The two in the middle are mine. That tall kid on the left is just a pizza-loving friend.

When I got the call to help promote some local appearances for NHRA drag racer Hot Rod Fuller, I was all, no problem. When I was asked to write a post about it, I was all, hmmm… do my readers really care about a race car driver giving away pizza at the Walmart? However, they said he’d give me an interview, and I need practice so it was ON.

Plus, I had plans without children that evening. The free DiGiorno stood in for dinner.

“How long do we have to stay?” said my always-thrilled-to-be-here kids.

“Until you’re full.” Duh.

Also, you must pose for photos. That’s how this works.

While the kids were getting their pepperoni on, I got my chance to interview Rod. What I really wanted to know was why a race car driver has a Master’s degree, which I’d learned about in his bio. And in what, acceleration? Turns out Fuller has an MBA; he studied marketing. Fuller talked about the value of understanding the business end of your passion. To be successful you have to be great at what you do, but also have an engaging personality, and be an active participant in selling your brand.

“The days of companies just giving you money to go put on the side of your race car are over,” Fuller said. “You really have to work for the sponsors to increase their sales to offset the cost of the sponsorship.”

He credits a lot his success with his business education. As a CPA-turned-writer, I can relate. The business of writing, it turns out, is sometimes more business than writing. Like writing, racing is extremely competitive. Growing up in Rogers, Arkansas, people told Fuller it would be impossible to break into the world of professional racing. He didn’t believe it. And he knew that even if he couldn’t drive the car, he’d always be involved with racing in some way–a mechanic or a marketer, maybe.

“If you want to be in a certain field, there’s always something you can do. It’s just a matter of how badly you want to do it.”

I also asked Fuller what he’d tell parents whose kids wanted to get into a dangerous sport, like racing. Amid some good advice about allowing children to follow their passions, Fuller mentioned that he’d never married or had any kids.

You know what else depends largely on successful marketing? Marriage. Seventeen years has taught me nothing if not spin. So when I got home I told my husband, “You know, that race car driver worked into the conversation SEVERAL times that he was NOT married.”

My husband is used to this kind of abuse. “Really?” he said. “And did you work into the conversation that you WERE married?”

“Nope. I wear a ring.”

And, um… if that’s not speaking loudly enough, it might be time for something larger.

Racing, writing, diamonds–go big or go home.

That’s called marketing.

Thanks, Rod Fuller, for the great interview, and Collective Bias for offering me the opportunity.

Dear FCC: This post has been compensated as part of a social shopper insights study for Collective Bias #CBias, but that was nothing compared to the mileage I got out of it at home. My opinions (not to mention my delusions) are entirely my own.

I had the very good fortune of working with an innovative brand at BlogHer11 in San Diego earlier this month. The BillMyParents Mastercard is a reloadable debit card that is marketed to parents of teens because of its ability to track spending and the balance online, therefore allowing parents to take advantage of the many teachable moments between freshman year and freshman year.

As a parent of a teenager, I find the service attractive.

As the friend of women whose husbands have cheated on them, I can’t help but ponder other uses for the card’s many fine features.

Instant Messaging

Parents can set up the BillMyParents card to send instant alerts with every swipe. You might use this data to teach your kid to buy Whoppers at the grocery store on the way to the theater… OR you might want a heads up that your spouse has checked into the Homewood Suites at four in the afternoon.

Centralized Gifting

Friends and family can use the BillMyParents card to send birthday and Christmas gifts. This is a great alternative to collecting all those iTunes and Target cards… OR it could be the perfect place to deposit your husband’s allowance. No money, no hos, I always say.

Remote Locking

The remote lock feature is a convenient feature for teens who might be prone to misplace their plastic. Instead of panicking when a card goes missing, you simply log on and freeze the card… OR you stop that lap dance mid-hip roll.

The BillMyParents campaign encourages getting rid of the dirty old men–the dead presidents on our cash–in favor of trackable plastic. Wronged spouses can stop the dirty old men closer to home, because, truly, it’s tough to fit a card reader in a g-string.

TrackMySpouse. Watch for it.

Other Fun Posts About Marriage:

• From Pillow to Pedometer in 6 Easy Steps
• How My Husband Got Kicked Off My Sales Force
• Showered in Miscommunication

Dear FCC: Although BillMyParents did compensate me to represent their brand at BlogHer11, I’m certain this is not even close to what they had in mind.

Image Credit: brh_images, Flickr

One of the very few photos of me at BlogHer. With the super cool Tracy Beckerman.

I went to my very first ever BlogHer last weekend. Wow. I had heard it was big and spectacular, but I didn’t know it was Disneyland. There was so much vying for my attention that I could have spent the entire weekend mourning for the things I missed. But I did not do that. Instead, I sampled a bit of everything the conference had to offer. I went to a couple of sessions, had a couple of meetings, went to a few parties, and strolled and worked the expo floor. The best part, of course, was meeting so many fantastic people I follow online or in print. (More on them below.) I came away with a new respect for blogging, a lot of great contacts, and a feel for the different types of BlogHer conference attendees.

