I find myself in California, flown out by the giant, known-around-the-world tech company I work for and they provide a really nice hotel suite for me and a former colleague named Mini (who actually exists in real life - Hi Mini.) We decide to retire to our respective beds when the door opens and in walk three young, hot IT groupies (oh c'mon, we have groupies too.) They make it very clear what they're after as they go about their mysterious female preparatory rituals before they join us. And I start to get nervous. Because I am engaged and in love and I just can't do that. So as one of them slinks over to me I tell her I can't do that. I swear I heard a needle scratch a vinyl record just like in a movie, her face falls and she backs off. One of her cohort says that my disappointed potential paramour would now have to leave as I've crossed some line with her, and the others would be leaving as well. Now I feel bad. Because my buddy Mini isn't attached or engaged and was really looking forward to this. SO, I say no, don't go, I'll leave and find something to do, even though it's like 3 a.m. Now it takes FOREVER to get dressed and the three young lovelies are looking bored and filing their nails or something. After looking for one shoe for what seems like hours I finally make my way to the door, pausing to throw a wink and a nod at Mini, who seems very appreciative.
On the way out I run into a hallway party. I am introduced to a tall, blond, oddly handsome and very self-assured guy who manages to come off as hipster, rock star, and wealthy suburban youth at the same time. He seems pleased to meet me at first but has to pronounce his name to me four times because it's something weird like Isme or Otma. He's miffed that he has to repeat himself. I take offense and snark how sorry I am that I needed to hear it over and over before I could, you know, actually understand the pretentious name his Norwegian-American parents gave him. Jerk.
I FINALLY run into someone I recognize (cannot now recall who) and we make our way to a designated smoking area (a picnic table and nasty outdoor cigarette disposal thingy's in the middle of a hallway) and I allow myself a cigarette for all I've been through and the fact that I now have to wander for several hours, missing sleep so my colleague can party with three IT groupies (oh c'mon, it could happen.) So I light up a cigarette that magically appears (they are magic...yum...I clearly miss them.) I realize I am also chewing nicotine gum and, fearing a heart attack, I try to spit it out but can't. Great. Then I wake up. Does that mean I died in my dream? That, my friends, figures.
