Jon and I got back late yesterday from our quick trip to SXSW in Austin. The whole trip seems like a blur now, every second of our stay scheduled out into meetings and panels and interviews. I’ll be writing up my impressions of the conference later today after I have fully recovered from the worst hangover I have ever experienced. The one goal I had going into our last night in Austin was simple: Make it so that I don’t throw up the next day. I am proud to report that I have as much ambition for failure as I do for success because NO ONE IN THE WORLD has ever missed the mark as spectacularly as I did two nights ago. Notice the evidence circulating on the Internet:
Where everyone is standing a safe distance from my propellor arms.
Oddly, I don’t even remember this.
The Avon World Sales Leader would be so proud.
The beginning of the loss of my memory.
Jon did comfort me last night in bed as I lay motionless, my body battered and bruised from gagging every two minutes for the previous 12 hours. He said, “I want you to know that I was not embarrassed last night. Not at all. I was just worried that you might actually hurt someone.”
Leta stayed with my father during this trip and was returned to us yesterday looking about 15 pounds heavier. Turns out she eats for other people and in turn poops for them, too. Nothing could have made this trip more complete than knowing that my Republican Father, Man Who Vehemently Denies The Existence of Any Bodily Function, had to change over seven poopy diapers. That was more satisfying than forcing him to sit still and listen to Al Franken. Almost.
This morning as all three of us were lying half-awake in bed eating dry Fruity Pebbles Leta stuck her foot in the air, grabbed her large toe and chirped, “Piggy went to market,” which was thrilling for several reasons, the first of which is OH MY GOD SHE’S STRINGING TOGETHER SUBJECTS AND VERBS, the logical next step is award winning poetry. This is also evidence that my father showered her with love: he has this thing with toes, loves to pull and twist them and cause injury, and he taught her that piggy game where each toe is a piggy, one going to market, the other staying home, etc. Throughout my childhood he showed us love by pulling our toes, and it warms my heart to know that while we were gone he showed that same love to my child, that special love of yanking her toes out of their sockets. I’d say we’re one step closer to inheriting those leather couches.