Thursday in Seattle was a hard day. I hadn’t had a blog in 24 hours. I didn’t know just how addicted I was to the Internet – you never do – until I was alone in a foreign land, with no access to blogger. I shouldn’t be surprised, though, because I have a highly addictive personality. It’s not my fault; it’s my mother’s. She gave birth to me in March, which made me a Pisces, which made me devoid of any willpower.
Elizabeth Taylor and I almost share the same birthday, and my life mirrors hers in a way that makes me fear for my future. She fell off a horse as a teen while filming National Velvet, sparking a destructive addiction to painkillers. I fell onto the couch as a teen while watching the film Blue Velvet, sparking a destructive addiction to David Lynch movies.
She has a desperate need for love and acceptance, which she unsuccessfully tries to fulfill by bouncing from one unhealthy marriage to the next. I have a desperate need for love and acceptance, which I unsuccessfully try to fulfill by bouncing from one unhealthy imaginary marriage to the next.
She played Maggie “The Cat” in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I sometimes play with my cats on a hot tin roof. You should see them jump!
She has Michael Jackson, I have Seamus. It’s eerie.
Crippled by my Piscean weakness, I spent much of Thursday with the shakes, nervously drumming my fingers on the dashboard, and scanning the streets for signs of an Internet café. Fortunately in Seattle, local law mandates one Internet café per six Starbucks, so that meant that there was an Internet café on every block.
My co-worker, however, was not in favor of bailing on our client meetings so that I could read the latest hijinks of my favorite bloggers. I tried to explain that it wouldn’t take me long, that I just needed a few hours to make sure I hadn’t missed anything important, but the rental car was in her name, so I had to sit back and take it. She doesn’t get you. She doesn’t get you at all. I hate her.
While we were meeting with the client, I could feel beads of sweat collecting on my upper lip, and started to feel queasy. I excused myself to use the restroom, and immediately splashed some cold water on my face. I looked up from the sink and saw myself in the mirror – the pale and clammy skin, my dry tongue, the dark circles under my eyes – and thought, “My god, what have I become?”
Just then, some women came in to fix their hair. I saw my opportunity and grabbed it. As they walked out of the bathroom, I followed them past the front desk and into the office area. No one gave me a second glance as I snuck in behind them. I knew I probably only had ten minutes at best before my absence would become concerning, so I walked with purpose around the maze of cubes until I found an empty desk. The name plate said: Susan O’Connor.
After checking to make sure no one saw me, I sat down and started to log onto her Internet.
“Well, Susan, whoever you are. I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your pc for a few minutes.”
Come on. Come on. Doesn’t this company have DSL?
Damn! Password protected.
I rifled around Susan’s desk to see if I could figure out her password:
Soccermom04? Denied.
Irisheyes? Denied.
Puglover? Denied.
Please Contact System Administrator To Unlock Password.

Oops.
Just as I got up from Susan’s desk, she arrived with coffee in hand.
“Uhh… can I help you with something?”
I had to think quickly.
“Yeah, hi. I’m looking for accounting, can you tell me if I’m on the right floor?”
“This is accounting. Who are you looking for?”
Crap. What are the odds?
“Uhh, actually it’s finance that I’m looking for. I need to talk to Dave in finance, but I’m running late for a meeting, so you know what? I’ll just leave him a quick voice mail instead. Thanks!”
I quickly made my exit and slipped back into the client meeting. My co-worker shot me a dirty look, but I don’t think the client paid much attention. Thanks to a series of deep breathing exercises and the remainder of my venti skim latté, I miraculously made it through the meeting. When I got back to the hotel, I realized that I really should have paid better attention to the inordinately chipper woman at the front desk when I first checked in, because I looked at the information sheet she handed me with my key on Wednesday, and saw the sweetest four words I had ever read: Free High Speed Internet.

So why? Why hadn’t I read this earlier? I think that maybe the gods were trying to teach me something. It’s really true – you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. I think that perhaps 2005 will be focused on appreciating what I have, so I’ll start here and now: I love you, Internet. And I’ll never take you for granted again.

