My Dog is Chelsea

…you arrive at an event and you are the only person not wearing a suit.

I looked around cavernous room at the clusters of professionals chit-chatting with one another. I had been told that I would not have to network at this “power breakfast”—but as it turned out, networking was the reason the people around me had attended.

There were about 50 round tables before me. Some were jammed with happy networkers, others were sparsely filled with people attempting to hold awkward conversations. Me, I picked the emptiest of empty tables way in the back of the room, next to the bustling crowd of chatty networkers mingling around the coffee station.

As I was pulling off my coat, a woman came out of nowhere. “I have the same skirt!” she exclaimed. “I get a million compliments on it, do you?”

“I do!” I said, which isn’t really true, but I have gotten at least three, which seemed close enough.

“I keep going back to see the other colors the skirt comes in, because I want another. But ours is the best color!” she said.

“You have the same color, too? You’re kidding!” Actually, I was not feigning surprise. The skirt, which is sold in a little boutique in Portland, is tri-colored but comes in a seemingly infinite combination of any three colors. I’ve been back to the store several times (not to buy the same skirt though), but I’ve never seen the same exact color combo again.

In any case, we made small talk about how the store has the best deals in Portland and sells such unique clothes at reasonable prices. And then she said:

“Oh! Have you ever been to Free Wind Studios?” That wasn’t the name, but it was something equally hippie-sounding. Mind you, this woman was wearing pantyhose and a skirt suit.

“No, never heard of it.” I assumed it must be another reasonably priced boutique with funky clothes.

“Oh, you must go—they have this great dance class on Sunday mornings. It’s like a gay disco!”

Apparently, the fact that I wore a funky skirt to a suit-and-pantyhose event signified a secret hippie-gay-disco camaraderie to this woman. Didn’t really know what to tell her—I’m not much of a dancer, nor am I gay. “Fun!” I exclaimed. “Sunday mornings are my ultimate frisbee day.”

She clearly didn’t know what to say to that, and so she said, “Nice,” and then walked away.

Meanwhile, during the middle of our gay disco exchange, another woman approached me and brought her face within inches of my name tag. She stared at it for about 10 seconds, and then looked up.

“Sorry—thought I knew you!” she said, and walked away.

There must be some sort of networking language that I don’t speak.

I sat down. Luckily, there was a newspaper on each chair—I could pretend I was massively interested in its contents instead of talking to complete strangers. I was soon pleased to discover that “power breakfast” did not mean “bad bagels,” which is what I was expecting. A waiter brought me a plate of deliciousness: scrambled eggs with feta and chives, ridiculously moist and tasty hash browns, and a tomato stuffed with some sort of parmesan-covered grit-like substance. Hands down the best breakfast I’ve had in months.While I scarfed my food, I eavesdropped on the networking going on behind me. A businessman walked up to another, and said: “Hey, how ya been? You look so much better without all that facial hair!” They both laughed. I almost puked, which would’ve been a terrible waste of a good breakfast.

The waiter came back to remove my empty plate. “That was delicious!” I told him.

He looked at me and paused for a second, and then smiled. “I’ve been doing these events for a long time. No one has ever commented on the food.” He seemed proud. “Usually, if they eat at all, they just pick at it. Would you like some more?”

Apparently, if you eat breakfast, you won’t fit in at a power breakfast either.

“Yes, please!” I said.