Looks Like I Made It

I didn’t think I’d ever make it to Turks & Caicos. I’ve been working with the corporate office of Beaches for a year and a half now, and although I’d made it down to Miami to meet with them, I was shut out of the company trip to their Turks & Caicos resort last year (despite the fact that I created the relationship with them).

As a second attempt, I’d tried to arrange a meeting in Turks & Caicos this fall, but Hurricane Ike had delayed construction of some of the resort’s new features, and so the trip was postponed until February, when everything would be up and operational.

But we had another company trip scheduled for this week – another music video shoot, which has become something of an annual thing – and I had written it off as a potential trip here, anticipating being excluded again like I was last year. Although I don’t go to that many shoots for work, it turns out it was a really good idea for me to go to this one, especially since Mike couldn’t go.

And so I am here. Finally.

When I arrived at the tiny island airport, a Club Med greeter saw me chatting up my two Beaches greeters, and he asked me why I did not choose his resort instead. I stage whispered, “Because Beaches is free!” It’s true, Beaches had comped us enough trips for me to go this year as part of our marketing partnership, and although work had to pay for my flight down, everything from that point forth was going to be covered.

As a single woman with no kids, I would have been more likely to choose Club Med instead of a family resort, but I was still excited to get here, especially after leaving LGA a rainy mess behind me, and spending two extra hours in Miami International Airport and on its tarmac, waiting for a hazard light or warning buzzer or some other faulty gauge on the plane to be fixed. At first, I was glad for the delay, allowing me to get a Cuban sandwich grilled up all hot and bubbly and stringy with melted cheese. I mean, I couldn’t be in Miami and not get a Cuban sandwich, especially not after so many past trips there had gotten me attached to their customs. Since I don’t get to Winter Music Conference anymore (not til DJs really start getting into the kids music biz), I had to make the most of my only (likely) trip to Miami this year.

Once I got to the Beaches resort, I was greeted with a tropical rum punch at check-in (which was about time, considering we got them at the airport in St. Thomas), enough to get me through till I could make it to the Turtles bar for a free frozen margarita and to the sushi bar for a Volcano roll (which tasted sort of barbequey but maybe they used jerk seasoning?), eel roll and spicy conch roll.

Our driver from the airport – who turned out to be one of the head operations managers, and Austrian – had been telling us of all the many uses of conch and its shell – you know, the big kind you hold up to your ear to listen to the ocean. Some people use them as horns, but apparently the fish itself makes for a good spicy ceviche, fritters (like crabcakes), and, as I discovered at dinner, sushi rolls.

We stopped by Bobby Dee’s Diner for some free self-serve, soft-serve ice cream, a feature of the resort I’d been jealous of last year and anticipating ever since I booked my trip this year. Like many things, it didn’t live up to the hype. Sure, not having to pay for anything is enough of a novelty, but the chocolate soft serve was kind of…watery? Something was off. It wasn’t creamy. So I chucked it.

I moved onto cookies & cream hard ice cream with hot fudge, but the hot fudge was neither hot nor fudge. I picked out the one chunk of cookie dough and left the rest.

To be honest, I was appreciative for the self-restraint. It wasn’t long ago that I was the girl that couldn’t turn down free food or an open bar, and maybe one day my finances will force me into that position again, but for now, I can say no.

And I can be selective. So many of the options here are for kids – tiny slices of pizza (of which I had one nicely browned, slightly overcooked one, which was perfect for me), ice cream dyed in Superman colors, character breakfasts – that I’m not going to like everything. But the sushi dinner was delicious and the staff has been amazing, and I don’t have to lift a finger, so I’ve got no complaints.

Oh yeah, except that pesky shoot tomorrow.

Hopefully I’ll get a swim in, even though the pools close at five in the afternoon. (Then again, it does get dark at 5:18 p.m.)

One Man's Trash

I got really mad on the subway today. Sure, I've had my share of arguments on public transportation in the past, but today was different.

