If you missed previous segments of the CMEslinger saga, you can read them here:

• Part 1
• Part 2
• Part 3

And now, our latest segment:

Part 4 (Derek)

The CMEslinger grabbed his leather duster and stroked the shearling collar for a moment before shrugging it on. The coat had been a 50^th birthday present from his daughter, Sierra, a few years back and was one of his few treasured possessions. The CMEslinger is not a man who surprises easily, but the quality of his daughter’s gift, not to mention the cost, had caught him off guard at the time. It shouldn’t have.

Sierra had been a precocious child, talking at 10 months, reading at 4 years old, reciting Gertrude Stein by memory at the third grade talent show (“Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose”). She tested out of fifth grade entirely and graduated from high school the same year she turned sweet sixteen. Scholarship offers came in from Harvard, Yale, and Stanford, but Sierra shocked everyone by staying local and attending Cuthbert University—a fine school, but one lovingly known as “Safety U” because no one ever listed it as their first choice. But Sierra had plans of her own, and an Ivy League education was not part of them.

There is a common saying in CME circles that “no one gets into CME on purpose.” Phinneas, of course, had his own version of that, snorting “No one gets into CME; CME gets into you!” at the CMEslinger and the man in black more times than they cared to remember. Sierra would prove the exception to that rule with a singular focus on a career in CME that could only come from an offspring of the CMEslinger. As a toddler, she would tag along with him to the TAXIE office, and even when he moved on to form his own company, Sierra remained a TAXIE loyalist and became a key member of Marge’s program management team by her senior year in high school. It didn’t hurt that Marge was also her godmother, but no one ever questioned Sierra’s capabilities. She would have skipped college entirely and gone full-time at TAXIE, except the CMEslinger put his ostrich skin booted foot down and insisted she get her degree (though it was actually the heartfelt talk between Marge and a tearstained Sierra that convinced her to accept a spot at Cuthbert and delay her burgeoning CME career by a few more years.)

At her graduation ceremony at Cuthbert, Sierra walked across the stage, grabbed her diploma, and hurried directly over to her new office at TAXIE, something given only to those with a promotion to Senior Program Manager. Over a period of 5 years, she rose to Program Director and then Vice President of Educational Strategy, the youngest employee to which TAXIE had ever bestowed a VP title. Her father’s advice helped, but it was Marge and her tough love approach that Sierra credited most for guiding her in her career. She was 25 years old, a VP at one of the largest medical education companies in the world, and the apple of the CMEslinger’s eye.

And then she went over to the dark side.

It is an inside joke to those who exist in the CME provider world, referring to the industry section of CME as “the dark side.” Still, it came as quite a shock to everyone, Marge included, when Sierra announced she was leaving TAXIE for a Grant Director position at Tower Pharmaceuticals. And yes, the CMEslinger had to admit, it stung him more than a satchel full of hornets that his little girl was leaving the provider side for a job on the dark side. He never did get a full explanation from her about why she was leaving. “I’m sorry, Dad. It’s just something I need to do,” was the most he ever got out of her.

She never offered an explanation to Marge, either, and Marge never asked for one. On Sierra’s last day in the TAXIE office, as she was making her final walk down the hallway towards the elevator, Marge called her into her office, where she sat speedily clacking away at her computer keyboard. Tilting her head down slightly and looking at Sierra over the top of her halfmoon readers, Marge imparted a final bit of advice.

“You call me when you run into trouble.”

“’When”? Not ‘if’?”

“Yes, ‘when’.”

“OK, Marge. I will. Thanks.”

Marge nodded and went back to typing. She never looked back as Sierra walked away.

All this the CMEslinger relayed to the man in black as they Ubered over to Tower Pharmaceuticals HQ.

“Yes, I know all this already, you chucklehead,” the man in black growled. “You forced me to listen to all your stories when Marge locked us in that hotel room in Vegas.”

“Ah, right, right,” the CMEslinger intoned absently.

The Uber glided up to the massive black edifice of Tower world headquarters, and the two unlikely partners jumped out and hurried into the front lobby. Neither man had been in the building previously, and it took them a moment to spot the intercom system for contacting occupants. Quickly scanning the directory, the CMEslinger punched in the numbers for Sierra’s office. She picked up on the first ring.

“Yes?”

“Sierra? It’s Dad. I’m downstairs.”

“Oh.”

An awkward silence of several seconds followed, interrupted only by the low frequency hum of the intercom.

“Sierra? You still there?” the CMEslinger asked hesitantly

“I’ll be right down,” his daughter said sharply and disconnected the line.

For the majority of the year, I love living in the northeast section of the country. But there are times–such as this past weekend when I ended up shoveling snow four separate times, despite my weather app insisting “no, don’t worry, you’re just getting a few flurries”–when I really hate it here. Hate is a strong word, I suppose, but the snow combined with the knowledge that Scott is spending the week sunning himself in an undisclosed Caribbean paradise has me perhaps more agitated about the weather than usual. Oh, by the way, the low on Saturday in Philly is going to be 4 degrees F and it’s going to snow. Again.

As a distraction from the foul weather, I pulled together a list of CMEpalooza related reminders to share with all of you. It’s not much of a distraction, really, but it did give me something better to do than grumble about my neighbors on the corner of my block who still have not shoveled their sidewalk (I know they’re home! I saw their light on last night!).

