Time for a new skirt

When you see a skirt that you own on a mannequin in the window of the gift shop of the Walt Disney World Hilton, it's time to rethink your wardrobe. And by you I mean me.

Just sayin'.

News Flash: I am not on fire

Once I moved out of California, I thought I'd never get the disaster-check call again (or its cousin, the disaster-check email). If you live anyplace where the ground shakes, burns, slides or suddenly becomes a lake, you KNOW what I mean. It's bad enough living in San Francisco and worrying about an earthquake--it's inevitable that someone, somewhere who is related to you will call if the seismograph quivers within 1000 MILES of the Bay Area and asking, "Are you okay?" or, "Did you feel that?". I mean, I appreciate the concern, but a 3.5 quake north of Eureka is not going to register really on a bedrock hill in Cole Valley.

We haven't had to deal with that as much in Boulder. Sure, there are little brushfires here and there, but it's not like someone is going to call and say, "Hey, we saw on the news that there were some clouds spotted over Aurora. Did you experience shade?"

But a few days ago, we had a big fire in the Boulder hills. Not a SoCal inferno, but enough of a blaze to cover a swath of the hillside above Olde Stage Road. Friends were evacuated. Critters got rescued. Houses burned. I came over the crest of Highway 36 on my way home from work and suddenly I was on a Costco run in 1991, rounding a corner on I-80 to see ALL OF THE OAKLAND HILLS turned into the center of hell.

When I started getting calls and emails inquiring about our safety, it dawned on me that unlike the Bay Area or the state of California, Boulder is actually kind of compact. It's entirely possible that if there's a fire in the hills we could be in it. I actually felt kind of bad that I didn't call the folks and let them know that we were safe and sound. So for those of you who haven't already called, I'm not on fire. I'm not even smoldering. We are here in the middle of town respectively playing Wii Fit, sacked out on the couch, reading Fudge-o-Mania with no pants on, and pretending to work. I'll leave it to you to guess who's doing what. But we're just fine. Thanks for asking.

This too shall pass

There's nothing like being on page 1 of a 1,079 page book. I've decided to read Infinite Jest. I need a distraction, and I always liked ol' Dave. No one has ever captured the horrors of being on a cruise vacation better. And we sort of lived parallel lives, growing up in university towns in the middle of hick states. Except that he went on to be a brilliant writer and then killed himself, and I became, uh, me.

I remember when this book came out, back in the day. I was a young thing who thought, "Who the hell has time to sit and read that?" Not knowing, of course, that that precise moment was the most time I would ever, ever have in my adult life. Hindsight rocks.

I decided to reconsider the Infinite Book on the advice of my friend Hollie. First of all, I try to do everything Hollie says. And second of all, she said it took her three months to finish it.

Three months. That's a nice amount of time. Perfect for a fugue state.

See, I'm hoping to get so involved in this book that I sink into a literary fugue state that Sibyl would be proud of. A fugue state like the ones I often experience at Target, when I walk in to get a tube of toothpaste and walk out three hours later with three new outfits, a battery charger, a few throw pillows and a lawn game set.

And when I come out this time, I'll once again have the gift of hindsight.

There are certain points in time--like, say, 9/11--when you're in the middle of the shit and you think, I wish I could just fast forward 6 months. To a point when this tragedy is more of a memory. When life has indeed gone on. Frankly, I could use a good fast-forward button about now.

I'd like to close the binding on this book in April and realize that this too has passed. Knees are healed. Messes cleaned up. Avocations found. People who are extremely pissed at me, well.....less so. Hell, maybe I'll have forgiven myself.

I'll think, I've made it through the book and so much more. Then I'll pick up the next book, hopefully something really trashy (preferably bad science fiction) and keep moving forward. It's not that I want to escape. I just want it to be later. And I am happy to have this monstrous, wordy, gargantuan wank of a book to keep me company while later happens.

So if you'll excuse me, I have 1,078 pages to finish. Should be interesting. I'll let you know how it ends.