Usually my altercations are with urban high school students, or with some dirty old man who's groping himself, to which I reply, "Try to keep it in your pants." Last week, an old woman refused to get up from her aisle seat while I was trying to get to the window seat, and when my posterior got terrifyingly close to her face, she reached out both hands and put them flat on my right cheek, pushing my bottom away from her. When I finally got into my seat, I looked at her flirtatiously and said, "Well, you got a good grab in there, didn't ya? I wasn't expecting that tonight..." She looked at me, shocked, and said, "What?!" to which I replied, "Yeah, you got a good one in there" and gestured an ass-grab with my hands. That was probably the worst thing I could have done to her because she called me a jerk and got off the bus at the next stop, as I chuckled smugly to myself.

Today, I saw an old guy - not that old, 60? - opening a package of batteries for a flashlight in his seat. I heard the plastic and cardboard packaging drop to the floor in front of him, and as I looked down at his trash, I considered picking it up myself and dropping it in the garbage when I got off at the next stop. But then I noticed the battery packaging had fallen on top of a pile of similar trash, all formed plastic and torn cardboard, some in the shape of batteries, others in the shape of flashlights. How many packages had this guy opened on the train, and just littered the floor with his waste?

I've picked up people's newspapers and other non-food garbage before and thrown them out myself. I'm no militant environmentalist, but I'm certainly aware of the trail that we leave behind ourselves, and I feel bad for the other passengers that have to shove the trash aside just to sit or put their packages down. But there was too much today, too shoved under a seat, too between this guy's legs for me to scoop it up. So I said something.

"Are you going to pick that up?" He said no.

"You're just going to leave it all there?" He said yes.

I asked why. He mumbled something, maybe not in English.

"You're going to throw it all on the floor and you're not going to throw it out?" Yes.

"Because you don't care." Yes.

"Because you're going to die in five years and you don't care." Yes.

"Because you're a piece of trash and you don't care."

I demanded that he tell me why. It wasn't just carelessness; it seemed too intentional. Was it a "fuck you" to the MTA? To the other passengers? And, because I'd actually said something, to me?

But he wouldn't explain himself, so I continued to berate him and call him a piece of shit, and I even told him to lie down on the floor with the trash because that's what he is. I wished I had a drink or some food wrappers or a used feminine hygiene product that I could toss in his face, or that the trash had been reachable enough for me to pick it up and chuck it at him.

As I walked down the W. 4th St platform after exiting the train, I was surprised at how mad I got. I tried to consider where he might be from - a place where litter is more accepted? - or the mores of his generation, whose members would put out a cigarette anywhere, spit anywhere, pee on anything, blatantly, without remorse. I knew no matter how much I degraded him, it wouldn't embarrass him. And for all the things I would try to do to be aware of my carbon footprint, that guy would always be behind me, clipping his nails in public, picking his nose and plugging non-rechargeable batteries into flashlights.

Better Than Staying Home

I was going to stay home for New Year's Eve this year. I'd had enough of high expectations, expensive tickets, no one to kiss at midnight, and no cabs. But then Edith gave me a flyer for NYE at Terrace on the Park, and I exclaimed, "My dream come true!"

I've been stalking that building, the one that looks like a big table in Flushing Meadows Corona Park, for a couple of years, since I first saw it as part of an Open House New York tour. It's another one of the buildings that was erected as part of the '64/'65 World's Fair, originally as the Port Authority Pavilion and a working heliport / observation deck. But since it's been operating as a private banquet hall / event space in modern times and isn't usually open to the public, I couldn't figure out how I would get in to see it first-hand. I've skulked around its perimeter, rattling the big black gate that separates it from the park. I'd even considered calling them up and telling them I was getting married, just so I could get a tour. But thanks to their annual New Year's Eve party, I wouldn't have to...


