apocalypse two

It was the first time I'd ever worked a convention, and I got a kick out of helping to set up the display and learning much about marketing and the intricacies of hotel union labor (we could build it ourselves only if we could do it in under an hour with no more than two supplied tools and two staffers; more and you had to hire a union worker at Sunday overtime wages.)

Well played, union guys!

I put on a pair of punishing heels, some sleek slacks and tops that didn't show too much cleavage and smiled mightily while trying to wrap my tongue convincingly around terms like "integrated vertical data collection management," which I'm pretty sure I made up. I met new people and rediscovered the art of conversation with strangers ~ I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed that fresh encounter, the pleasure of making a connection with new and interesting people. I'm not sure of how useful I was, but I enjoyed myself immensely. In fact, I had a blast.

At the cocktail party on Monday, there was talk of the approaching threat of 6-06-06.

"I'm very nervous about it," Kim said. "Oh, sure, you scoff," she added, seeing my reaction. "But this is a concern for some of us."

"Look at the bright side," I countered. "If I'm wrong and the world ends tomorrow you get to say 'I told you so'. Think of the personal satisfaction." She rolled her eyes.

Tuesday arrived, and as these things always go everyone was too busy to note the date. I booth-babed around, chatting up attorneys and computer guys and saying things like "one gigabyte thumbdrive," which I'm pretty sure somebody else made up. Kimberly did her serious VP thing, which is impressive to behold. That night, I tried to persuade my roomie to crash the democratic election parties being held downstairs. She was completely disinterested.

"C'mon. I've always wanted to go to a political convention. It's about the snap and the zazz!" I said, snapping and zazzing.

"Not for me. It's about a nap and some zzz's," she responded.

As I was unwilling to fly solo and frankly already in my jammies we stayed in, shared a bottle of wine and watched the party on TV. It didn't look all that snappy.

When we left for the airport on Wednesday the hotel concierge predicted it would take up to 35 minutes to travel the 10 or 12 odd miles to the airport. "See?" I demanded. "Hellacious traffic."

We rolled up to the curb at Continental Airlines in about 9 1/2 minutes, me gesturing bewilderedly along the way at eight lanes of eerie emptiness. You could have shot off a canon out there; it's completely unheard of in the history of LA. I attempted to explain.

"I know what happened. We were stuck in the hotel all day and missed it, but all the cars that would normally be here got Raptured up. The good news is you were right ~ the bad news is, you're stuck here with the rest of us. The Damned." I smiled.

"Oh, shut UP!" she replied good-naturedly. Not for the first time that week, I might add.

I'm sending her a copy of my version of our long apocalyptic adventure. Hers may well be different. If this post disappears, just consider it Raptured.