We laughed about it because 1) I had a fire drill at work last week too. It was 15 minutes later than they said it would be, just to properly make us wet our pants when hearing the alarm and 2) Hahahaha! Who is so hard core that they get real victims?

And then it hit me like a two-by-four to the face, OH MY GOD! WE DID THAT AT THE 49ERS!

So after 9/11, one of the big concerns was the security of stadiums and arenas, especially outdoor stadiums that are just a hop, skip and a jump from a major international airport, like Candlestick Park is. We had to learn the proper evacuation routes and how to make sure everyone got out safely.

But our stadium operations people, they took it to a whole other level. They wanted to know how we would react in a REAL SITUATION! So what did they do? They staged a plane crash. No, really.

On a Saturday afternoon, either on the bye week or in the offseason, we got like 1,000 volunteers to come to the stadium and be victims. We had a part of a toy plane, CRASHED, on the field. But not really on the field because then that would ruin the grass for the football playing. Because I’m sure a pilot directing a plane to crash into the stadium would have THAT much common courtesy! THINK OF THE TURF!

(I Googled it and even found an article about it. But no photos, sadly. You would all laugh at the size of this “plane”. When I emailed my friend Cindy last week, when thinking about this, she said “that plane was a joke. If it had landed on the field during the game, we could have had the cheerleaders carry it off and continue playing.”)

Anyway, in addition to having the volunteers be victims, we also had professional make-up artists there. You see, it wasn’t just training for stadium employees, it was also training for SFPD, the fire department and the EMTs. They had to go into crisis mode and treat the worst wounded and put lipstick on the foreheads of the dead people!

Oh wait, that was the movie Pearl Harbor.

Since I was in public relations, we just worked in the press box. So before taking our “positions” we toured the whole stadium to see what was going on. I knew when I saw someone who had make-up done to look like they were BLEEDING FROM THEIR EYES, that we had taken this exercise a weeeee bit far.

In hindsight, it was pretty impressive and probably served as a good training exercise for the emergency personnel. I mean, as a fireman or EMT, you don’t really get a lot of training on mass casualties, minus watching episodes of Grey’s Anatomy.

My boss didn’t appreciate it, but I made sure it was clear that if this were in fact a real emergency, I was not paid enough to make sure that beat writers and columnists and other annoying media people got out safely. You know for a fact had it been a real emergency, I would be pushing past the old lady with the walker down the ramps and out to my car and zooming down the 101 freeway before anyone could even realize I was gone. This will make no sense to anyone reading, but there was no way I was going to save Ira Miller’s ass before my own.

I should change my tagline – Kristabella: Always Keeping It Klassy

So this past Sunday was July 5. It marked an anniversary of sorts for me. Because 10 years ago on that day was my first day working for the San Francisco 49ers. Ten years. I can’t even believe it. Man, I’m getting old.

People always thought it was odd to start on July 5. But it was a Monday. And also, when you work in the NFL, usually the 4th of July is your last opportunity to take any vacation for the rest of the year. Because training camp starts just a few weeks after that and it is time to get focused and get ready for the season.

(Side note: I once went home mid-July, very close to the opening of training camp, because my sister had just had a baby. My nephew was born on June 26 and I HAD to go see him before the season started. I wasn’t going to go a whole 8 months without seeing my first nephew. And believe me, I got a rash of shit for taking vacation so late in the summer.)

I can remember almost every single thing about my first day. I remember exactly what I was wearing. I have a perfect visual in my head of me standing in the Public Relations office, knowing that at that moment, life couldn’t get any better.

I was so nervous. It had been awhile since I had started a new job. And this was my first REAL job. And I was living all by myself, in a state where I didn’t know a single soul, 3,000 miles away from my family. And it was the fucking San Francisco 49ers for Pete’s sake. There were Hall of Famers walking around me all the time! It was nothing like working in college sports or in minor league baseball when you could say you knew those stars before they were famous.

At the time of my first day, I was staying at a hotel around the corner from the 49ers facility in Santa Clara. It was all very new to me. I had just driven up that weekend from Arizona (I had to pick up the rest of my stuff from college that I had stored) and couldn’t move into my apartment until later in the week. My friend Connie caravaned up to California with me from Arizona. And we splurged and went to Togo’s for dinner and sat out on the lawn of the hotel and watched the fireworks being set off from Great America on the 4th of July.

My friend Teri, who is the wife of my old boss at the Niners, she always makes fun of me about that first day. She always makes fun of me for many reasons, but she used to always joke about me on my first day. When I got there, when I asked how I was doing, I apparently said “I’m nervous. It’s my first real job.” Which, hey! I’m just being honest. But Kirk must have told Teri and she laughed because she’s old and she doesn’t even remember her first job because it was so long ago. (Actually she probably does. And if  you get her drunk enough, she’ll tell you all about it. And she’ll probably serenade you with Paradise By The Dashboard Light by Meatloaf.)

