Feel Free to Continue the Meeting Without Me . . .

Two weeks ago, amid my 24 day work-a-thon, I got fed up with the project. I was so stressed out that I just needed a night off. The opportunity presented itself when our Subject Matter Experts (SME's) from Northern Ireland and Germany were in town for system testing.

Roughly 30 of us went out to the local Asian restaurant (the only decent restaurant outside of the hotel within walking distance). I had a few glasses of wine with dinner and when dinner was done, everybody headed back to the hotel bar. I should have kept walking past the hotel and back to my apartment. Instead, I ended up staying up with the late crowd and finally left the hotel for my apartment at 4am, having had more than my share of alcohol.

I skipped my 8am meeting, arriving to work the next day at 8:30am. My colleagues that didn't stay out so late covered the meeting for me (which I have done for others in the past). I was tired. I was hungover. I had SME's leaving that afternoon who I still needed to meet with from whom I needed some vital information. Unfortunately, the only time that they could meet was at 10:30am.

It's hard to explain our location setup . . . we take up so much space in the conference area of the hotel, we now also have some hotel rooms converted into small meeting rooms as well. One of those meeting rooms was open, so I booked it from 8:30am until noon (when my 10:30 meeting was to end). This was a good room, it had a fainting couch. I got up there, locked the door, turned the alarm on my Blackberry to wake me up at 10am and went to sleep.

The alarm went off as planned and I had time to get setup for the meeting. I wasn't as tired, but suddenly, the coffee I had as breakfast was sitting so well in my stomach. I soldiered on, wetting down my hair so it didn't look like I'd just taken a nap in on a sofa in a meeting room.

My colleagues arrived for the meeting and things went well for the first 15 minutes. The coffee in my stomach started making me nauseous again. I excused myself from the meeting, went to the bathroom, vomitted (in a very professional manner might I add - I didn't get any on me) , rinsed my mouth out, then returned to the meeting, picking up where I left off.

Now I know I wasn't the first one to do something like this, nor will I be the last one to do something like this, but I'm embarrassed just the same. It was the first time it has ever happened to me. Mostly I'm glad that people are a little more relaxed about that kind of thing over here in Ireland. I've seen plenty others come in after hard nights on the town. Now I can sympathize with them. Everybody's human, I'm no exception.

Never Raise Your Hand at a Comedy Show

Last night we went out on the town to celebrate two of our team members rolling off the project. We went to a comedy club and when the emcee asked people from out of town to raise their hands, I foolishly did.

Surprisingly (or not) nobody else at the table with me raised their hands thouhg they, too, were all from out of town . Even the other American at the table with me failed to raise her hand. So it was I, the lone (declared) American in the room that received the jibing. Last time I went to the comedy club, I did the same stupid thing. I can't resist; I'm a glutton for punishment.

It was the same emcee and though he didn't remember me, I remembered him well enough to know that not all of his material had changed. He did the same joke about "What the stupidest thing you can convince an American of." Apparently his buddy still holds the title for having convinced a few Americans that they don't have Wednesday in Ireland. There were some new jokes as well and the night was quite entertaining.

So why do I raise my hand when the comedians are looking to make fun of people? I've always subscribed to the theory that if you can't laugh at yourself, you shouldn't laugh at anybody else. Thus, to keep my life full of laughter I will often offer myself as the butt of a joke. So I'll proffer this advice to my readers:

Don't take life too seriously; you'll never get out of it alive, anyway. Go ahead raise your hand.

Use the Black Pump, You Dolt!

I had my first mix up with diesel and petrol (gas) yesterday. I put petrol into a diesel van. That's a no-no. Lucky for me, I was still able to drive away from the gas station.

I was on my way back to the rental car agency and needed to just top off the tank. It probably wasn't a good idea to pull into the gas station a 7am, knowing that I needed to have my wits about me to know whether to use the green pump or the black pump. However, I'll maintain that it wasn't my fault. I shouldn't have had to return the rental yesterday. However, the rental car company screwed up my reservation.