One of the best things about the building, besides its history, is the grand ballroom level observation deck, which overlooks the rest of the park (including those blinking towers) and the city that looms beyond it. We had a great view of the Unisphere as well as of the new CitiField and a couple of bridges in the distance - Triborough? Whitestone? - that twinkled in the cold, black sky.

One of the best things about the party they threw was the dancing. I was prepared for a hilariously horrible evening, but instead we got a really good live band (as far as wedding bands go), Alive N Kickin', who had a hit in 1970 with the Tommy James-written song "Tighter and Tighter" ("hold onnn, just a little tighter now babayyyy...") which I totally knew and they totally played. But the great thing was, with only two original members from their hit-making days, the band's repertoire wasn't stuck in the 70s or even 80s. Who knew a cheesy cover band could do such great versions of modern hits like "Disturbia," "Sexyback" and "Calabria"?! The dancefloor was jam-packed, and Michelle and I followed suit, competing with middle-aged and older couples for space, including one 50-year-old woman in a white suit who challenged me to a dance-off. She got served.

The music and dancing were so great that nobody paid much attention to the food, but there was lots of it. The cocktail hour had a full suckling pig (so popular that only the head and some scraps were left by the time I got to it), whole poached salmon, a raw bar, pasta bar, stir fry bar, veal, stromboli, and many more delights that we couldn't possibly fit on our tiny cocktail plates. Even Michelle found vegetarian options to eat, including a phyllo pocket of vegetables during the sit-down dinner which was like a nice, buttery dinner croissant. With open bar that started at 9 and didn't stop before we left, the event was well-worth the $125 ticket price. A lot of money, but we got a lot of party for it, much more than just the opportunity to explore the former heliport! If it had cost any more, though, I would have insisted on roof access.
And of course I had no one but Michelle to kiss at midnight, not even the young Latin waiters and bartenders. Worse yet, when we tried to leave, no cars were available from the car service, and no yellow cabs or even black gypsy cabs to be found anywhere in Corona, so we had to walk through the tundra (Flushing Meadows Corona Park tending to get quite windy) to the 111th St subway station to catch the 7 train into the city.

And of course when we got to SoHo and needed to get to the LES, we still couldn't find a cab, and I got into a physical altercation with some drunk dude who was trying to hail one right in front of me and was invading my personal space.

I ended up staying out until after 4 a.m. but I'm not sure why. I guess I was just worried that I would miss out on something, even though Michelle had already pooped out and went home.

Nothing terribly crazy happened on New Year's Eve, and I didn't meet Prince Charming, but I did meet a gay Japanese self-proclaimed psychic who predicted I would meet Prince Charming in 2011. I'm going to hold him to it.

And thank the Lord I got to get my dance on. It's amazing how hard that is to do in Manhattan.

Happy New Year!

For more photos, click here.

Time On My Side

I love not working. It freaks some people out, but I thrive on the free time.

When I was laid off in November 2001, I spent 10 months looking for a job, and everybody said I was the busiest unemployed person they ever met.

The thing is, there's just so much in life I want to do. So much I didn't get to do while growing up. And although I get to do some pretty cool stuff via my job sometimes (see: QVC), I miss out on a lot because of work, too.

So the stars aligned this year and, between paid time off and the last of my vacation days, I've got two weeks off. And I'm not just lying around.

Highlights so far:

• getting a pedicure when the nail salon isn't busy
• drinking a bottle of Vina Godeval Godello wine at Eleven Madison Park alone
• lava stone massage @ Oasis Day Spa
• two hour lunch @ Bar Americain
• happy hour @ Rodeo Bar
• seeing The Wrestler on a Tuesday night
• having the time to walk home
• waiting in line at Artichoke for a delightfully burnt Sicilian slice
• setting the alarm for 10 minutes before Guiding Light starts

And that's just the beginning. I've got three more weekdays off from work and then the weekend. Next up? An afternoon marathon at OTTO, a visit to my sexy eye doctor, a Knicks game, a new kitchen table, and much much more!