Most of the day was a blur. Frozen in my memory is the image of me standing right by my desk, the one I would sit at for three years, trying to look professional in my blue dress shirt and black pants, hoping I wouldn’t throw up from the nervousness.

My one memory that will stand out from that week was as I was sitting at my desk with my head down, proofreading the media guide probably, someone came up to me, stuck his hand out and said “Hi, I’m Bill.” And as I looked up, I was staring into the face of Hall of Fame coach, the LEGEND, Bill Walsh. And I think I told him my name. And probably shook his hand for an inappropriate amount of time. And kept it to myself (until now), lest Teri make fun of me for something else.

Working there was an experience. It is an experience I wouldn’t change for all the money in the world. It was hard work. I struggled with so many things. I made a lot of mistakes. But I also learned a hell of a lot. I am the worker and the person I am today because of the six years I spent working there. I made friendships that will last for a lifetime. I had to be strong because I was literally all alone when I moved there.  I grew up. A LOT.

I think back to my almost-22 year old self and I almost wish I could be her again. I wish I could have that rampant ambition, that slightly less jaded outlook on the world, the feeling that the world and thousands of opportunities were just waiting there, at my feet, waiting for me to take hold of them and run as fast as I could.

I wish I could shelter her from a lot of the stuff she is going to go through. I wish I could tell her to worry less and enjoy life more. I wish I could tell her that having a big mouth is no longer endearing in the professional world.

But I can’t. And that’s OK. Because she survived, she grew, she learned, she enjoyed life. She had to go through these things. She had to learn, had to get knocked down a few times to learn how to brush herself off and move on. She had to experience LIFE.

And I wouldn’t tell her to do anything different because I think we’re both pretty happy with the way it has all panned out. No regrets.

So you guys have opinions about those shoes. Or should I say OPINIONS. I loved reading all your comments. There would be a lot of “hmm, maybe with capris or a skirt would be better” comments and then you would have a bunch of “NO! BAD SHOES!” comments. I’m also surprised at how many people have these same shoes and actually like them. Decision? To be decided.

I agree with a lot of you that it is a lot of foot. I don’t know why it bothers me more than a flip flop or any other sandal. The only thing I can think of is that these cover just the middle of the foot. And then like the whole end of your foot is out there! In the open! With the possibility of stepping in Chicago sludge!

I’m going to try them with a few different things – long shorts, capris and a dress (not all those at once, though), and see. I also got a pedicure tonight, so that should help. I put off the pedicure for so long because it was like in the 60s last week and I was wearing socks. Then all of a sudden it’s 91 and I’m wearing sandals and people are looking at my bare toenails! THE HORROR!

Also, a tan might help. But that won’t happen since I prefer the indoors and SPF 75.

So as I was getting my pedicure tonight, I started thinking back to when I wore toe rings. Did anyone else wear toe rings? Why did I feel the need to wear a ring on my toe? Why would I encourage people to focus their gaze on my feet? (Although, a player at the 49ers, John Keith (who only those of us who worked at the 49ers know who the hell that even is), he used to tell me all the time that I had pretty feet. And then I would say “thanks perv, now move along and stop breaking like a God damned China doll!”)

Anyway, I remembered toe rings during my pedicure tonight because I always took mine off for pedicures. Because it was FINE JEWELRY, apparently. And I would wear it on my pinky finger, like an Italian mobster, until the pedicure was finished. That’s classy right there. Klassy with a K.

I actually only kept wearing the toe ring for one reason – because Steve Mariucci, the cute, former head coach of the 49ers, he would always comment on my toe ring. (I’m also pretty sure I’ve mentioned this story before.)

See I was in charge of taping his informal media gathering after practice every day. And then I would go upstairs and transcribe it for the website. It sounds like a mundane task, but when I was first asked to do it, it was one of the first times a woman was ever allowed on the practice field. In like the entire history of the organization. This was in 2000.

So I jumped at the chance. THIS! This was going to be my in, this was going to be my way to break down all those rules and the glass ceiling! I am woman, hear me ROAR!

I was told to just tape and not say a thing. I am woman, hear me stand meekly with a tape recorder.

Now if anyone of you have ever met me, or read this blog, you might guess that being quiet is NOT an easy thing for me to do. But this was my chance! I would do what it took to carve my niche, to create my place in history with this franchise. So I stood, every day after practice and held my little tape recorder and stayed in the background.

I found out a few years later from my boss that Mariucci, he did NOT like me being out there. He was against it from the very beginning. And it was Mariucci, or Mooch as he’s known, who gave the instructions for me to be quiet. Kirk, my boss, he could care less about gender. He always hired good people who worked hard and did their jobs. He’s a younger guy, so the whole Old Boys Club of not having women around, he didn’t buy into it. I was very lucky to work for a guy like Kirk.

As the practices went by, as I behaved myself and stayed invisible (I think), slowly Mooch started to warm up to me. Since I’m not shy, and I am blessed with a quick wit and a big mouth, he probably regretted the day he first talked to me. Because then, once I was spoken to, I had to talk back. And I could make a living at talking back. I’m THAT good at it. And once I started, I could not be stopped.