The Swag Whore

Not to be confused with the whore-whore (um, yes, this was a convening of media people, so…) Anyway, I had heard about the merchandise given to bloggers at BlogHer, but there is just no way to comprehend the quantity and quality of swag until you see it first hand. The Swag Whore is more interested in checking items off her Christmas list than improving the quality of her website or the caliber of her connections. In my [stupid] attempt to focus on my primary goals and travel light, I maintained a no-swag policy until the very last party. Next year I will keep my focus on business, and outsource my swag whoring.

The Matriarch

The Matriarchs of BlogHer have been around since Al Gore invented the internet. I didn’t meet a single one, but admired them from afar.

The Bright-Eyed Baby Blogger

For the most part, the women I met at BlogHer were highly accomplished, driven professionals. I only met a few newbies. And they stood out. For example, in a hallway full of women bloggers introducing themselves, one extra-excited young woman exploded in “I’m a mommy blogger too!” What are the odds? This is akin to the newbie writer’s conference attendee who is certain their manuscript is *this close* to being optioned into a Spielberg film. This close. I like these people, mostly because I want to go back in time and be them again.

The Groupie

I expected to meet a lot of the bloggers I’ve followed over the years. I didn’t expect they’d have entourages and hold court in corners of conference rooms and bars. I fell into the Groupie category on many occasions, such as upon meeting Wendi Aarons, Tracy Beckerman, Stefanie Wilder Taylor, Ann Imig, and Jessica Bern. I positively gushed over Deb Ng, who used to run the very best resource for freelance writers online and is now a big deal in the co-ed blogging world. (Yes, boys blog, too.) I tried not to bug these wonderful women, for real. I don’t think asking them to sign my breast in Sharpie went too far.

The Diva

The Diva strolls from one party to another with premium swag weighing her down. She has been around. She knows all. Luckily, I only met one blogger who disappointed me with her less-than-lovely real life self. Of course I’m not going to mention her by name, but I will say she wasn’t the only one. I heard many stories of “Who are you?” and “Don’t you know who I am?” Being courted by the brands does not impress me. Show me the money or write a book and then I’ll respect you. Which brings me to…

The Writer

The Writer is not quite sure why she is attending BlogHer. Some are here to see old friends, who are also writers and who may or may not have been bloggers before they had book deals but now they are literary types whose publishing houses really should be handling all this marketing filth. Some are painfully shy. Some are funny. Some are serious. Most have dignity, at least enough NOT to dance with a McDonald’s bag on their heads.

The Funny Bitch

Oh, there’s nothing quite so entertaining as a Funny Bitch. The trouble is when they flock together, pouncing on jokes and competing for attention. And yet, the funny bitches were the most fun.

The Para-Celebrity

I understand the blogging community in a whole new way since attending BlogHer. In our celebrity obsessed society, bloggers get to carve out a little audience. In turn the brands feed them drinks, glamorous party locations, and red carpet photo opps to feed their semi-famous self image. If I learned anything this weekend, it’s that I need to do a better job of pretending to be a celebrity. How else will I get to the point where some Groupie asks me to sign her breast?

In my experience, media and publishing conferences are attended by an interesting mix of sales-types, writers, and geeks. Especially where writers or bloggers congregate, you can expect a lot of women. Such good odds for the men in attendance, so why are their openers still so awful?

• What’s your handle so I can tweet you?
• I’d love to expose you to my audience.
• Meet me in my room. We can update our status.
• I can get you on the front page of Digg.
• Not everything in publishing has been downsized! [insert wink]

When will they learn? It’s all about good white shirts, intelligent jokes and this:

• You are NOT in your forties!

This one works. Anywhere. Always. Every time. But if it doesn’t, try something dirty–like a martini.

Image Credit: Peter Gorges, Flickr

Yesterday we went on a float trip down the Elk River, known for its varying water levels and rednecky goodness. For the Fourth of July, I donned my cutoff Levi shorts, packed up the leftover hotdogs and hamburgers, and headed out with my family for a 9-mile ride–little of which I would describe as floating.

I wanted to name this post “Things I Learned on the Elk River” but I realized the lessons here are actually not new, but ancient wisdom, life lessons we all know but seem to forget over and over. Maybe that’s just me.

Here are a few lessons from the Elk.

