was snoring.
“WHAT THE FUCK?” I yelled at Stacy, not worrying for a second that I would wake Loukia.
“Isn’t that so funny?” Stacy said, obviously having had some kind of a breakdown that made her use funny for absolutely insane.
“I can’t sleep!” I scream-shouted. “Do you think I can put a pillow on her face?”
“Yes,” Stacy saw the wisdom of my plan. “But very gently,” she warned, obviously thinking of her defense strategy already.
I walked over to Loukia’s bed and ever so gently and lovingly placed a pillow on her face.
The result was immediate and shocking.
All snoring stopped instantly. It was so sudden and so quiet that for a moment I was worried that I had accidentally smothered her. I was very worried, because, one, my fingerprints were all over the murder weapon and two, I could see that the inevitable police investigation was really going to cut into my session attending time, to say nothing of the Swedish massage I was looking forward to at the Ritz-Carlton spa.
“What the hell?” I asked.
And then I lifted the pillow.
Loukia was alive!
This was great news because the last thing I needed was to be tried for murder in Florida. I have very fair skin and I can only be outside for so long, although I understand that most criminal prosecutions don’t take place poolside. But still, the humidity is absolute murder in the first degree on my hair.
Loukia woke up.
“What’s up?” she said when she saw me standing over her with a pillow.
“You were snoring,” I let her know.
“Oh no! Was I really?” She seemed unhappy. Well-rested, though.
“Yes, really,” I said and Stacy corroborated my testimony.
Since we were up, we decided to celebrate Loukia’s extremely close brush with death. We talked and laughed, and in my and Stacy’s case, yawned. A lot.
Loukia took it in stride.
“I only snore when I drink,” she explained later on in the day. Which would have been reassuring if she wasn’t hooking up a champagne IV at that very moment. By the way, if you read that as “champagne 4” that’s totally not what I meant.
I’m happy to report that the next night, Loukia snored less. Probably because she was sleeping with one eye open. It’s like she’s allergic to smothering or something.
One year ago ...
- Thoughts - 2013