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Looks like Seamus is at it again. If he’s not getting Natasha and me arrested at 2:00am, or trashing a Starbucks, he’s fueling the East Coast/West Coast blogger rivalry. I learned through the grapevine that Seamus has been trying to instigate some war between my old friend, TuBlog Shakur, and me.
This all goes back to my youth – when I was a young gangblogger, I was known on the streets as the Notorious B.L.O.G., or Bloggy Smalls to my crew. TuBlog Shakur and I met when he was just coming onto the blog scene. I showed him the ropes – I linked to him, he linked back. We’d leave funny comments on each other’s blogs. It was cool.
But then TuBlog moved to a western suburb of Chicago, and things started to change. There’s just a different attitude toward blogging on the West side. It’s a more in-your-face, hard-edged style that I’m just not down with.
TuBlog and I would run into each other at a few of the big blogging galas, where he’d roll up in his tricked out Ford Windstar with some young hoochie on his arm – I think her name was J-Chlo. He got sucked into the glitz and the glamour of the business, and lost touch with what blogging is really about.
So last week, I caught wind of an email Seamus sent to TuBlog:
“Bloggy Smalls does a much better job updating her blog than you do. She has new stuff several times a week. Sometimes you go for weeks without posting a new entry. I may stop reading your blog altogether and just stick with her. Plus, I heard she called you a punk.
If you want to keep any sort of blog cred at all, you’d better do something about Bloggy. Unless you really are as much of a punk as she said you were…”

Personally, I’ve never bought into this whole East Coast/West Coast blogger crap. Maybe when I was younger I did, but now that I’m older, life is just too precious to waste on pointless rivalries. This fighting has got to stop, so I’m here today to offer an olive branch to my friend and fellow blogger.
TuBlog, if you’re reading this, what do you say we put aside our petty differences once and for all? Does it really matter who blogs more, or who knows how to post photos on his blog, or who has a Sean John designer case for his iPod? We’re all working toward the same goal, so I say we throw down our mouses, toss aside this silly East Coast/West Coast thing, and just blog like we’ve never blogged before.
Blog on blog violence stops right here, right now.
Peace.

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Hey mom, it’s me. So – have you recuperated from the Christmas madness yet? God, I can’t believe how fast the holidays flew by! The lasagna was great the next day, by the way.
Yeah, you and me both! At least five pounds. Hey – do you have a minute? I kind of need to talk.
No, no. Nothing bad. Well, I don’t know – it’s not good, I guess. Mom… Orangehat and I… we’re going through a trial separation.
No! We’re not getting divorced. It’s a separation – that’s all. We’ll still see each other, but we’re going to be taking different trains for a while, just until we can figure some things out.
Mom – he’s not cheating on me. It’s not that sim-
Yeah, they were going great, but things change. People change. I really did a lot of soul searching during my week with Seattle. Maybe it sounds cliché, but I felt more alive in those few days than I have in years. I’m just not sure that Orangehat and I are meant to be together. I just… did you always know dad was the one for you?
I mean, I thought I felt that way about him, but then when I met Seattle, one thing led to anoth-

I wasn’t going to. Mom – I’m just trying to explain what’s going on. I wasn’t going to give you the intimate details – geez!
You’ve never even been to Seattle. How can you say it’s a mistake?!
You’re not going to tell her anything, that’s what! Why would you tell Grandma? Mom – I said it’s just a trial separation. What’s the point of getting the whole family riled up when we’re trying to work things out?!
I don’t know why you’re getting so upset – it’s not like you ever made any effort to get to know Orangehat. You always treated him like a total stranger anyway.
Name one time!
Whatever.
We haven’t. I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know if Orangehat would go. He’s not really into all that touchy feely share your emotions in front of a stranger kind of thing. It’s not exactly my idea of fun either, but I’m willing to try.
Believe me, you don’t need to remind me. Don’t you think I had dreams of a house full of little Orangecaps running around, too? But that’s not going to save our marriage. We have to figure out whether or not our relationship can last before we can even consider bringing a child into the mix.
Well, things are different than when you and dad were young-
Yes, I do take marriage seriously, but I’m not going to stay in a relationship that makes me unhappy, when there might be someone else out there who’s perfect for me.
Mom, I can’t do this right now. I gotta go. Just tell dad, will you?
Okay, yeah.
I will.
Love you, too.
Bye.

