Flaw-ri-dah or Busty

I never know how many pairs of underwear to pack for trips.

I'm leaving for Florida tomorrow. It's a work thing--a convention of investing celebrities. Jealous? I can tell.

I'll be back on Sunday, which by my calculation means I'll need 37 pairs of underpants. You never know when a hurricane or blizzard is going to strand you, and, really, in the midst of a natural disaster the last thing I want to worry about is having enough skivvies.

Speaking of undergarments, I learned the hard way during my last excursion that it's best to wear something underneath suit coats, cause those TSA bad boys will make you disrobe.

"Jacket off, too, miss," a salty TSA agent sighed, then scowled at me. His name was Robbie and he smelled like Gouda.

"I don't have anything on underneath," I protested.

"Not my problem," he countered.

I got three buttons undone before he realized I wasn't kidding. Just me and my Maidenform,

"Okay, okay, that's enough. Geez," he said, like it was my fault. I mean, they're only boobs, for crying out loud. I understand he probably doesn't see a lot of them outside of Cinemax, what with living in his Mom's basement and making it to the 13 millionth level in War of Warcraft (or WOW to those of you sadly in the know), but he needn't have been scared. My girls have healed people.

As usual, I've gotten off track and deviated to my boobs.

I love trips, and, actually, despite this trade show having the kewl factor of a combo Rennessaince fair and Trekkie convention, my tendency to be easily amused ensures I will dig the room service and 14 hotel pillows ALL FOR ME. Even if it means presentations on hedge funds, incessant questions from blue hairs and constant notes to myself that it is not acceptable to suggest to the company president that we have ourselves a Red Headed Slut before dinner so we can "chill."

I am bummed that I will be about three hours away from the great James Burnett, but we have already slated a MIRL for the sweet, sweet summertime to do our part for geographic connectedness and the bourbon industry. We might even let Matty come.

Let me know if any of you want to show me some Florida love while I'm there. And I do mean show. I hear there's a mouse or something nearby that I should meet, but I've found the happiest place on Earth can easily be a hotel bed with a bellhop named Rico.

I'm just saying.

In the Comments section, tell me what you like best about hotels.