Pushing a Watermelon Through a Hole the Size of a Kumquat, or, Event Planning for Beginners

I was recently explaining the work that I do to a new aquaintance. As an event manager, I have several smaller events that I plan for my organization each year, but the real focus of my job is our annual conference. I called it a "labor of love", explaining that about nine months of my year were devoted to this four day conference featuring keynotes, workshops, vendor halls, and evening banquets. "Wow." said the aquaintance. "It sounds kind of like having a baby every year. That's gotta be rough." He then wandered off in the direction of the dip and a girl with a low-cut top while I was left pondering the truthfulness of the statement.


He's right, there are many ways in which planning a conference is almost exactly like giving birth.

WHOA! Back, mothers of actual children! For the purpose of this post, let us remember a few things:

1. This is meant to be a humorous and should be taken lightly and not as an insult to the crazy beauty of motherhood.


2. This post is obviously written by one who has never actually had a child and thus has no sense of reverence for the process or the effect upon ones nether-regions.


3. My child-bearing years are nowhere near behind me, and yes, I will probably get mine.

Now that the maternal figures have been appeased, I will proceed with my documentation of conference planning with absolutely no more references to ladies' nether-regions (except for that one). Remember to breathe deeply, drink lots of water, and don't be surprised if you get any weird cravings before the end of this post.

What To Expect When You Are Expecting 800 People


It will take 9-10 months of your life.
As was previously mentioned, this is the biggest project of my year. Following each annual conference is what I like to call a short "breathing period" wherein I get to unpack, process paperwork, and regenerate by going back to working 8-5 days again. This lasts from late April until about mid-June. Then, much like an actual baby, planning inevitably begins because whether or not you are ready for it, this thing is coming and you dang sure have enough receptacles to hold poo when it does.

You will experience significant weight gain.
There is something to be said for the effect of sitting at a desk for 12 hours in a row, consuming nothing but caffeinated sodas and New Seasons' peanut butter bars. Comparisons between my gluts and a slow moving bed of lava would not be without merit at this point. Suffice it to say that after this last conference, I have begun a very well thought-out detox plan involving abstinence from fine sugars, busting my ass on the elliptical every day, a colonic heretofore thought impossible outside of the movie "The Descent", and giving the finger to every gypsy woman that I see so that I can stop looking like Laurie-in-a-Blanket.

Recurring dreams about the actual event itself going horribly, horribly wrong.

They start small and as the months go by, they get progressively bigger. In the weeks leading up to conference, it is extremely common for me to have all of my dreams taking place in a hotel- and before you go there, no, they are not the "fun" type of dreams about hotels that feature sexy friends in adventurous couture with creative demands. These dreams are of me running from room to room swimming through seas of projector cords and door signs while all around me vendors are asking if they can get a copy of the agenda book and then offering to cut off my ears when I say no. I recently tried to request my hours of unconsciousness as time worked from my employer, but he just shook his head at me and handed me the number of a sleep clinic.

Swollen Ankles

I am pretty much on my feet from the beginning of the calendar year until the actual end of the event- equating to approximately four months. This causes that friend-of-Gozer, the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, to look at me and go "Damn girl. Those are some CANKS!" To which I invariably respond that I am not naming names, but not everyone can carry off a sailor suit.

For a short time, I am the most popular person around, and frequent comments about my condition are extremely commonplace.

In the 2-3 weeks prior to the conference, I hear frequent comments about how I am doing from people in my office. Much like the baby bump of a 8.75 month preggo woman, I wear my condition externally through bloodshot, hooded eyes; Gary Busey hair; and increasingly intense attempts to knock down the dress code fence dividing non-profit organizational fashions from pajamas.

Extreme bitchiness in the weeks leading up to the actual event.

As I get closer to conference, my sense of humor becomes practically obsolete and I cannot be bothered even the ironic joy of working with anyone classified as "an idiot". This includes but is not exclusive to: hotel staff, screenprinters, people that ask for scholarships that include airfare with less than two weeks before the conference, people that e-mail me about their fax arriving before they actually send the fax, administrative assistants of attendees that treat me like "the help", and anyone attempting to solicit my AV business by sending me conditional coupons to Best Buy.

I pack my bags for the event, but on the way there, I keep thinking, "I am just not ready for this!"

I will realize that there is some way I could have made something easier on myself in this process. Creating better spreadsheets. Sending just one more e-mail to presenters to remind them to bring their own projector. Packing a toothbrush. Like it or not though, the time has come, so all I can do is sit back and watch the edited version of "Black Swan" and try not to choke on the overwhelming perfume of the Snook-alike sitting next to me.

Actual event entails LOTS of sweating, ridiculously long hours of labor, and the potential of pooping on myself.

The conference takes place in a hotel which is spread out over hundreds of thousands of square feet. At any given time, I need to be in at least three places, all of them on opposite ends of the building from one other. Wearing the wrong shoes is a rookie move as is clothing that reveals when sweat is present because SWEAT IS ALWAYS PRESENT. The conference is also where I challenge my personal record for how long I can go without going to the bathroom because there is no way that I can selfishly afford myself 2 minutes to evacuate. Currently, I am up to 17 hours and counting. (P.S. That is not a joke.)