Because the years Mooch coached the team (while I was there) were some of the worst teams in Niners history, he got asked a lot of questions by the media that he didn’t want to answer. When he didn’t want to answer, he would look at the ground. When he looked at the ground, he saw a bunch of ugly man shoes and MY FEET! Specifically, my toes. And, you guessed it, my toe ring.

He was obsessed with the toe ring. He couldn’t understand the purpose. (Nor do I, years later.) But he would bring it up all the time. For awhile, he would call me Toe Ring. If I ever had a note or something from him, it would either say “Dear Toe Ring” or “Dear Sun Devil” (he saw the tattoo later on.)

So one year I decided to get him a Christmas present. I went to Claire’s and found the girliest pink toe ring I could find. And I wrapped it up and made this heartfelt speech to him, telling him I really wanted to get him something or some other bullshit. He, of course, laughed his head off and LOVED IT! And it sat on his desk for the rest of his years with the 49ers.

On the day he got fired, I walked into his office to say goodbye, with tears in my eyes because I knew not only was I going to miss him because he was one of a kind, I also knew that all the years I worked at becoming one of the boys, getting him to see me as a professional, not as some WOMAN, some walking vagina, who wanted to sleep with players, all that was walking out the door with him. And I was going to have to start from scratch.

But he told me that he was taking the toe ring with him and it would be displayed on his desk the next place he ended up. Although I’m quite sure it ended up in the circular file. But I still have my memories!

I do this with the simple phrase “at my old job.”

I know that I do it because it is my way of telling people “oh, yeah, I totally know what I’m doing. We did that at my old job.” It is my way of letting people know that I really am competent. That I was hired for a reason. And that I’m willing to put my nose to the grindstone and hit the ground running and all kinds of other cliches.

I’m guessing the only time I never did this was my first job, which was when I worked with my dad and didn’t know a damn thing about working in an office. But I’d imagine since I was an angsty teen, most of the words that came out were whiny and made people stabby.

When I started at the Niners, I don’t think I did it a lot. My job prior to the 49ers was working in the Arizona State Sports Information department. So while still sports media relations, college and the NFL were a little different. The best difference was clips were printed out on the computer, NOT pasted to gold pieces of paper. I would venture to guess those student interns at ASU are still cutting clips and pasting them to the same gold paper. Over 10 years later.

But I was young! And fresh! And impressionable! Also, if something wasn’t done how I was used to doing it, at the Niners I just CHANGED the way we did it. Oh to be 22 and have your first job again and not know about office politics.

When I left the Niners, things were a lot different. So many people assumed because you worked in sports, you couldn’t work in the corporate atmosphere. Like working in the NFL is just naked men and sexual harassment and free shoes galore! Well, it is like that but we did do actual WORK. The same kind of work that people in PR agencies and corporate offices do. Just different clients.

For six years in the NFL I had to prove that I was more than a woman, that I was a capable PR person, that I wasn’t there to sleep with players. Every new coach that came in was another time I had to prove myself. I proved myself with my work and with my not sleeping with players. It got old, let me tell you. Before I left, the 49ers had hired Mike Nolan. And there we were, his first day on the job, and every time he needed something, he looked around me and asked for a guy. Looked me right in the eye, as a Public Relations MANAGER, and asked me to get someone lower than me to do something for him because that person was a male. After six years of that, I had ENOUGH. And also, I’ll always think Mike Nolan is a ginormous douchebag because of this. I was so happy when he was shit-canned.

(This was so not the direction I had planned for this post, FYI. Yay for stream of consciousness.)

Once I got out of football, I had to prove myself on other levels. I had to prove my knowledge of products and services outside of first downs and nickel defense. I had to prove that I was competent. I had to prove that the person they interviewed was the person they had indeed been hired. I had to come through.

It’s a hard pill to swallow. When you start a new job, you’re coming off an old job where you proved yourself and, hopefully, they trusted you. So part of your brain thinks that you can just step right in and it will all be the same at the new job. But every company is different. And you have to learn how thing are run.

I swear I’m not trying to be a dick when I mention how things were done at my old job. I’m not trying to make things run the same way just because I don’t like change. I honestly think it is because when it comes to proving myself, I’m always going to being that female in a man’s world of football and having to prove myself over and over for all the wrong reasons.

I’m still bitter about some of the things that happened at the 49ers. I’m still bitter that they laid me off. And I’m still bitter about the way that organization tends to treat people and how the owner is turning a storied franchise into something of a joke.

I’m also bitter and pleased at the same time that in the three years since I’ve left, they have had two different people try to do my old job. And no one has matched the work I did there in my six seasons. If I do say so myself.

There are not a lot of people left that I know who still work for the team. There are even less players who are still around. And only because an ex-49ers coach came back this year, I now only know 2 coaches on that team. The place has changed so much in just three years.

