It's cold, it's damp, it's WONDERFUL

It is wonderful indeed to be home in New England again, even if I got stuck in various airports on my way home from New Orleans (was supposed to fly through Dallas/Ft. Worth, but thanks to the weather yesterday, I flew through Miami--which, is aptly named "MIA" in airport code) and didn't get home until 2:00 this morning.

Yes, this morning.

So, I am not exactly the sharpest cheddar in the cheesehouse AND I'm sleepy--watch out world, here I come!!

The conference was worthwhile, for I picked up quite a few quotes, stats, and case studies that will help perk up future stories. It also helped reinforce some of my feelings regarding being a business journalist, for the organization hosting the show treated the press like pariahs--which, I suppose we are (who wants the truth, when the marketing people have so much happier news to share?).

In fact, the press were treated progressively worse by this organization. On day one, "we" had a room, but it didn't have any tables and chairs (for basis of comparison, I've been to conferences in the past where we not only had a room with tables and chairs, we also had Internet access and printers and fax machines at our disposal). But, on day two, the room itself was shut (it was now posted as being a "Quiet Room," whatever the heck that is), and there was a sign by a table (laden with press releases that had the news value of a candybar wrapper) reading simply, "Press Area."

So, we were to huddle by the table? And do what, exactly?

Maybe I'm just disappointed. I was supposed to introduce myself to the director of communications for this outfit in the hopes of landing one of the rare freelance gigs his association offers folks like me, but I didn't. Well, I did introduce myself, but only to say hello and thanks for the press pass. The problem was that I attended a session led by this man, and he distinguished himself as (1) having no sense of humor; (2) having an ego roughly the size of Texas, and (3) being the kind of guy that takes himself more seriously than Supreme Court justices do.

I've worked for people like that before, and you know--life is too damn short to court such people, too short by far.

But this I know: If things ever got so desperate on the financial front that it came down to: You butter up this guy or give your doggies away, I'd butter him up as only a Wisconsin gal can. In a heartbeat.
Where are my scruples? My principles?? Where my dear dogs are concerned, let's just say I agree with a post I saw on the wonderful Web site Dooce (http://www.dooce.com/archives/daily/05_23_2005.html) in which Heather Armstrong, the site's diva, was confronted with the illness of her dear dog Chuck. She and her husband had "the talk" about how much they would spend to save him, and they came to the conclusion that: "We'd sell our cars! We'd sell our house! We could start a meth lab in the basement! ANYTHING!"

I hear that, sister, loud and clear--where Linus and Shwea are concerned, money is no object. Neither is pride.

(But please, dear God, don't let it come to that!)