Long Train Runnin'

freight train passing through the Syracuse train station, across snowy tracks

"Indy is waiting for you outside your door," read the text message from Maria, and I burst into tears on the Amtrak back to New York City. Indy was as much my dog as any dog had ever been, though I had only seen him four times since we first brought him home from the breeder's in May. But somehow when I came home to Mike and Maria's house for Thanksgiving and Christmas, Indy still remembered our initial bond, and has started waiting for me outside the attic door when I get up in the morning, and outside the bathroom door when I get out of the shower.

But this time, I wouldn't be coming out. Not for a few months. I don't even know when I'll be back.

I tried to say goodbye to Indy, suitcase in tow, on Saturday morning when I was leaving for the train station, but he was jumping around and playing like a puppy is apt to do. Maria said, "He doesn't know you're not coming back," and I grabbed his face and gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, a good squeeze, and didn't look back.

But sitting on that train, with a stranger next to me cackling on her cell phone, staring out of a dirty window, I allowed my eyes to well up, mourning the piece of myself I'd left behind.

I've taken lots of trains lately, to Philly, West Chester PA, San Diego, Long Island, the Hudson Valley...That trip up and down the Hudson River is so familiar to me now, but this time, the fog started to settle in sometime after Croton-on-Hudson, and as I kept peering out the window to look for Bannerman Castle, conditions outside the train became increasingly white-out. The chunky, icy surface of the Hudson River soon gave way to a more watery surface, through which flocks of geese cut their way and disappeared into the low-hanging haze. I even saw some kayakers struggling upstream, and I wondered if they could see where they were going, because I could barely see them, not to mention the invisible other side of the river.

It was getting warmer as I got closer to the city (and was downright balmy today), but the thick fog was nevertheless a continuation of a White Christmas, which started when I woke up as my USAirways flight started its descent into the Syracuse area, hovering above the city that looked like a snowy white checkerboard. I was prepared for the snow and cold this time, with all the winter weather accoutrements necessary for surviving sleet, snow, rain, and everything in between. And we pretty much got all of those while I was home.

That kind of weather has a funny effect on the human eye, making everything look greyscale, the color draining out of the wintry palette. And somehow my thoughts felt a little more black-and-white too, bringing some clarity to a life that has been way too muddled lately.

And sometimes you need a little white-washing, a little fresh dusting over that which has become murky and messed up.

Besides, the snow didn't stop us from doing any of the things we wanted to do, including a pilgrimage to Texas Roadhouse (delayed only by the fact that they don't open til 4 on weekdays, not by the snow). Sure, it's a chain restaurant and a lot like Rodeo Bar in my own neighborhood in NYC, but somehow me, Mike, Maria and her brother Pete are a magical combination that results in constant giggling and perma-grin, and not just because of the size of the enormous margaritas.

It's nice to have a family to come home to. Even if you're just being silly together.

Santa was good to me, but in many ways it doesn't even really matter what I got, because the best gift I have been given is love, not just expressed through gift exchange. And it's nice to know they're all waiting for me to come back home.

The next time I do go up to Syracuse, the snow will probably be gone, but I hope my clarity remains. And as for the dog? I can't wait to see how much bigger he gets. He's already tall enough to put his paws on my shoulders and give me a hug standing up.

In the meantime, I'm sure there are more trains in my future, though the next one won't necessarily take me home.

Worth Losing Sleep Over?

I find the weirdest ways to weasel my way onto television.

In fact, I've been on TV a bunch of times before, but nothing is like QVC. I can't say I ever aspired to appear live on a home shopping channel - especially because I don't think it'll help me get cast in something legit - but once I did it, I was pretty pleased with myself.

Live TV ain't easy. Heck, taped TV ain't easy. But I focused on being comfortable instead of nervous. I channeled my energy into being relaxed.