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…particularly after drinking cheap Greek wine, which shall, from this day forward, be known as headache wine:

Jenny’s New Year’s Resolutions
1. Drink Thai bubble tea and like it
2. No more fires
3. Make Natasha happy
4. More bowling
5. Get tattoo (possibly henna)
6. Less human interaction
7. More technology
8. Less eyeballin’
9. Break up with Dr. Greene (again)

Happy New Year everyone!

Friends don’t let friends drive. Ever.

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Dear Esteemed Male Co-Worker:

During my short tenure here at Valhalla Inc., I have developed a great deal of respect and admiration for you as a colleague. You possess a wealth of knowledge about the company, you are always willing to lend a helpful hand, and your chipper attitude makes it a joy to come to work each morning.

Because I hold you in such high regard, I know that you will understand that this letter, while incredibly difficult for me to write, is essential to the continuation of our successful working relationship. I am certain that you are not aware of this, but over the course of the past few months, I have noticed that you have a habit of adjusting yourself when you are talking to me. I think you know what I mean, so I would prefer not to have to spell it out any further than that.

I’m sure that this is an unconscious habit, developed over years of working almost exclusively with men, so my hope is that by calling attention to it in this letter, you will be able to break the habit. Quickly.

I could probably overlook an occasional shift here and there, particularly if you attempted to do it discreetly. But are you aware that on December 13, during a fifteen minute conversation at my desk, you adjusted your anatomy four distinct times? When I first noticed this habit, I thought that maybe you had a rash, but since this has continued for the past three months, I can only assume that you either have a raging STD that will most likely cause dementia, or you are just a chronic self-adjuster.

I don’t want you to feel that I’m attacking you here – I’ll readily admit that I’m part of the problem. I have a heightened sensitivity to people calling attention to their private parts in a work setting. I prefer to imagine that my co-workers – just like my relatives – all have bodies that resemble Ken and Barbie dolls, i.e. sexless and smooth, without appendages or orifices of any sort.

So you see, when you continually draw attention to the fact that you possess something that needs adjusting, it upsets the balance in my mind, and distracts me from being the best worker I can be.

What I am proposing is a phase-out plan – similar to the Nicorette Three Step program – so that you can shed this habit once and for all. For the first week, you are allowed three adjusts per day, provided that they are not directly in my line of vision. During week two, we’ll drop down to two daily adjusts. Continue this plan through week three as well. In week four, limit yourself to just one shift per day, which I would recommend scheduling during your train ride in. Then, by week five, you will be free of any urges to touch your pelvic area during the workday.

I understand that breaking any long-time habit involves a few setbacks here and there, so I don’t want you to be too hard on yourself. Just make sure that you continue with the program, and set some goals for yourself that are Specific, Measurable, Agreed-Upon, Realistic, and Time-Bound. That’s the S.M.A.R.T. way to break any habit!

I look forward to a long and successful working relationship with you here at Valhalla Inc., and am confident that you have the willpower and commitment to accomplish this goal.