Last night I started off waiting for the team to arrive at their hotel, and I hung out with Gary Plummer, an ex-49ers player who now is a radio announcer for the team. We spent some time catching up and he gave me the dirt on the people and how things have changed.

Then we spent a lot of time drinking. And then there was more drinking and laughing and hugging. And talk of my blog. And me passing out some of my blog business cards because I have like 200 left over from BlogHer and need to get rid of them. And then finally around 3:30 AM, I decided that I had been up for almost 24 hours and that I was the one who had to get up early for work. So I hopped in a cab and got my happy, drunk ass home. (Yes, I did get hit on by the cab driver. But no, no digits were exchanged. He wondered why I was single.) And then I slept through my alarm and work up at 10 AM and decided that Day -11 At Work was going to be a work from home day.

I had a really good time last night, but at the same time I didn’t. My years with the 49ers were some of the most defining in my life. It is where I grew up. It is where I became the person I am today. I was part of that world for six years. And now I’m not. So as fun as it is to hang out with all these people who still work there, it is hard because they still work there and I don’t. They have moved on. I have moved on.

I am happy almost every single day to be out of that world. I am happy I get to spend my weekends and evenings doing the things I want to do, and not spending 12 hours in a football pressbox. With every time I see my former co-workers, I move farther and farther from that life. It makes me sad because there are people there I still wish I worked with. It makes me sad that all my hard work, all my awesome work, is forgotten and now I’m just a name and photo in a media guide. And a drunken girl in a bar in Chicago that has business cards for her blog.

There are still people there that I love. And they miss me and it makes me feel needed and missed. When you don’t get to leave a job on your own, there is always that part of you that is going to feel like you have some unfinished business. Because you didn’t get to walk out and give everyone a big middle finger and tell them to SUCK IT! So there’s always a part of you that wants them to not be able to move on, to not be able to manage without you still working there.

It is nice to hear that sometimes, three years later, that still is the case.

Anyway, as the advance person for a team, one would fly out to the city the team would be playing in that week and handle the logistics before the team arrived so that when they arrived, everything went off without a hitch. This included meeting with hotels to make sure the rooming lists were correct, meeting rooms were set up properly, meals were arranged for, which was a large task since you had to have quite a bit of food on hand for 300-pound offensive and defensive linemen, and security was in place. It also required meeting with the local stadium personnel so that when the owner was all “Hey, Kristin, where is the owner’s suite?” you didn’t look at him like a deer in headlights bobblehead and send him in the wrong direction.  

It also required meeting with the local airports. Because, well, professional sports teams don’t like to go through the terminal. And after 9/11, this wasn’t exactly the most kosher thing in air travel. It took a lot of coaxing by the NFL and local airline personnel. Which only helped when a team landed. When they departed the visiting city, they had to go through security like everyone else. Nothing like watching a multi-millionaire shed the shiny chain around his neck that cost more than any house I will ever own at the metal detectors. Or Bill Walsh getting wanded. But when they landed, they could de-plane right on the tarmac. And right onto buses. Which was a whole other headache, trying to get 5 huge buses through security in major airports. Hence the need for an advance person.  

I loved advancing. As you can see, it is a lot like meeting/event planning, which is a lot of what I do now. I was born to be good at that role. And I was. I was great as the 49ers advance person. There was never an issue. Including the time I had to get cookies for the coaches’ wives to be put in their rooms. Which I found out about two hours before the team was supposed to land. When I was on my way to the airport. This is a lesson for all of you. Be nice to your hotel contacts. And they can get you cookies!  And if you’re at the Ritz, they’ll even write each wife’s name on the plate in chocolate.

Two of my advances were really memorable. And both of them had to do with the airports. (Thanks to Rob for one of his planes posts from weeks ago that triggered my memory. Have I mentioned that my Google Reader is over 500 posts?)

My one memorable advance was my very first advance all by my lonesome. It was a preseason trip to San Diego. Unbeknownst to me, my boss flew down ahead of the team just in case I fucked things up. Little did he know. That I. Was. Awesome.

Because it was a preseason game to end the season on a Thursday night, we flew in and out of the United States Navy base on Coronado Island. Let me point out that this was post-9/11 and this is an ACTIVE Naval base.

But because San Diego wouldn’t let planes fly out past 10 PM at the municipal airport, and our game was starting at 7 PM, we needed a way out of there. Especially if we lost. Which, back in those days, was pretty much commonplace.

With it being my first advance, I was already freaking out enough. I didn’t want anything to happen to me so that I’d lose my advancing responsibilities. It’s the only time during the football season where you can take naps in the middle of the day. Or take a trip to the mall for some new bras and not have to deal with the crowds. Not that I did that or anything. I worked HARD.

But the pressure of this Naval base was freaking me out. Driving through the gates with men holding GUNS will do that to a person. Plus, military people don’t much care for the civilian types treading on their territory. I wanted to make a good impression. Little did I know, until after I left the base and went to lunch, that I spent the ENTIRE morning with my BARN DOOR OPEN! Nothing like a little shot of my panties to bring good will to a Navy base.

