Rubber Chicken Dinners

Tonight I've attended my thousandth rubber chicken dinner. With my work I travel to exotic locations only to locked into a hotel for days never seeing the local sights and often times never leaving the hotel grounds. I've often pondered the reasoning of sending us to tempting locations if we're only to be caged. It would be kinder to send us to Fargo this time of year. At least we know we wouldn't be missing anything on the outside. And no, I'm not a hooker or into anything weird. However, I feel I have sold my soul to the 'corporation.' I guess that makes me a hooker to some extent mentally.

At these seminars/meetings, it's endless. There is not one minute to yourself. I usually bump into a collegue at the airport who will do whatever possible to be seated next to somebody they know. There goes any chance of "alone time" to catch up on that book or to just zone out. They will talk your ear off on subjects that have no meaning to you. It's very draining to pretend to be interested. They will then follow me to the baggage carousel and out to the taxi stand and want to share a cab.

Once at the hotel, they want to meet in the lobby bar for drinks. Drinks then segway into dinner, where even more of them appear out of thin air to join in. Now there is a party of at least 12 people wandering around for a place to seat us for dinner. Dinner concludes with a few people wanting to go out for a nightcap. Wide yawns don't deter these people. Next thing you know it's 2:00 Am and the morning meeting is scheduled for 7:00.

Morning comes faster than I can blink and I'm dragging myself bleary-eyed into a stuffy, hotel conference room ingesting as much caffeine as possible on my way in, in order to stay awake. Several power point presentations and dry emcee/speaker jokes later, am I finally free of these people? Hell no! The rubber chicken dinner is scheduled for this evening.

The rubber chicken dinner begins with a cocktail reception where the women prance around in their gaudy, nuveau riche clothing sporting their plastic surgery results. The men all stand around the bar trying to one-up each other on whatever the subject matter may be.

After trying to make lame conversation with people you really don't want anything to do with, you're now seated next to them at the dinner table. The rubber chicken arrives on your dinner plate.

After dinner there is an award ceremony to celebrate somebody with a useless, internal company award. This person is usually somebody everybody hates and the award is given to feed this pathetic person's ego and to perhaps shut him up for a while. After the mandatory standing ovation and under-enthusuastic half-clap by the audience, the recipient of the award goes on gushing on how we are all loved and we are all thanked profusely for making it all possible. Like getting your name engraved on a friggin' piece of wood nobody cares about is the proudest moment of your life.

I'm not bulemic, but I do need to find the ladies room to purge.