Relaxing was perhaps my greatest challenge. I'd had a harrowing trip down to West Chester, PA from the Hudson Valley, which had been hit by a bad ice storm Thursday night that cancelled or severely delayed all the Amtrak trains coming from the north. On Saturday morning at the Rhinecliff station, still full from Mike's wedding brunch and still a little tired from the reception the night before, I had to jump into a local cab headed for Poughkeepsie so I could instead take the Metro-North to NYC and continue my trip to the Philly area from there.

Fortunately, I've taken that Amtrak to Philly a lot lately (including our Eastern State Penitentiary trip), so the trip didn't seem so long or arduous. In my past excursions to QVC, I've either driven from New York or taken a limo from Philly (with the divos The Irish Tenors), but this time I decided to take the regional rail service all the way out to Exton and let the Sheraton Great Valley shuttle come pick me up and drive me around for the duration of my trip. I needed to focus on QVC and not exhaust myself by dealing with traffic.

I've always liked that Sheraton, but mostly because of the Outback Steakhouse in the parking lot. A business dinner there one night in the late 90s marked my first QVC visit as well as my first Outback experience. I think of it fondly.

With the discovery of the shuttle - which brought me to/from the Exton Amtrak station as well as to/from QVC - and of the Bliss body products in the bathroom, my opinion of this Sheraton improved exponentially, especially after our mediocre experience at the Four Points for James and Nany's wedding last month.

I managed to get to the hotel early enough for a Queensland salad at Outback, an attempt at blowing out my own hair, and getting to bed by 10 p.m. for seven hours' of sleep before getting up at 5 a.m. for my early morning cable TV appearance. Unfortunately, the heater in my room kept turning on and off all night, waking me up every 15 minutes from an already-fitful sleep replete with work-related nightmares.

And I kept worrying about my hair.

In fact, the whole time I wasn't worried at all about my demeanor, composure, or intelligence on live television. I was worried how I was going to look.

But I guess nobody every really likes the way they look on camera so I don't know what I thought could possibly make me happy with my physical appearance.

In the end, all that really matters is that the product I was hawking is a good product, and it sold well, meeting our expectations and probably getting us an invitation back. I can watch the clip over and over again and think what I would have done differently, but the truth is, I did a good job, even if I could have done better.

And it was fun! I'd never been on live TV before; I'd never had makeup airbrushed onto my face; I'd never been wired for an in-ear monitor. All that, and to be able to talk about Little River Band and Air Supply for work.

I wonder if my QVC-addicted mother, who has disappeared for two years, saw me?



The Easy Rock Collection on QVC.com

The New Yorker Part II

I've been on a kick of helping people lately. Recently I was walking down Third Avenue by Rodeo Bar and I saw some women with big shopping bags lamely try to hail a cab, but not really TRY, so I hailed it and pointed to them and said, "That's for you."

New Yorkers get a bad rap. The other morning I saw some tourists with a big unfolded map on the corner of Lafayette and Bleecker, and I asked, "Do you need help?" Turns out they were looking for a breakfast place, and were flabbergasted when I suggested the one they were standing outside of, Noho Star. A week or two before, on that same street but after work, I heard a couple of teens say, "I know there's a train down here somewhere..." When I directed them to the 6 down the street, one of them said, "Thaaank you, you're the nicest New Yorker we've ever met..."

Of course that may be true, but I'm not the nicest New Yorker there is. I can't be!

Don't mistake my kindness for goodness. I'm selfish and greedy. I like feeling good and showing off how much I know and how much better I can navigate the city than you. If, in the process, you learn something and are helped or convenienced, all the better.

Today I had some business-related travel trauma which forced me to return to NYC via Grand Central and take a cab to Penn Station to continue my trip down to Philly. As I waited in the taxi stand line, and nearly attacked a bunch of kids trying to steal a cab without waiting in line, I grabbed a woman also going to Penn, threw her bag in the back with mine, and shoved her into the backseat. After finding out she was a visitor and had experienced the same Amtrak-induced trauma I had, I paid for her cab ride and dumped her off at the LIRR, as she rushed to the ticket machines shocked and impressed.I ran off to find a bathroom and a slice of pizza before my next train.