Best regards,

Jenny

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I now have another item to add to my ever-growing list of: “Reasons I may need to someday saw off my own arm.”
I checked in to the hotel in downtown Seattle late Wednesday night because our plane was delayed, the car rental company couldn’t find my Hummer, the hotel had me sharing a room with my co-worker, and so on.
So after a very long journey, I finally got into my room, hung up my clothes, changed into pajamas, went to the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and heard… nothing. You know, the usual routine.
With the sense of dread and frustration that always accompanies a malfunctioning toilet, I quickly tried to assess the situation. When I pushed the handle down, it just kind of loosely jiggled back and forth, clearly serving as nothing more than a decoration. I could see that this trip was starting out really well.
Fortunately, I’ve seen a few episodes of Extreme Home Makeover, so I took the toilet tank cover off and noticed that the little chain that is supposed to be attached to the handle was curled up nicely at the bottom of the tank. Beautiful.
It was late, I was tired, I had to flush, so I did it. I pushed up my sleeve and dunked my arm – up to the elbow – into the toilet tank water.
Hotel. Toilet. Tank. Water.
With the speed of a ninja, I grabbed the chain and looped it back onto the handle, so the toilet once again functioned as god had intended it to.
This bears repeating: my arm was submerged up to the elbow in hotel toilet water. Oh sure, I tried to convince myself that the water in the tank was actually clean. It was the only thing I could do in order to build up the courage to dunk my arm in there in the first place. I knew it was a lie then, and I know it’s a lie now. Exactly how much antibacterial soap do you think it takes to kill the germs of 100,000 previous guests?
And now that I look more closely, I may not even have to saw it off, because it seems to be dissolving into a smooth little stump pretty well on its own. Guess I’d better start learning how to type with one hand. Dammit! Why didn’t I think to dunk my left arm in the water?

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What time is it? = When can we open the wine?
When is company coming over? = When is the absolute last minute before I have to change out of these pajamas?
What a unique gift, Jenny! Where did you get it? = I wonder if they accept returns without receipts?
So boys, was Santa good to you this year? = Please give me affirmation that I’m a good aunt and that your affection can be bought.
I can taste the cod, but is there also a little cinnamon in this? = I must determine this unholy combination of flavors so that it never crosses my tongue again.
Well, I’m wiped out. I’m going to bed. = I’m going to flip through 160 channels of digital cable for the next three hours or until my eyes bleed, whichever comes first.

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Happily, the flight to Seattle was only about two-thirds full, so I was able to sit in a row with an empty seat between my neighbor and me. Not that he wasn’t nice – he seemed perfectly lovely – but I gots to have my elbow room.
About 45 minutes into the flight, I noticed a very unfamiliar smell. This caused me great concern – I’d prefer to not smell anything at all when I’m locked and loaded inside a 737, but an unfamiliar smell is even more disturbing. Luckily, having previously worked in the travel industry, I knew exactly how to handle the situation: I discreetly tugged at the flight attendant’s skirt as she walked by and said, “I don’t want to alarm you or any of the other passengers, but I detect a very strange odor coming from the back of the cabin. Having previously worked in the travel industry, I feel certain it smells like bioterrorism. Are you familiar with the scent of anthrax?”
“Smell? Oh, you mean the food? We’re just about to serve dinner.”
Food? With smell? On a plane? Last I checked, pretzels and windmill cookies were pretty much odorless, so what the heck could be wafting from the back cabin? As it turned out, we got a meal on this flight. A hot meal. I truly cannot recall the last time I was on a flight that served a hot meal, but maybe that’s because I truly cannot recall the last time I was on a flight that took this farging long. Over four hours in the air? Are you kidding me? Isn’t there some jet stream we can hop onto to save us half an hour or so? Don’t we have turbo on this hunk of junk? Press that red button. Who’s the customer here? I said press it!
But getting back to the food, I got pretty excited at the prospect of a hot meal since I was feeling a little peckish from my long wait in the airport. I was waiting for what seemed like forever to get my meal, so when the flight attendant came to my row and asked if I wanted dinner, I flashed her a big smile and nodded eagerly.
“Would you like beef Stroganoff or chicken with rice?”
Oh god.

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My brother, upon finding me, his wife, and our mother in the kitchen drinking wine at 11:30 this morning:

Brother: “Jeez – what a bunch of lushes. It’s not even noon yet!”

Mom: “Yeah, I guess this doesn’t look good, does it?

Me: “I’m not worried. I know I don’t have a drinking problem because I’m very controlled about it. Aside from the holidays, the only time I drink is when I’m alone or sad.”

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Woman 1: “We took Jessica to see Santa last weekend at the mall – my god what a madhouse!”

Woman 2: “Oh, I can imagine. How old is she now?”

Woman 1: “Six.”

Woman 2: “So what did she ask Santa for?”

Woman 1: “She told him she wanted to be funny.”

I’m not sure why, but this conversation both warmed my heart, and broke it simultaneously. I hope Jessica gets her wish.

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