The guy we met with at the base was great. He told us the deal and thankfully the Niners United rep was with me so he could answer all the questions about draining the latrines and food service and all that nonsense. Because the big boys gotta eat after the game.

The only problem was, as Navy base guy kept telling me, if the terror level was raised. Then we’d be booted so fast from there we wouldn’t know our asses from a hole in the wall. And since I have a wee tendency of overreacting, I was imagining Pearl Harbor. And the team not being able to land. And that San Diego has really good Mexican food.

Nothing happened. The plane was delayed coming in for some odd reason. But as I chilled at the airport waiting for the plane, our Navy base guy asked me if I wanted a tour. Trying to stay professional and NOT jump up and do cartwheels, I told him that it would be nice to have a tour of the facility, thank you very much sir. Because when would I be on a Navy base again in my life? My bets were on never. Unless I flashed more than my crotch hole.

So he took me all over the base. (As I was freaking out because what if the team landed? Because I could totally miss a 767 flying RIGHT OVER MY HEAD.) He showed me some jets doing some practice runs. He took me to the “bird wash,” which is where the planes get cleaned. It’s weight sensored, so as soon as the plane rolls over it, jets of water leash a hurricane onto the jet to clean it. It comes up from the ground, seemingly out of NOWHERE, and gushes down on the plane. It is an amazing sight. (I’d show you a video, but sadly all I get on Google is bird flu and reminders to wash your hands if you touch a bird. Oh that and it is on a Naval base and national secrets and all that. Between this and hating the National Anthem, my voting rights will be taken away any day. Or I’ll be heading to Guantanamo. And my guess is they don’t have wireless there.)

The highlight had to be the sight as we were pulling back up to the buses. All of a sudden we were stopped because an F-18 fighter jet landed right in front of us. It was like straight out of Top Gun. And then, be still my beating heart, two Naval pilots got out of the cockpit. *Swoon*

Our Navy base guy got his camera and snapped a photo of us. Me sandwiched between Maverick and Ice Man. ME!! Sadly, I have NO idea where I put it. And I know it is on floppy disk, which does me no good anyway. But it was fan-flipping-tastic.

Even if I did have my zipper down.

Another exciting advance was in Seattle. We were too good for the Sea-Tac airport and got to fly into a private airfield, not far from the main airport. The good thing about this? No TSA. And things go a lot smoother, I tell ya.  

It was a Saturday afternoon and the plane was approaching the runway. I had my periodic updates through the walkie talkie from our security guy that they were getting close. Plus my airport contact was all over it.

So I was left to just stand around and do nothing. And look important. As I was standing there, doing important advancing duties that didn’t involve a nap or drinking, there was a fighter jet parked off to the side. ”Hmmm,” I thought to myself. “I wonder what that is here for.”  

The Niners team plane landed. And since it was a 767 landing on a runway that usually handles those small, private jets, it took the entire piece of pavement for the plane to land on. I was pretty sure it was going through the wall on the other end of the airport. It landed, stopped with about a foot to spare and promptly turned around AWAY FROM US at the end of the runway. And then it just sat there.

I, of course, panicked. I was flipping out. There is no waiting! Plane lands. People de-plane. NO. WAITING.  

The bus drivers (more people you should be very, very nice to) and I were just sitting there wondering what the hell was going on. As I moseyed myself over to my airport contact to seem importabt, I found out why the plane was just sitting at the end of the runway. NOT close to the buses. And no passengers being let out. My career flashing before my eyes. Right at that moment, another plane was landing. And that plane had some words written on the side of it.  

Self to Self: “What does that say? President of the United…”

Self OUT LOUD: “Holy shit! That’s Air Force One!”  

Actually it was Air Force Two. Or whatever the plane is that the Vice President flies on. It’s like a midget version of Air Force One. Which makes sense since Dick Cheney is a robot and comfort is no need to a mess of wires and metal and electrical current.

So yeah. Right there, in front of my eyes, Dick Cheney’s plane landed. It was very exciting. The one Republican on the team about shit himself. Which is funny, since he was a six-foot-eight offensive lineman.

Sadly Thankfully, we didn’t see him get off the plane. It takes awhile to get the robot parts all back up and running. He uses that time during flights to recharge his internal processor. He’s like Vicki from Small Wonder when he flies.

It’s these moments where I miss working in sports. But then I remember that I have all my weekends free and get a lot of free booze. So it all evens out.

Even if there is no boob grabbing.

That also means this post will not be as entertaining.

And since the first anniversary is the paper anniversary, I’m going to drink lots of beers in honor of Kristabella. Because the labels on Miller Lite are made of paper.

So Kaleigh tagged me the other day. Another one of those memes where I go to the recesses of my brain to pull out the craziest, weirdest shit that I can think of. To see if you’ll still keep coming back.

I did just do one. Of 8 things. But because she took time to tag me, and sometimes linking and all that blogging, techy shit sucks, I will do her meme. (Even though she did give me a get out of jail pass.) And you will find out seven more crazy things about me. Let’s see if I can top the one about drool.