Election Day: play-by-play

You may have heard that it's Election Day. I figure you don't need me to tell you to vote. (By the way: VOTE). Or to remind you that this is a historic day that will bring a historic end to a historic two-year run for office. I mean, duh.

What you do need me to do is chronicle the day from MY perspective. I'm taking the day off because a. I'm a total freakshow today and no good to anyone at work and b. what's happening today is more important than collaboration software or global business services. Sorry. It just is.

So I hereby devote this blog post to letting you know EXACTLY how I'm spending this momentous day. Because you care.

7:56 am: Pacing like a cat. And typing! I multitask.

8:45 am: Dropped Tea off at school. She voted. All I can say is, if the amendment to provide two tape stories before naptime doesn't pass, we're gonna break shit up.

Yeah, she voted. And she goes to the ACORN school. What about it?

10:30 am: Ninety minutes until volunteer time. What to do? Go to Starbucks and get my free cup of coffee (aka the LAST thing I need)? Or stand 101 feet outside the Whittier polling place and heckle? Decisions, decisions.

11:35 am: Off to 16th and Pearl to get out that vote! Contemplated taking Vito with me (Vote Obama or the dog gets it!) but he would rather stay here and snooze. Wondering what I'll do if they have me knocking on doors. Sample conversation:

"Did you vote?"

"Yes"

"Okay then!"

We'll see. Back soon with a full report.

I voted early. Piss off.

12: 15 pm: At the Obama staging area on Pearl, trying to figure out what the hell to do. There are a lot of people talking on cell phones. And there are a LOT of volunteers. Enough to canvass my neighborhood about 10 times over. This is good! Except, we're all in Boulder, which is a sure thing. This is bad!

I go up to Organizing Dude and say, is there anywhere we can go where they actually NEED us? Next thing I know, I'm driving me and a really nice lady named Amina to Arvada. Be careful what you wish for.

1-4 pm: Knocking on doors in the burbs, la la la. Once again I'm struck by how much canvassing reminds me of trick-or-treating. Except the payoff comes later, and it's uncertain. Whee. I get a lot of not-home voters (working class people who are....working! Surprise.)

And people who are home? See sample conversation above. I talk to one woman who is just getting in her car to go vote (we do the Obama club fist-bump) and a 12-year-old latchkey girl who says her mom is not home, but "She's voting for Obama today, so no worries."

Word at Obama headquarters is, there are more than a million people volunteering today to get out the vote. Awesome.

5:37 pm: Hey look! The Medill alumni magazine is here! This should be a fascinating diversion to keep my mind off the election! zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

6:38 pm:

Will it be a champagne night, or a Boone's Farm night?

9:55 pm: Four years ago, I was sitting at my friend Kevin Cobb's house at the Worst. Party Ever. Apologies to poor Kevin, it was like a fucking morgue. I was almost 3 months pregnant with Tea. In the haze, I just remember sitting there thinking: I'm depressed. I'm pregnant. And I'm SOBER. It was a horrible way to spend a Tuesday night.

I just left a party with a dozen people cheering, a whole lot of them crying. Waking up their friends and relatives to share the celebration. I'm still stunned. Tomorrow, I'll wake up and I'll go back to my impossible deadlines and the demands of parenting and, well, a lot of shit. But tonight? I'm floating. As I wait for Obama to take the stage with my sleeping kid beside me, I can finally, totally, absolutely let myself have Hope.

Thank you, America. Onward.

That's it. Right there.

Low standards: friend or foe?

This fixes EVERYTHING.

Things have been pretty bleak around the office. Oh, we're doing fine. But we've lost a few really cool and talented people, and there's a whole lotta uncertainty about whether our fine clients will continue to spend money given the economic climate. Morale is down.

Last week, my co-worker Cat and I decided that we couldn't take it any more. We needed to inject a little good cheer into the mix. We brought in Peet's coffee and a box of 3 dozen donuts. We put them on the little kitchen cart and wheeled them around the office, serving donuts to our peers. Why? Just because. Everyone needs donuts.

We didn't realize how MUCH everyone needs donuts. Oh my god. As we rolled our cart from department to department, it was like we were the liberators marching into Paris during WWII. People were over the moon. Like, WAY over. It was like we were handing out $50 bills instead of donuts. They were grabbing two, three at a time.