Reminder #1: Submit a Presentation Abstract for CMEpalooza Spring. CMEpalooza Spring is coming up on April 29, and the due date for abstract submissions is on February 23 (click here for more details.) Scott and I will be wandering around the Alliance Conference next month, so feel free to check in with us if you have an idea for a presentation. If you’re talking with Scott, make sure you give him a long, inclusive description, going over each and every point in as much excruciating detail as possible. He loves that. If you’re talking with me, keep it brief and to the point, thanks.

Reminder #2: Sponsorships for CMEpalooza Spring and Fall Are Still Available
I mean, yes, they’re always available, but we still have some of the higher-level silver and gold sponsorships available, which isn’t always the case. Anyway, you can click here for more information about sponsorship opportunities.

Reminder #3: Come to My Session at the Alliance Conference
Wait, you may be asking yourself, what does this have to do with CMEpalooza? Well friend, I’ll tell you: nothing. But Scott is busy laying under a palm tree sipping his third banana daiquiri of the day (note from Scott: It’s delicious) and can’t stop me from promoting the Alliance session I am moderating, A Method to Our Madness: The Strategy Behind Grant Review, on Feb. 18 at 9:15 am in Regency 6. Mark it in your calendar now. Don’t come because I am moderating, but come because of the stellar panel who will be sharing their insights. Many are saying it will be the best session of the conference (no one is saying that, but you should still come.)

Reminder #4: Submit Your Questions for the February Edition of Ask Us Anything
You got questions? We got answers. Sometimes. Sometimes we don’t got answers so we ask our friends who do got answers or got answers better than our answers. But most of the time we got answers. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you can read the January edition of Ask Us Anything here. If you do know what I’m talking about, then you can submit your Ask Us Anything questions here.

Reminder #5: The Next Installment of The Return of the CMEslinger Comes Out Friday
As reliable as your daily newspaper arriving at your doorstep in the morning (for the three of you out there who still receive a physical daily newspaper), part 3 of The Return of the CMEslinger serial will be out first thing Friday morning. It’s Scott’s turn to write, so I haven’t seen it, yet, but if it involves the CMEslinger shoveling snow, I am going to be really annoyed (note from Scott: Get me rewrite! Now!).

If you missed Part 1 of the Return of the CMEslinger saga, you can click here to read it.

Part 2 (Derek)

The CMEslinger picked up his phone. And heard that unmistakably raspy voice on the other end.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“No, we don’t,” mumbled the CMEslinger and hung up the phone, burying his head under a mound of pillows. Unfortunately, like his sins, the ring of his phone will always find him out, no matter how many feather down pillows he tried to hide under. Not bothering to escape his entombment, he blindly sought out the ceaselessly ringing phone with his right hand until he finally located where he had tossed it on his nightstand, atop his dogeared copy of McGowan’s #SocialQI.

“Leave me alone,” the CMEslinger groaned into the phone.

“Boo hoo,” smirked the man in black. “What is going on there? Are you in a cave or something? I can barely hear you.”

The CMEslinger freed his head from its pillowed sarcophagus and rolled over onto his back.

“What?” he croaked out groggily. “What do you want? What time is it? Why are you calling me? I haven’t heard from you since I beat your as-, er, butt in Vegas.”

“Whoa,” the man in black exclaimed. “Now that I can hear you, you sound even worse. Don’t tell me you’re back on the pickletinis, again? I told you years ago that that pickle juice will give you an ungodly hangover. You never did listen to me.”

The CMEslinger let out a long sigh and struggled up into a sitting position.

“Can we not call them that—pickletinis? I like dirty martinis with a little dill brine, that’s all. Anyway, why am I talking about this…what do you want? I don’t hear or see hide or hair from you for a year and suddenly you’re calling me at some unholy time in the morning. I’ve got a splitting headache, my mouth feels like I ate a wool cardigan, and I need coffee so bad I’d even drink one from a Keurig. You have 3 seconds to start talking or I’m hanging up again. One…two…thr-“

“TAXIE is going to lose their accreditation!” the man in black blurted into the phone.

The CMEslinger’s jaw dropped open as he stared at his phone for several moments.

“Hold on, that’s not possible. Say that again.”

The man in black growled, “TAXIE, The Academy for eXcellence In Education, the company that gave two losers like you and me a career, the company where we learned at the feet of Phinneas, is in danger of losing their accreditation. If they do, that’s it. They are finished. Kaput. Finito.”

The CMEslinger was now fully awake, sitting at the end of the bed, feet flat on the plush bedroom carpet.

“OK, fine, but that still doesn’t make any sense. I know Phinneas is gone, but Marge is there. Marge, the Queen of Reaccreditation. Marge, who could do a reaccreditation blindfolded and with her hands tied behind her back and still get commendation. Marge, who the ACCME has on speed dial because they call her so often for consultations. How could TAXIE possibly be in danger of losing their accreditation?”

“Because, my pickletini swilling friend, Marge is missing. And the reaccreditation files are due Friday.”

The CMEslinger shot to his feet.

“Marge is missing?! You should have said that from the beginning, you monochrome baboon! We’ve got a problem!”

For the sake of Phinneas and Marge, the man in black bit his tongue and counted slowly to five in his head.

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Now pull yourself together, put on some decent clothes, and get over here so we can figure out what to do. I’m across the street at Café Gilead. I’ll buy you a decent cup of coffee if you hurry.”

“I’ll be there in five,” snapped the CMEslinger and reached for the faded Wranglers hanging on the bedpost.