I was supposed to have the van for 7 weeks, but the booked for only 4 weeks. So I was returning the van only so I could go across the road and rent a car from their competitors for the remaining 3 weeks. Apparently in Ireland, there's a tax law that states any rental over 28 days is considered a lease. Leases are taxed at a higher rate and the cars have to be specifically classed as "lease" vehicles. So despite the fact that I reserved a van with this company for 7 weeks, they put me in a rental-qualified (not lease-qualified) vehicle. Therefore, I needed to return the van after 4 weeks. Additionally, I couldn't rent another car from them (return one, take out another) because both cars would have to qualify as "lease" vehicles. If either one is a "rental" I was screwed. The only one they had available for me was a "rental," so I was screwed. Thus I reiterate, it was their own damn fault . . . OK, not really. I was half-awake, uncaffeined and perturbed that I had to return the car. Yet, I was still a dumbass.

The funny thing is that I didn't even realize that I had made the mistake until 8 hours later. I slowly remembered over the course of the day that I used petrol, not diesel. My inner monologue went something like this: "Did I use diesel? Yeah, I think I did. But it WAS making some odd noises. Perhaps I didn't use diesel. But I thought that if you used petrol in a diesel car it wouldn't start? Maybe since I just topped off, it was still diesel-ly enough to start and drive, but gas-y enough to cause the odd rattling sounds. Hmmmm . . . I think I used gas."

My next inner monologue was about what to do: "Perhaps they won't notice? But what about the next renters will they have an issue? How much will this cost me? Shit It's gonna cost me, but I need to tell them." So I called them.

Them: "Hello, __________ rental cars."
Me: "Yeah, I returned a car today and . . . . uhhhh . . . I think I filled it with petrol . . . ."
Them: "The ____________"
Me: "Yeah."
Them: "Yes, you filled with petrol. We're draining the tank now."
Me: "Sorry about that."

They seemed pretty cool about it, but being cool about it doesn't translate into "No charge, sir." I figure I owe them at least a tank of gas - even at exhorbinant car rental agency prices.

You're Taking It Like A Champ, Sir

Today, I get to introduce you to my friend, Humility. I'm not proud of what happened yesterday, but I'll share it nonetheless. Just as every human being, I have my flaws. Yesterday, I ran my flaw of overindulging up the flagpole and let it flap wildly in the breeze.

As you may know I was heading off to see the Six Nations Ireland vs. Italy rugby match. The day started at noon in the same fashion a joke might: A Brit, a Turk, a South African, and an American walk into a bar . . .

The bar was Fagan's in Drumcondra - not far from Croke Park. We had a couple of Guinness, then walked 20 paces down to Kennedy's Pub and had a few more. We headed over to the game - I was already a little tipsy. Yet, that did not stop me from having another pint at halftime. Ireland won 29-11.

After the match we went to Gill's Cornerhouse and had another pint. After Gill's, we went to The Church (a church converted into a bar) and had a couple more pints. The South African left us after The Church and the Turk was being more responsible about her intake of Guinness. The Brit and I weren't being very responsible at all.

The Brit had booked a reservation at Shanahan's on the Green - the priciest steakhouse in the city of Dublin. So after The Church, we caught a cab over to the Shanahan's for a good steak. I was starting to feel a little queasy.

We get to the restaurant and we're already under dressed (because we'd just come from a rugby match) but we were seated anyhow. I ordered water and a 50 Euro filet mignon, then politely excused myself to go to the bathroom where I proceeded to projectile vomit into the toilet. I cleaned myself up and headed back to the table (making one wrong turn and being guided back to my table by a waiter).

The waitress brought our food out and I took one bite of my 50 Euro steak before excusing myself a second time. While painting the toilet a second time, the Turkish lady that was with us called into the bathroom and asked me if I'd like a cab back to the hotel. Yes, I would.

As I come up from the bathroom, the mater di already has my coat ready and takes my elbow, escorting me to my cab. He says one thing to me, "you're taking it like a champ, sir."

I look him in the eye as I sit down in the cab and say, "You're lying, but thank you nonetheless."

The cab ride home was not much more fun. The cabbie kept looking back at me a paranoid look. That kind of look that pleaded with me not to vomit in his cab. Lucky for him, I had nothing left but a few dry heaves that I managed to lean out the door for.

The night ended with me crawling down the hallway to my hotel room, struggling with the door, then crawling into bed.

Throughout the day I lost my ticket (wanted to keep it as a souvenir), my rugby program, a pair of gloves, and my pride. Worst of all I wasted a 50 Euro steak.

I still don't know exactly what the mater di thought I was taking like a champ - my drunkenness or getting kicked out of the most prestigious restaurant in town. Probably both.