Pickles & Dimes

I had a 2-day seminar in Minneapolis this week. It was so bad it actually made me want to go back to work.

I got in at 8:30 when registration started. The room was already packed, so I sat in the front row. Two seconds later, a disheveled guy sat next to me and in a full-out Australian accent asked me, “Guess where I’m from?” After I replied, “Australia,” he looked disappointed, like I never would’ve guessed. I wanted to tell him the only way it would have been more obvious was if he would’ve been wearing an alligator vest while riding a crocodile beside Nicole Kidman and shouting “Crikey!” at the top of his lungs.

The seminar went well, despite Cactus Jack taking to heart the question, “Does anyone need more clarification on what we just talked about?” every single time, and another lady trying to be the teacher’s pet by sharing every single example of how her company did this thing and how she thought the rest of the class could benefit from it. If she’s such an expert, I wonder what she was doing in a seminar called The Basics of Direct Marketing.

Right before lunch, Cactus Jack invaded my personal space to ask me where I was going to eat. Before I responded with, “Wherever you’re not,” my Be Polite to People Guide kicked in and I said ‘I’m not sure,’ before sprinting out of the hotel before he and his Crocodile Dundee boots followed me.

Day Two:
Any attempt to avoid sitting next to Cactus Jack was thwarted upon my arrival when I noticed him already seated. Would’ve been rude to sit elsewhere at that point. Instead, I endured a painful conversation regarding the questions he was looking forward to asking the speaker.

After lunch, he informed me that he had the pepperjack burger for lunch, which I had already deduced from his breath. Ten minutes later, I realized that he had been farting in my general direction while simultaneously trying to suppress belches. I said trying.

I don’t get paid enough for this.