Over and over they asked: "What's the occasion?" "It's Wednesday." And then their heads would explode.

It was a box of fuckin' donuts. Granted, LaMar's makes a tasty donut, but wow. I knew morale was bad, but I had no idea how starved people were for some kind of happy surprise, anything, to remind them that they rock.

People: You deserve donuts. And so much more. We ALL do.

The next day I watched the vice-presidential debate. Sarah Palin ignored the questions. She stuck to lame talking points. She WINKED. She basically sucked, BUT. She didn't say that she could see Russia from Alaska, and she stayed away from the Bush Doctrine, and she didn't suffer any sort of wardrobe malfunction.

So the media and the conservatives declared the debate: A TIE!

Now I know that Sarah Palin probably looks a whole lot like a box of donuts after 8 years of Bush/Cheney (who, to me, are the equivalent of a box of shit sandwiches.) But do you really declare satisfaction, even triumph, because the potential second-in-command didn't do something outright retarded? Is that really what we think we're worthy of?

I love low standards as much as the next person. They've allowed me to enjoy several really stupid movies, and they've gotten me through countless family gatherings. But they can't be the ONLY standards. Just because Tommy Boy totally cracked my shit up, should that be the gold standard for all movies? No no NO!!! (Okay, yes. But NO!) We should continue to demand the best. We want Lawrence of Arabia, dammit.

I'm sure that in the coming year, with this sucktastic economy, low standards will come in handy. They will get us through. But Cat and I upped the ante to waffles for everyone this week. Maybe next week we'll pass out the good beer. It's okay to accept the little triumphs, but we still need to always, always remember. We. Deserve. Better.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go pop some champagne because my daughter pooped in the potty. Low standards, indeed.

Too scary, even for Halloween

Now that it's officially October, I need to address a very important issue.

Last week, I made a comment about going as Sarah Palin for Halloween, and about dressing up my 3-year-old daughter as an impregnated Bristol Palin.

I'm not here to apologize for that statement. Because I still think it would be freakin' hilarious. I want to talk about something that's bigger than one tasteless Halloween costume. I'm talking about the fact that every single woman in the United States is planning to dress up as Sarah Palin for Halloween. (And in the case of the Castro, every single man AND woman.)

Ladies. I can understand the impulse. It's timely. It's cheap. It involves virtually no work at all except putting on glasses and looking disturbingly vacant. It's a great idea. I'm glad you thought of it, and I know that you thought of it first. You're really funny.

No.

But think of the implications. Halloween is about diversity (okay, it's about candy but let's pretend it's about diversity). You can't have every party, every street overflowing with Sarah Palins. The sameness would be heartbreaking. It would be like a cross between the Republican National Convention and Where's Waldo.

Oh HELL no. But you get the idea.

Dare to be different. Go as a ghost. The slutty cat costume is always a good standby. Or how about that costume where you dress up as a salt shaker, and your husband goes as pepper? That one's really cute.

If you must be Sarah, I guess the only acceptable solution is for all of us to coordinate, band together, and go out for an old-fashioned night of ultra-violence. So if you want to throw on that padded blazer and join the crowd to burn up cars Detroit-style, call me! I have glasses!

At least something's going up!

The good news is, something reached an all-time high today.

The bad news is, it was the water level in our basement.

Today, before the looooong client meetings, before the Dow took a giant crap all over the retirement plans of America, our sump pump decided to kick off the day in style...and kick the bucket. Rick came downstairs to find that our lower level was very slowly being reclaimed by the creek that runs under our house. Not good. Not good at all.

THIS is PRECISELY why we decided that a stained concrete floor would be Just Fine down there. Although being right is no consolation when water is slowly seeping through the cracks of said concrete on the floor of your kid's room.

Fortunately, we caught it early, so Rick was able to call many plumbers, get a new pump, evaluate why the old pump went bust, and discuss long-term solutions with our new plumbing friends. He worked hard, which is why I found him basically curled up in a ball in the corner of the basement when I got home, obsessively timing the intervals between sump pump activity while it pumped the excess water away (27 seconds, for those of you playing at home.)