Anyway, the rules are:

1. Link to your tagger and post rules.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself, some random and some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of post and list their names.
4. Let them know they were tagged by a comment on their blog.

So here we go. There are a few themes.

1. I only worked with Jerry Rice for two seasons. But since he left the Niners for the Raiders, he was still in the Bay Area. And since my friend Sasha was always working with him, I feel like he was around more often. Yet, I have really only one really good Jerry Rice story. That you’ve all probably heard. But you try coming up with seven more batshit crazy things about yourself.

So one morning I walked into the kitchen at the 49ers facility to grab a banana for breakfast. (Yeah, we used to get fresh fruit every day, bagels, doughnuts, English muffins and oatmeal. All free. I miss free breakfast.) Anywhootie, Jerry was in the kitchen, toasting up something, and was talking to one of the guys in the scouting department. So I just walked in, grabbed my banana and walked out. I didn’t want to interrupt.

So as I’m walking down the hall I hear Jerry yell “Kristi!” And I think to myself “well, he’s talking to a dude, it’s a one-way hallway and I didn’t see anyone come in after me, and really? Kristi is pretty close. It’s only missing one letter. He must be talking to me.”

After thinking about this for about 10 minutes, I finally turn around and go back in the kitchen. Since I figure he must have something very important to tell Kristi.

So he says “Kristi, did we spend the night together last night?” So here I just stand, mouth open, thinking of what the fuck the right answer is to this question. Because, well, he’s got a bit of an, um, reputation. With the ladies. That aren’t his wife.

I say “no.” Thinking this has to be the safest and correct answer to this question. And then he just gets that big sexy grin on his face and says “well, good morning then.”

And then I giggled like a school girl and melted into a damn puddle right there in the kitchen.

He’s still the only person I let get away with calling me Kristi.

2. My brother and sister-in-law?got married in 1998. (It will be 9 years this coming Wednesday. Happy early anniversary.) Since the first anniversary is traditionally the paper anniversary, I decided to give them a sheet of looseleaf paper. Wide-ruled. No, I diin’t.

Actually, part of my job when I first started at the Niners was to send out the form letters to people who wrote in for birthdays, Eagle scout celebrations, graduations, etc. So we had a form letter (on PAPER) for anniversaries. So I printed it out and got Garrison Hearst to sign it. I’m pretty sure that still to this day I think it is way cooler and more clever than they ever did.

2a. Garrison was my all-time favorite. When he was let go, I actually cried. That was the only time that happened in six years. And a LOT of players and coaches left the team in that time.

3. At my brother’s wedding in 1998, I was a bridesmaid. And was enjoying being of legal drinking age for about a month and a half on their wedding day. So if you think I’m bad now with falling and free booze and black tongues, you should have seen me then.

They had a big gap between the ceremony and the reception. And they rented a party bus. And brought coolers. Filled with?beer and champagne. And there was no food to be found. Unless we decided to take advantage of hunting season and kill something. (It was in the UP of Michigan.)

Needless to say, I consumed my fair share. And was fucking plastered a good majority of the day. While we were standing on the beach, champagne bottles in hand, waiting to take a lovely drunken photo with the sober couple, I was standing with my groomsman. Who was one of my brother’s friends that I knew well. He was standing behind me. And had the glass champagne bottle up to his mouth. Instantly, I?had a brilliant thought that I needed to share RIGHT THEN, so I turned around to tell him. Except when I turned around, I led with my elbow. Which had some sort of magnetic attraction to the champagne bottle. That was in his mouth. That was glass and heavy. Right near his teeth. Do you see where this is going?

I chipped his damn front tooth. And we still had photos to take! It’s a good thing he is an easy going guy. And probably, being a few years removed from college, had plenty of experience with drunken co-eds.

4. I have only recently become a wino in the last 5 or so years. My first ever exposure was in Santa Barbara when we went wine tasting before a friend’s wedding. We went to Sanford Winery, which was one of the ones from the movie Sideways. It’s the one where he drinks the spit bucket. But once I tasted the grape fermented goodness, there was no turning back. I now know my future is full of shit-stained tongues and homeless people teeth.

5. Steve Mariucci used to call me Toe Ring. Or Sun Devil. I was never really convinced he knew my real name. The fact that I wore a toe ring intrigued the hell out of him. But provided quite a diversion when he wanted to avoid answering tough questions from the media. So for Christmas one year, I bought him a neon pink toe ring. And he loved it and kept it on his desk. And I feel like I’ve told this before.

6. In keeping with Steve Mariucci. The summer before his last season, he threw a big staff party at his house. He did one every year, usually only for the coaching staff and a few others. That year I was one of the few others. And then some squeaky wheel got wind of it and bitched about it and he had to invite every one in the entire organization. Because that’s how awesome he is. But I do remember that I got one of the fancy personalized invitations. And that was all I needed. Just knowing I would have been going regardless.