Maybe a New Yorker is someone who helps you and doesn't wait for a "thank you." Who helps you because that's the way it's supposed to be done and we can't bear to see it done wrong.

In any case, all in a day's work.

Further reading:
The New Yorker (Part I)

Country Carolling

Theatre at Westbury, December 2008

Last year around this time, I asked Anthony at work if he wanted to go see Kenny Rogers with me at Westbury Music Fair. He declined, which surprised me because he had previously established himself as a big fan. I took it personally, and worst of all, I never ended up going.

I regretted it for nearly a year until I remembered that it was an annual concert, and promised myself I'd go alone if I couldn't find a companion again this year. Fortunately I was able to wrangle up Edith, Eric and Dan without much convincing.

Eric and I had similar childhoods growing up Upstate, three hours apart but often experiencing the same things at the same time. Kenny Rogers' voice was as familiar to us as our own mothers'. And as much as I've tried to shed/forget/run away from my childhood, certain visceral experiences draw me back to it - Christmas trees, Heluva Good French Onion dip, and cosmopolitan country music, just to name a few.

Apparently every year, this concert is normally all Christmas repertoire, but we got lucky this year, hearing hit after hit in the first half and then nothing but Christmas songs in the second.

Kenny looked OK. He famously got some bad plastic surgery a few years ago that reduced his eyes to tiny slits, and earlier this year had knee replacement surgery that left him hobbling up and down the steep aisles to and from the in-the-round stage (which rotates!). But a real highlight was getting to see what he looked like back in the late 60s, performing with his first band The First Edition, in a performance video projected on a huge screen that showed a hot and hunky young Kenny Rogers singing very seriously "I Just Dropped In to See What Condition My Condition Was In" with present-day Kenny providing live vocals. Though released before my birth, I know that song well - the only Kenny Rogers one my father ever played. Most other people know it from the dream sequence in The Big Lebowski. (I wonder if Anthony, also a big fan of that movie, ever made that connection?) Sharon Jones does a great cover version of it.

Kenny played plenty of other big hits - "The Gambler," "Coward of the County," "Ruby Don't Take Your Love to Town," "Lady," even a solo version of "Islands in the Stream," but I was left wanting more. The Christmas-themed second act was a bit too schlocky and gimmicky for me, featuring red-clad children chiming in on the choruses of songs, and an audience participation version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas" which just dragged. Fortunately the rest of Kenny's repartee with the audience was was so entertaining that I'd probably be willing to go back and see him at another show (maybe without the Christmas part) to hear more hits.

If you could get through weird religious talk about how Christmas is a celebration of "Christ the Child," Kenny's renditions of Christmas carols were quite nice, especially when he was joined onstage by a gospel choir draped in red gowns. There's something in me that really loves religious songs, be they carols or just gospel hits. Somehow I can separate the message (which I could really care less about) from the sound. Oh, the sound! And in that little round room, that in-the-round theater, everything sounds great.

Kenny's beard is a lot whiter than it used to be, and it's more of a goatee now, but that voice still brushes against me like a corduroy coat or a wooly blanket - a little rough, but soft and warm, comforting and familiar.

Green for the Holidays

I like to think of myself as pretty eco-conscious. I unplug my chargers. I obsessively turn off lights at home and in the office. In fact, I sit in the dark a lot. I use Seventh Generation paper towels and I don't take shopping bags from retailers unless I need them. I sort and recycle my glass, plastics, papers and cardboards. I rarely prefer a printout to a digital copy of a document.

I even researched the carbon impact of burial vs. cremation so I could decide how I wanted to spend eternity. (Answer: a biodegradable casket is better than having my ashes spread across the desert.)