• Never stand up in a canoe. Just don’t.
• Climbing into a boat is easier on shore than mid-stream. Almost always.
• In related good news, bleeding into a river does not attract sharks.
• City girls aren’t the only ones who seem to find out early, how to open doors with just a smile–or a lift of a beaded crop top. (“Mom, why is that man wearing all those necklaces?”)
• Speaking of children, for maximum relaxation, place competitive siblings in the same boat.
• You never know who will push you out of a low spot, and sometimes people surprise you.
• There is no such thing as too much river beer.
• Believe the guy who says, “By noon, this will burn off.”
• Not everyone needs SPF 600. But I do.
• Tube tops and string bikinis should have an expiration date. Maybe they should be burned at your fortieth birthday party. Or you thirtieth, depending.
• One sandwich is never enough.
• The last quarter-mile is always the hardest.
• Always bring your phone. And duct tape. No exceptions.
• “We should do this more often,” for me, translates to, “We should do this again in a few years.”
• And again, in case you forgot already–never stand up in a canoe.

People in these parts consider a trip down the Elk River to be the peak of redneck bliss. Maybe, but where I come from, there are no canoes–only inner tubes, lifted from a nearby junkyard under cover of night and courage of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Top that, people of the Ozarks.

Image Credit: Ivy Dawned, Flickr

More Summer Fun:

• We’ve Made It Past the Fourth of July
• The Trouble with Car Trouble
• Virtual Classmates: Why Facebook is Better Than Your 20-Year Reunion

Say what you want about Arkansas, but before I moved here I didn’t have the opportunity to be in the presence of both David Sedaris and the Dalai Lama – within a few weeks and a half mile of one another. While I had intended to read up on the Holy Dude before seeing him this morning, I didn’t quite get to that. I was busy with more important things like filling out enrollment paperwork and cross referencing my calendar with my to-do list. This was all for the best, it turned out. As I had few expectations.

“I’m in the spirit, right?” I asked my companions as we walked across the University of Arkansas campus.

“Yes, release yourself from the attachment to permanence,” one of them quipped.

“That’s easy to say,” said the other, “when you’ve been reincarnated fourteen times.”

Not exactly devotees, the three of us, but seekers still, hoping for a bit of inspiration, a moment of clarity while in the presence of the Great Man.

And then he came out, looking like a cuddly red frog, using far fewer words than the others on the panel. (Sister Helen Prejean and Vincent Harding). I held back laughter reading the following tweet:

@Ozarkbahner – Dalai Lama lowering from arena rafters on stage wire, crowd ERUPTS as opening hook from “Panama” plays! #HHDL #1984

But despite the dramatic lighting and the theatrical drapes, HHDL was surprisingly mellow. He was at once wholly authoritative and wholly humble. His style was not showy or arrogant, but calm and knowing. He wasn’t preachy, never once speaking of BEing anything, but that we practice compassion and tolerance. Practice.

And he was funny, utterly charming, even though it was tough to make out each and every word.

Then some woman at the top of Bud Walton Arena screamed “Louder!”

Only in Arkansas.

I cringed. But His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama was unfazed. He checked his mic and then said, “I think the sound is sufficient.” No drama. All while sitting crossed legged on a couch, and scratching himself as needed. We could use more leaders like this, spiritual or otherwise.

I like to think our talk on the way out was a bit elevated by all the holiness, that the message of compassion and connection would last longer than the commute back to Bentonville. We shall see. One thing’s sure, I’ll never hear Van Halen the same way again.

Image: Rajkumari1220, Flickr

This came up in my feed the other day, a comment on a stranger’s photo, posted by someone I knew in high school:

“Seeing someone half my age now. Young, tight, spunky, zest for life.”

Whoa. Did he say tight? Do people say that? Out loud in the public square? About women who may or may not have access to broadband? I mean, obviously he’s talking about her overall muscle tone. But still. Tight. It’s not that a girl doesn’t want to hear such a compliment, not even that she doesn’t want you sharing it with your friends. You just might not want to remind her how old, loose, tired, and cynical you are. Especially if you’re broke. Just a suggestion.

Listen, Middle Aged White Guys on Facebook, try to keep up. It’s challenging, I know. It’s just so, I don’t know…  Hard?

‎”As for God, His way is perfect.” ~Psalm 18:30″

“Who? What? Where?” ~Vinnie Barbarino

“I believe the start of Decorative Gourd Season would be October 1st and extends to the Thanksgiving holiday. Mother fuc&ker. “

And those, my friends, were all posted by the same woman. Did I mention how much I love Facebook?

“Mom! That was one of those Mormons.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because. He was riding a bike and wearing a white shirt. AND he had a backpack.”

“Lots of students ride bikes and wear backpacks.”

“But the white shirt, Mom. I’m telling you he was Mormon.”

“They don’t bike that fast. Besides, he was alone. No way.”

“Mormon.”

Little sister from the back seat: “What’s a Norman?”

But of course I signed it.

I even held back telling my husband that I needed to brush up on his signature. Forgery jokes probably don’t go over well with notaries.