Anyway (jeebus woman, long-winded much?) this was before I liked wine. Steve Mariucci likes?wine. He’s Italian for Christ’s sake. He had a phat wine cellar in the basement of his house. So after the lame people left the party, he invited the rest of us down to the wine cellar. (And if you haven’t figured it out yet, if free booze is involved, I’m always going to wear out my welcome.) But because I didn’t like wine, I decided to drink Bud Light. In his wine cellar. He took a photo. And I am pretty sure that’s the only time Bud Light was in that cellar. And I kick myself because you know they were drinking some good shit.

7. One of my early years with the Niners, we signed Rick Mirer as a back-up quarterback. In my youth, I was like the BIGGEST Rick Mirer fan. Still am. I loved him at Notre Dame and I always wanted him to do well. When I met him, it was like a bigger deal than meeting Jerry Rice for me. Because I’m that big of a dork. And because, well,?I hated Jerry Rice growing up. He didn’t play for the Bears. And seriously, he fucking caught everything. He could catch a falling star and put it in his pocket.

So Rick Mirer is from Goshen, Indiana. Very close to Notre Dame. So when I first met Rick, I figured I’d tell him the only joke I had every heard about Goshen, Indiana. Figuring he had heard it 100 times before, but NOT CARING. My dad used to always say “there are three oceans. The Atlantic Ocean, the Pacific Ocean and the Indiana Goshen.” (Kinda works better if you say it out loud.)

So I regaled Rick with my witty joke. He had actually never heard it before. And he laughed and said he’d have to tell some fellow Goshentonians. And then I giggled like a school girl and crawled under my desk.

And since you probably don’t believe me about how big of an ass I am when I meet celebrities, I give you exhibit A.

Somebody help! Cheryl Burke is being attacked by a crazy, cackling idiot with 17 chins with the biggest damn shit-eating grin ever seen on a human being. And are her teeth purple? Swarm, swarm! Save Cheryl. Stat!

I’m not tagging anyone. But if you are so inclined, please do it! And link it in the comments. So we can all read.?And I’d like a meme-free few months. Because seriously, I’m all out of stories. And I have to save something for next month. When I have to blog EVERY DAY.

Happy blogiversary to me!

(Photo credit: Elizabeth Fraiberg Photography)

In all honesty, I knew it was coming (duh, it’s 3 days before my birthday) but it doesn’t occur to me until I look at my watch or see a calendar or see an email that says it was delivered on September 11.

I really can’t honestly believe that it was six years ago. Sometimes it feels like just yesterday. To think that my niece and nephew weren’t even born. That their life has always been one where we are worried about terrorist attacks. They’ve only ever known a country that is at war with Iraq. That is a crazy thought to me.

Thankfully, I did not lose anyone close to me on that fateful day. But I do know it was touch and go for a lot of people that day. Like Teri, who is a flight attendant and was actually on the East Coast, scheduled to be flying back to California that day. Or a guy in the PR department, whose Dad worked steps from the World Trade Center. That was enough for me to handle. I have no idea what it was like to be there. To know people who lost their lives. And I hope it is nothing I ever have to experience. And something we never experience again as a country.

The weirdest thing for me was that I worked for the National Football League. Tuesdays are the players’ day off. But it is a busy time for the coaches. That’s when they do all their planning. And it’s also when the advance person sometimes heads out to the opponent’s city to get to work on the hotel, bus, airport stuff.

That day in 2001, my boss was expected to fly to New Orleans. We were playing the Saints on Sunday. And the team was traveling there on Friday afternoon. And the sad thing? As those towers were falling, the show was still going on. Kirk was frantically trying to figure out how to get to Louisiana. We worked a full day. Yes, a lot of it was sitting and watching TV and just sitting there with our mouths open in complete and utter shock. (What’s FONY?) But those coaches were in their office, with their TVs on, doing what they do every other Tuesday – preparing the game plan and playbook for the Saints game.

The NFL didn’t cancel the games until Thursday afternoon. One day before the team was scheduled to fly to New Orleans. We still practiced and had a normal (well as normal as possible) schedule on Wednesday. It was business as usual.

When the word came down that the games were indeed cancelled, only the second time ever in the history of the NFL, Steve Mariucci, the head coach at the time and one of my all-time favorite people, organized a blood drive. For every single person. Players, coaches and staff. Every single person.

And they all did. I will never forget Julian Peterson freaking out. Big, Pro Bowl linebacker Julian Peterson. He does NOT like needles. Or giving blood. And he didn’t want to do it. But he’s from the Washington, D.C. area. And one of his parents worked at The Pentagon. They were okay, but he knew that there were others that weren’t.

I know its probably pretty cliche to write a “Where Were You?” September 11 post. Me and all other 3 million people with blogs. But as I was sitting here typing a post about my dislike of the national anthem, set to post on September 11, it made me realize that I tend to only be aware of this day on the day.

And while we shouldn’t live in fear and let the asshats win, we also can never forget.

/end soapbox

Plus it didn’t feel right to have a post about booze or Britney the Train Wreck on 9/11. I have a little class.