But once a year, I do something that's questionable for the environment: I buy a real Christmas tree.

Of course, I know that deforestation is rampant. And God knows what tinsel does to the environment. But every year, no matter how much I consider not getting a tree, I end up buying one off the street somewhere in Murray Hill, and dragging it up my narrow staircase, leaving a trail of pine needles behind me and of oozy sap on my winter gloves. I just can't imagine that that's worse than the plastics used in artificial trees, not to mention their transport from China.

This year, I really considered skipping the real tree ritual, especially after I found a light-up ceramic tree like the one I grew up with from The Mud Pit at the Union Square holiday market. After years of refereeing fights between me and my sister over who would get the decoration, our father decided to keep it, and probably will til he dies. I got tired of waiting for it, and after seeing one in an antique store a couple years ago for over $100, I jumped at the chance to get this one for $45.

As I slept with the ceramic tree on every night for the last couple of weeks, my desire for a real pine tree hasn't been satiated, but rather ignited.

The ridiculous part is, I'm actually allergic to Christmas trees. I get itchy, stuffy, and if I touch my eyes with unwashed hands, they swell shut. But with some Claritin, a lot of hand-washing, and an open window to air out the fumes, I can manage.

This year I bought a Fraser fir from North Carolina from the guy across the street in front of the Duane Reade. It's probably the tallest tree I've managed in this studio apartment, and although I was looking for something skinny given my space limitations, it turned out to be pretty healthy once the branches warmed up and settled overnight.

I'm sure this one will dry out and become a horrible fire hazard after three weeks like they all do, but for now, it's fresh, moist, and pliable. It takes up most of my apartment but it's just me here anyway...At least now I've got something to keep me company.

I guess as my bulbs slowly blow out I should consider replacing my old strings of lights with more eco-friendly LED ones. Maybe next year....

Further reading:
Green Christmas - National Geographic
An Eco-Friendlier Christmas - IdealBite.com
Your Top 20 Econundrums - Solved! - Mother Jones

Lovin' It

There are a few things about my job I really enjoy. As of this week, I've been able to visit the trifecta of big fast food chains, which are part of the fabric of American culture and which served as a major dietary source for much of my childhood.

This week I had a meeting with the final of the Big Three, McDonald's. I was somehow most excited about this one, partially because it seemed like our pitch was actually going to be successful. I'd already met with Burger King in Miami, who served us ICEES and cookies and gave us kids' meal toys, as well as Wendy's in Dublin, OH, where the office restrooms looked exactly like the restaurant restrooms, right down to the soap dispensers.

As we approached McDonald's corporate headquarters in Oak Brook, IL, about 15 minutes from the Chicago O'Hare airport, I felt right at home. The concrete tower - probably constructed in the late 60s or early 70s - is situated in the middle of an industrial park, right next to a mall that houses a gigantic McDonald's restaurant in their parking lot. There's nothing outside of the McDonald's tower that indicates what's inside: it's dark and gray, cold, with an iced-over patio that's chained-off for the winter. But when we entered the lobby, we were greeted with the mysterious smells from the McCafe and a sign for the McStylist salon, where I was half-tempted to get a shave-and-a-haircut.

Upstairs, the elevator bank was glowing with a lit-up menu board like the ones you find behind the counter in the restaurants, as well as gigantic reproductions of Happy Meal boxes and other signage and memorabilia.

We were invited to get a McDonald's coffee from the beverage bar, which helped calm my nerves during our actual presentation.

Ronald McDonald didn't stop by our meeting, nor did the Hamburglar, but despite their absence, it went well. I was also hoping for a big basket of fries in the middle of the conference table, but I guess their employees can't just pig out all day while running that huge corporation. And with that in mind, thank God they didn't give us any Apple Dippers.

To be honest, I'd love to work for a company like that, but maybe the novelty would wear off pretty quickly. And since I was the person that craved fries after watching Super Size Me, I don't know if I could handle the constant temptation...