Now I'm sitting here listening to the sump working. It is a little unnerving. I don't like it. I don't like that I can look down the hole in our basement and say hi to the water, taunting me, about a foot away from flooding our basement floor. I don't like that we have to keep the cover off the sump pump hole until the plumbers come back tomorrow, which means that Gianni's room is temporarily the Radon Suite at the Hotel Polito.

All I can say is, it's a good thing we decided not to stuff all our money in Gianni's mattress. There's a bright side to everything.

Quien es mas macho?

A huge chunk of my conversation at a party tonight centered around one crucial question:

Who would win in a fight, Rock'em Sock'em Robots, or Hungry Hungry Hippos?

That is a tough one. I mean, if it were regular hippos, there would be no contest. Hippos are bad motherfuckers. They would take the robots down. But those are the big gray hippos that weigh a ton and wait quietly in the river for an opportunity to ambush. But the little pink and yellow hippos that swallow white balls? Let's analyze.

Hungry hungry hippos: small, plastic, smiling. But still hippos. They have impressive reach and quick reflexes. And did I mention: HUNGRY?

Rock'em sock'ems: Taller, pretty tough in their own right. But their range of motion is for shit. And they waste half of their punches swinging at air.

I give it to the hippos, in 12 rounds, decision.



No, we weren't stoned, why do you ask?

The dog ate my talking points

John McCain! Did you seriously say that you want to cancel the presidential debate because we need to focus on the economy? Did you really say that you plan to take a break from campaigning for the next few days, one of those days being the day of the first debate? And was it really suggested that we reschedule your debate for October 2, the date of the vice presidential debate, in turn postponing that one?

Because even I didn't think you were that big of a pussy. But way to prove me wrong!

Guess what I'm doing on Friday, John? I'm going to Omaha. For one day. I don't want to go to Omaha, even for one day. (No offense, Omaha.) I want to stay here. I want to do Other Stuff. I want to help my husband prepare for our son's birthday party instead of leaving him holding the bag. (A metaphor for our current economic situation? Perhaps.) But you know what? I'm going to Omaha. Why? Because IT'S MY JOB. I'm going to be interviewing a bank executive. That's right, a bank executive. He's not taking the day off to mourn the financial crisis, and he WORKS IN A BANK.

Some may argue that your job is being a senator, and as such you should be in Washington helping to give Henry Paulsen absolute power over everything in the known universe. I say: bullshit. Your job right now is to run for president. Your job is to prove that you can multitask like a motherfucker. There are lots of very smart people working very hard on getting the economy under control right now. And you know, I think they can manage without you. In fact, I really think you've done enough, my friend.

The place you need to be right now is onstage, with a microphone, telling me exactly why I should let you anywhere near a major financial crisis. I think it's going to take a lot of convincing, so I'm going to stop ranting so you have enough time to study up and find a pair of balls before the big debate. Good luck with that. See you Friday!

Palin in comparison

It's been a rough week. The economy--blecch. And I turned 39, which is apparently the year that my warranty expires. I'm not kidding. One night, I was out to dinner and drinking a nice bottle of wine, and then next morning my wheels fell off. I managed to hobble over to the doctor, who diagnosed me with the winning combination of strep throat and pinkeye. I felt like the carpet at Tea's preschool. On Friday, I was supposed to spend with Gianni doing Something Fun. Instead I spent the day lying in quarantine on my couch, catching up on "Mad Men."

And now I have to wear my glasses. Because of the pinkeye, my doctor nixed contacts for at least a week. I actually just bought new glasses. They were cool when I bought them. But when I put them on last week, I saw only one thing.

Sarah. Fucking. Palin.

That's right. I'm the spitting image. At least, it makes me want to spit. I can't believe it. One day you think you're upgrading your look with some fashionable frames. The next day, John McCain chooses a running mate.

It's not fair. God damn it, glasses are supposed to make you look SMARTER.