Surprisingly, the 49ers have been to Chicago like at least once in the last five years, I think. At least four. Mainly, they’ve been here in each of the years I’ve lived back in Chicago. Which is great because friends come to town and they don’t have to pay for anything. And really, what is better than a free trip to see yours truly? (The answer is nothing.)

The team got in late Friday night, around 10. Which was all kinds of perfect because this girl right here was in desperate need of a nap after the week I had. Especially since I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be sober once they arrived. (Hell, I’m not sure I was sober when they arrived. One good thing about drinking mass quantities of alcohol in consecutive days? One sip of wine and you’re buzzed.)

So I met them at the hotel. Which thankfully this year was in the damn city. And not in the ghetto. And it’s a hotel I’m all familiar with, seeing as the Seahawks stayed there twice last year and I drank plenty of booze in that hotel bar. (Sadly, that can be said for me in quite a few hotel bars across the country.)

Anyway, it was really great to see everyone. It gets easier and easier for me to see them year after year. Now, I’m only talking about certain people. There are people I am still friends with and have been since that fateful day on January 31, 2005. But there are some people that I hated with the heat of a thousand suns that I never thought I could like again. Or even want to be in the same room with. Like the security guy who followed me step for step after I got the boot. Like I was going to fucking steal something or go postal. With what? Were you afraid I’d jam you with a letter opener? Throw the Pittsburgh Steelers helmet at your head? What?

For the first year or two after, I had a hard time seeing everyone. And just being back in that environment. As much as I was happy where I was, I felt I was always going to be bitter about how I got fired. I didn’t want to see anyone that I remotely didn’t like. Or people who shouldn’t be there. Or new people. I just hated them all. (Except some of you. You know who you are.)

But now? I could fucking care less. I don’t care what I say to the new Vice President of Marketing. (I told him he should know who I am. I was a legend there. Open a media guide chief.) Or if I see people I once hated. It’s a little sad (or not), but I’m done with that part of my life (finally three years later) and I’m exactly where I want to be. I’m in a good place. I loved my time there, had great experiences and met some great people. But I couldn’t be happier to be out of there.

The people I hung out with and saw on Friday night are awesome and mean a lot to me and are my friends. (Even though most of them never comment. Lurkers.) And they all nailed it when they said that I looked happy. I am happy. I miss all of you, but I know that everything that happened, happened for a reason. And I’m pretty sure that if I had stayed there much longer, none of these people would still be talking to me. Because I probably would have thrown the St. Louis Rams helmet at them. After taking their knee out with the Super Bowl XXIII trophy. And the NFC Championship trophies look really heavy.

Well, maybe I’m not a complete grow-up. For one, after getting some free tickets and some free pregame passes for the 49ers sideline, I showed up decked out in Bears gear. And I also pissed off Dr. York’s twin daughters. Which might actually be the highlight of my life. Because really, your dad is still a jackass. Because as they were cluelessly calling Terry Donahue a genius, I told them that Terry Donahue is a jackass and I will never forgive him for what he did to Kirk Reynolds.

And after that? They turned around and left the bar. As did I. And proceeded to go home to bed and sleep happy.

I’m quite sad about it. I had heard through some of the San Francisco writers that he was going downhill quickly, so it was a matter of time. But it’s always sad when someone dies. It’s even sadder when it’s someone so legendary. And also someone you were lucky enough to know in your lifetime.

I joined the 49ers in 1999, not too soon after The Genius came back to the 49ers to be General Manager. He was a good man. I didn’t interact with him too much, but he was always the consummate professional. He could have spit on me and I would have been OK with that. He was Bill Freaking Walsh, for Christ’s sake.

I wish I had some really great Bill Walsh stories to tell. But I don’t. I didn’t interact with him much as a GM. I think the one I remember the most was when I was brand spanking new. It was probably one of my first days. I was sitting at my desk, which was an island right in the middle of the room, and I had my head down. I looked up and there was Bill Walsh. In the flesh. And I was speechless (shocking, I know!) And he stuck his hand out and said “Hello, I’m Bill.” And all I thought was “DUH” but thankfully didn’t say it.

I was a big fan of Walsh’s because he knew what it took to run a team and he knew how to win. His eye for talent matched no other. He got it. Much unlike the current owners and management in San Francisco. And I heard all the stories about how he was so ruthless and could just be the biggest bastard. But you know what? He pushed his team to a level most football franchises will never reach. He was only the head coach for three of the 49ers five Super Bowl championships, but those were his players and his coaches that won the other two.

The man could turn one draft pick into four. And not just get more picks, but get quality picks and sleepers with those picks. And he invented the West Coast Offense. And that is why they call him The Genius.

It’s a sad day, but after battling such a sucky disease, I’m sure he is in a better place. Think of all the tail he’s going to get in the afterlife!

To honor El Genio, I decided to crack open a bottle of wine he gave us from his vineyard in Woodside.

Rest in peace, Coach. You will be missed.