During the event, people keep asking, "How are you doing? Is there anything I can get you? How can I help?" when all you are really thinking is "GET OUT OF MY WAY OR I WILL DE-NUT YOU!"

It's like being at a party. If you want to help, look for something that needs doing and then do it. Do not ask the person who is shedding hair like a sheepdog from all the stress that she is currently experiencing to think about ways for you to be useful. She's already got a lot on her plate- don't make her assist you with pulling your head out of your ass.

Actual performance of the event with even a moderate level of success is met with more praise than may actually be warranted.
Here's the thing- all babies are considered "beautiful" even though they ALL look like Winston Churchill and Yoda got freaky. Conversely, all conferences that do not result in fire, death, or dismemberment of non-staff individuals are considered a major success. My opinion is this: sure it was a lot of work, but really, when it's over, everyone goes home with one more tote bag to add to their growing collection of beach picnic accessories. It's not THAT much different from what has been done by anyone else in this field which keeps me both humble and able to read negative conference evaluations without wanting to slam people's heads in car doors.


As soon as it is over, people start asking about the next one.
And so it goes . . .


In closing, I will say this. Even though we are on our way out of the recession, jobs are still scarce, and jobs where you actually get to love what you do even more so. Many of my peers for whom the world was promised as long as they "followed their dreams" are now using their music performance degree to sing "Ave Maria" to people that are scarfing baked ziti at the Macaroni Grill. Masochistic as it sounds, I love my job as a stay-at-work mom and would not trade it for the world.


The idea of having an actual kid though, scares the shit out of me.

A cowgirl, an astronaut, and a rock star walk into a bar . . .

When I was a kid, I saw an episode of Reading Rainbow that had our man Levar (minus his Jordi LaForge specs, natch) meeting people with interesting jobs. At seven years old, the most interesting to me was the person who trained domesticated tigers. Not yet blessed with the gift of self-preservation, I was convinced that my career path would end with me in belted khaki gauchos with the gigantic paws of a jungle cat pressing upon my shoulders as we pretended to dance to that "Butterfly in the Sky" song. Sadly, this desire continued far past the point of my career goals being adorable, and when I was still claiming this to be my intended profession at age 12, I was asked to go see the middle school counselor regarding perceptions of reality and risk-taking.

In the seventh grade, I attended a school that wanted kids to get a well-rounded education by connecting their present educational choices to careers that might be possible for them in the future. Always more of a "screw the directions, let's just wing it!" sort of girl, I chose mine based on which one had the coolest name. The class was called "Trial and Error", but I had no idea that it was about the law because the onset of adolescent hormones made me an absolute moron.

Spring of that year brought our classroom mock trial, and because I needed the extra credit- I was a frequent and uncreative class skipper- I volunteered to be the court reporter. As far as I knew, this meant only that I needed to employ my note-taking skills, which had somehow survived teenage stupidity, and turn in a report at the end of the trial. Easy-peasy.

Day of the mock trial came and I went to school. Because I was dealing with some seriously unaddressed issues of attention deficit, I had been reading a Calvin and Hobbes book under the desk when the teacher had stated that part of the grade for this trial would be based upon dressing professionally- particularly since we were going to an actual court room to let our drama play out (DUN-DUN!) The day of the trial arrived and I wore what I normally wore to school- and it being 1995, it was, of course, ridiculously inappropriate to wear this outfit ANYWHERE, least of all a court of law. My tie-dyed t-shirt with a peace sign over a long-sleeved henley, jeans with giant holes at the knees fashioned by a boxcutter so that you could see the long underwear underneath, and of course my fake Doc Martens spoke to my obvious fandom of Nirvana and Soundgarden but did not endear my carefully dressed peers to me. The court photographer- a middle school closet case by the name of Paaa-aaaul was horrified and told me that I was going to mess up all of his wide angle shots of the judge and attorneys. Already a master of language, I told Paul to blow it out his own ass.

What saved me from getting an F in the class- and having the book thrown at me in court- was my ability to take notes extremely fast combined with an already-developed ability to tell a hell of a story given that there was a computer involved. Despite dressing like a refugee of the year 1969, the summary paper that I wrote up after the trial earned me an A- from a teacher that absolutely loathed me. I hung that paper on the wall and right next my grade I wrote, "This is how you make bitches whine." This was sadly prescient of what would become my attitude toward authority in adulthood.

Through a course of extraordinary events that I will describe some other day, I ended up a very young college freshman. I was about 14 years old when I started attending my local university, and within a year, it was requisite that I start looking for a major that would fit "what I want to do with the rest of my life". Knowing what I do now about post-collegiate life and the applicability of anyone's major to their actual profession, I must add the following to my obviously sardonic quotation marks- HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! Okay, I am done.