At least now I have half of my Halloween costume. I just need to get that prosthetic bump for Tea.

What do the mayor of Gotham and Adam Ant have in common?

Vote for me. I'm desperate, but not serious.

I saw The Dark Knight yesterday.

Whoa. Wow. Damn. Yikes. etcetera. As you've probably read and heard from everyone else by now, it's fantastic. Amazing effects. Heath Ledger giving the performance of his (sadly finished) life. Christian Bale, still hot. A riveting story that asks a lot of questions about good, evil and humanity.

But there was one question that went unanswered for me. One that dogs me still.

Why was the mayor of Gotham wearing eyeliner?

I mean, we all know why The Joker was wearing makeup. He's off his fucking nut. But why did the mayor look like he should be fronting Spandau Ballet? Gavin Newsom has the hair gel, but this is ridiculous. It bugged me enough that every time the mayor was onscreen, it's all I thought about. And considering how hard Gary Oldman worked, that's not really fair, is it?

Was he experimenting with gender bending, like the cute little Asian barista who gets me my latte at Starbucks? Was he secretly in cahoots with The Joker, wearing kohl in solidarity? (c'mon, The Joker didn't try THAT HARD to kill him.) Maybe it's a Gotham public sector thing, and Commissioner Gordon has a garter belt on under his suit. This really needs to be explained in the next film.

And if you ask me, the mayor concentrates too much liner on his lower lid. He needs to draw more emphasis to the outer corners of his deep-set eyes. I mean, if you're going to do it, go big or go home.

Steal this trash

So.

I came out to my car this morning and all four windows were open. So was the sunroof. Now, I've been a little crazed this week, but I don't recall leaving the car wide open at any point yesterday.
That leaves two possibilities:

1. While unloading the car yesterday, Rick somehow accidentally triggered the windows and sunroof to open (My car is full of these little surprises)
2. Someone, somehow, got the windows down despite the definite locked-ness of my car. To do...something.

God I hope it's not number 2. Because that would blow. There has been a rash of burglaries in Boulder this summer. We've had our Burley trailer and a scooter stolen already. Losing an entire frickin' car would put me over the edge. I've seen that movie before and I hated the ending.

There's also the possibility that they didn't want the car, but rather the stuff piled in it. Of which there is much. If that's the case, the joke is on them. Because my car is basically a big rolling garbage bin. It's not surprising that they didn't want to steal any of my 27 empty water bottles. Or my three-week-old Boulder Weekly. Or that cornucopia of crumbs and dried fruit remnants that my kids are collecting in the back. I would estimate the total value of my car's contents to be about 3 cents and an empty GoGurt tube. (All of which, coincidentally, is probably IN my car right now!)

That's too bad. Because they didn't take any of that trash, and now I have to clean out my own damn car. Bummer. If they were going to break in, at least they could be useful.

Oh well. More incentive to actually be able to park my car in my garage. The contents of which are worth 4 cents. And Bret Michaels.

The shittiest president ever

Pardon me, can you please direct me to the GEORGE W. BUSH SEWAGE PLANT?

Oh, how I wish I were still a San Francisco voter.

This November, there will be an initiative on the San Francisco ballot to rename the Oceanside Water Pollution Control Plant the George W. Bush Sewage Plant. Swear to god. Some guy thought of the idea after several beers with friends. Then he put on an Uncle Sam suit, gathered 12,000 signatures and made it happen. Democracy kicks ass.

I'm considering moving back immediately so I can re-register and vote for it. Not that they will even need my help. There is just no way this thing is not gonna pass. And no matter how fancy and schmancy W's presidential library is, no matter how many speaking engagements he gives, even if he lays in state in the Capitol rotunda after a long life, there will be a shit treatment plant with his name on it.

It's a common and correct assumption that a sewage plant is pretty gross. People, you have no idea. My grandmother worked for many years for the City of Indianapolis. Her last job before she retired was in the office of the Indianapolis sewage treatment facility. One time I was visiting Grandma for the weekend, so my mom dropped me off with her on Friday afternoon at work. I cannot even desribe the stench. To this day I have never been anywhere that smelled so foul. Imagine 750,000 people dropping a dook in the same spot at the same time. Yup. I remember thinking, "Wow, Grandma must've really screwed the pooch to end up in this job." I was only there for a half hour and I'm still traumatized by it.

And now, people will smell that vile odor and think of our president. Not that they don't already. But it'll be official.

Only in Boulder

Overheard at the Farmer's Market last night:

"Dude, you are an embarrassment to Ultimate Frisbee."

Casper the emotional dagger

Friendly Ghosts and pregnancy hormones do not mix

Casper the movie was on TV tonight. You already know this because you all TiVoed it, don't lie. We watched it with Gianni because it is a fairly non-sucky kid movie, as these things go. I know this because I've already seen it. Oh, yes I have. About 3.7 years ago, Casper the Friendly Ghost nearly did me in.

At the time, I was pregnant with Tea and desperate to veg out with some premium channels. Casper was the best thing on (sad, isn't it? Somehow I just wasn't up for the HBO world premiere of Catwoman.)

So I watched our favorite friendly ghost in his first feature film, got into the plot (believe me, they packed a lot of nuance into those other three mean ghosts). Ninety minutes later, Rick came in to find me on the couch, sobbing my eyes out at the heart-tugging ending. Goes without saying that I will never, ever live that down. I hadn't cried so hard since I watched Babe 2: Pig in the City when I was pregnant with Gianni. Or as my friend Marjorie refers to it, "The Shoah of talking pig movies."

A week later, my friend Miranda, who was also pregnant, told me that she had a hard time sitting through Hotel Rwanda. I told her, "I lost it at the end of Casper the Friendly Ghost. I don't think Hotel Rwanda is on my dance card."

Anyway--we watched it tonight and I sat through the ending and realized, oh my god, I was a hormonal idiot. I mean, not even the slightest bit heart-tugging. I think Gianni and Tea actually stopped watching to do their taxes during that part of the movie. It's amazing what a little pregnancy can do to a body.

Imagine what would have happened if Casper were haunting the Hotel Rwanda. I never would have made it.

I'll try the organic shit-on-a-shingle and a nice pinot noir

We are home and trying to catch up on all of the news we missed on our trip to Greece. (Tim Russert? George Carlin? Who knew. RIP, gentlemen.)

Rick had our tv uncharacteristically blaring MSNBC for most of the evening. While I was wading through my 400 or so work emails in anticipation of my re-entry tomorrow, Rick suddenly said: You have GOT to see this.

It turns out that there is a military-themed burger joint in Beirut called--get this--Buns n' Guns. I shit you not. Go look it up. (I'm jetlagged, URLs are hard today). It has camouflage decor and guys in military garb serving up grilled treats with stupid army names. It's moronic, and, given the location, perhaps a teeny bit offensive. But that's not the reason Rick called me in.

We looked at one another and shouted: "They opened TAKE ORDERS!!"

You might think this was the first military mess-themed restaurant to open in our lifetime. You would be so wrong. In the mid-nineties in San Francisco, someone actually opened a restaurant called Take Orders. It was in the hip and food-chic mission district, right on 16th Street between the cool little tapas place and the renowned Bretagne crepe place. It had an olive-drab facade, camouflage netting above the entrance and bleak metal tables. It served dorky army-themed food. And it was quite possibly the stupidest restaurant we'd ever seen.

Think about it. A restaurant designed after an Army mess hall, a place that God knows is not known for its fine cuisine. In San Francisco, where hipster liberal foodies are not so much about restaurants glorifying military food service. It was SO ridiculous on so many levels I could spend a whole day lost in thought, wondering who the hell figured they would actually make money on this place.

We never ate there, just mocked it, but believe it or not we did have friends who tried it. (You shall remain nameless, although YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE). No surprise, it sucked. It closed after a few months and was replaced by a groovy sushi joint that blasted electronica, a much more fitting establishment.

But Take Orders 2.0 lives on! In Beirut! Somewhere there is some poor schmuck saying, see? It was an idea ahead of its time. Or maybe its the SAME GUY. Maybe this one will fail and they'll just open one up in Baghdad. Third time's a charm!