After a series of failed majors (theater, sociology, history, music for about 10 minutes), I decided that my future was in art. Unfortunately, at 15 one does not realize the marketable (yet still starving) areas of art that could lead to actual job skills, so I did not take any classes in photography, digital design, or even metalsmithing. Nope, I focused on the weaving.

Seeing as I have already used this blog to sing of my longtime love for the fiber arts, I will not bore with a repetition of sentiment for whoosh-whoosh-bang-bang. I will state that, barring the apocalypse coming tomorrow and marking its arrival with the sudden spontaneous combustion of all woven natural fibers, there will never be much of a high demand for that which earned me my BFA. Please do not take this wrong- I have found a way to make plenty of money off of my craft- over the last 10 years I have made about $5,000-$6,000 off of my art. That's nothing to sniff at, in terms of supplementary income, however, seeing as my total financial needs have equated to more than $525 per year, it became necessary for me to become skilled in an actually marketable field.

I chose my masters degree based on the following information presented to me: it was free. As a member of the Chickasaw Tribe of Oklahoma, I was privy to a grant that would pay for my books, tuition, and housing so that I could become trained as an elementary school teacher before I turned 23. To me, this was a pretty sweet deal and gave me a direction that I had not had since my afternoons watching Reading Rainbow. Side note: Before moving on, I should point out that not only did I carry a 3.99 GPA in graduate school representing both my local Native community and my Tribe very well, but since leaving school, I have consistently worked in jobs that benefit the American Indian/Alaska Native community on both local and national levels. When people complain to me about their not getting it "easy like the Indians do", I always make sure to explain that the underlying expectation when you take scholarships that are allotted to Native youth is that you represent yourself as a Native/Tribal person well, and always give back to your community in any way that you can. Thus endeth rant.

After graduate school, I moved to Portland and got a job in the Indian Education office of my local school district. Although I loved planning family fun nights where traditional (and not-so-traditional) crafts were taught, working with urban Native kids to learn more about tribal cultures from around the country, as well as substitute teaching in the program's all-Native Montessori pre-school, it did not take me long to realize that I hated education for the people in charge. After a fairly explosive life-/career-changing event, I parted ways with the district, and on my last day honked as I drove by the administrative offices and when I was sure my boss was looking out her window, flipped her the bird.

My haste to get out of the school district led me to my current employers, albeit at an administrative support level. At my interview, they kept asking me, "You have a lot of education to want to be an assistant. Are you sure you want to do this?" I told them, "Oh yes! I have always wanted to enter the non-profit sector, and I feel this would be a wonderful opportunity for me to come in on a ground level!" because no one is impressed by, "Look I am 25 and I have no idea what the hell I want to do, but I can't stay with my current job, and this seems as good as anything- plus you guys offer dental."

Over the next two years, I worked strategically and sought to work with those who seemed on their way out, and whose job I thought I could swoop in to perform. My first attempt was a failure as I did not recognize that when lazy people have a high-paying job, they will hold onto it for years upon end if they are given the opportunity. This one was given the opportunity. My second positioning led to more success- the event manager in the office was surprised when I asked to be her administrative support because she and I absolutely hated working with each other. It took about a half hour of me convincing her that I really liked planning events (true), thought that there was a lot that she could teach me (half-true), and wanted to get out of my current department (GOSPEL TRUTH) and was willing to put away resentment if she could. She still hated me, but she had no administrative support and our yearly annual conference was just three months away so she did not have much choice.

The event planner/manager eventually left her position and over the course of the following year and and a half, I was able to prove to the higher-ups that if they would but listen to the words of ABBA and take a chance on me, it might pay off. I was hired as the Event Manager of my company about a year ago and have loved nearly every day since. In my job I get to work with people in Tribal, Urban, and non-Native communities; negotiate with non-profit, for-profit, Tribal, and government entities; learn more about web publishing, digital networking, and graphic design programs; and on top of everything else, take part in the awesome perks that include free trips, free stuff, and free meals. I have probably consumed the equivalent of whole cow's worth of free steak since taking this job, and while the Portlandian in me is shameful, the rest of me just wants to know if you can get potatoes on the side.

Recently I met a girl that was a dancer. For her living. Seriously. She was a part of some local ballet company and has been since graduating from the high school in "Fame" or wherever it is that dancers train. Anyway, after the requisite request from me that she stand about five feet away from me at all times so that I did not look like such a caveman in comparison, I told her that I really admired anyone that was able to get to do what they love professionally and that, to me, they are among the luckiest types of people in this world. She asked how I felt about my job, and I said, "I am the second luckiest type of person- I love what I do." It took externalizing it to realize that I truly meant that.

There is no way for me to sell the satisfaction I get from my job on any sort of kid's television programming. Planning culturally appropriate training events for child welfare personnel/administrators/tribal leaders simply does not translate to the crudely drawn illustrated answer for the question of "What do you want to be when you grow up?" It does make me happy though, and if there is one thing that I did know that I wanted to be when I grew up, it's that. Besides- Reading Rainbow failed to mention that tiger tango was just a small element of my career aspiration of 1989, and that the analysis of giant cat scat was much more common to the job description. Curse you, LeVar Burton.