Greece: It doesn't suck

Greetings from Greece!

I would post using the traditional Greek greeting, but I'm embarrassed to say that I am still not quite sure what it is. I am trying to learn at least a word or two of Greek so not to appear like a complete American ass, but it'll probably take me until the end of the week. So far I've managed to fake "hello" and "thank you." I'm still scared to ask for the check, which sounds something like "I'm having an orgasm." Could be awkward.

We've been here since Friday and I've gotta say this is one of the best vacations I've ever had. Our little boat is, f0r the most part, lovely. We haven't sunk it yet. The islands so far:

Paros: Okay. Kinda boring. But peaceful.
Naxos: Lovely. Great clothes. Nice bars. Excellent liqueur.
Mykonos: Sucked donkey dick. Too many tourists, a shitty port a considerable hike from town, expensive, smelled like poo. Needed to drink all of the liqueur from Naxos in order to cope. Feh. But we did take an excellent jaunt to the sacred island of Delos (ruins o' plenty, by far the highlight of the trip).

And we did have drinks with two very nice 24-year-olds who work for Halliburton (that's right) and make six figs serving cafeteria food to contract workers in Baghdad. Exactly.

Which brings us to Tinos. After the hell that was Mykonos, we just wanted to get the fuck out to somewhere, anywhere. The closest island was Tinos--we knew next to nothing about Tinos--the guidebooks had a few paragraphs about it being a religious pilgrimage site for the Greek Orthodoxy, and that's it. We had not given it much thought, not being into the God stuff, but at this point being Not Mykonos far outweighed any God-hopping that we might encounter.

Turns out--Tinos? Fucking awesome. As opposed to the Mykonos "port" where they didn't even have a power hookup or water, Tinos had a delightful toothless gentleman named Dimitri who met our boat, helped us tie off, offered us myriad services, and did everything but give us a foot massage. We're not sure if he actually works for the port or just has a very excellent scam going (he was scarce when the cops came by), but we gave him 20 euro regardless because he was nice to us. Because we're just that needy. Then we had fucking awesome food and looked at fucking awesome jewelry, and now I'm in this fucking awesome Internet cafe having a cappuccino and killing a little time before a long day of hiking and beaching. It sucks not.

What day is it again?

Technology is evil. Or is it good?

I'm sitting here on the couch in my family room, in front of my nice TV. I'm about to watch a movie....on my computer. You may be thinking to yourself, "Well, that's retarded." And you'd be right. But I'm on a mission and our wacked-out entertainment center configuration will not thwart me.

It's like this: Rick and the kids are back in Indiana with the P's. I'm here, because I just love to work and want to get a few more good days in. Point is, I'm at home. By myself. With a TV. I have about 18 months' worth of films to catch up on. I don't ever, ever watch TV or movies. And it's not because I'm a sanctimonious douche who thinks that television is mind-numbing crap. Hey, my kids watch plenty of TV. They're the only ones. Between work and outdoor activities and kid activities (I guess those aren't mutually exclusive, huh) I barely have time to watch a commercial or a film trailer, let alone a feature-length extravaganza.

So here I am, ready to roll with some popcorn and a copy of Superbad. I turn on all of the apparati and...I have sound! And...that's all I have! No picture. Nuthin. I get cable and a DVD menu soundtrack that promises 90 minutes of unapologetic raunch, but for the life of me, I can't get the DVD picture to come up onscreen. I call Rick. He is marginally helpful but he can't figure it out either.

Okay, I was a bit grumpy on the phone but I'm sorry. Last night I watched There Will Be Blood. Not only did I think that the only impressive thing about it was Daniel Day Lewis' ability to chew scenery like no one else, but god--bummer. I felt like I needed a prozac chaser after that one.

I have had this copy of Superbad since Christmas (thanks Dad!) and I have not been able to carve out two hours to watch it. I've either been surrounded by kids or it's been 3 a.m. So goddammit tonight I'm going to watch something rude and inappropriate or die trying. You can't stop me, demon technology. I'm going to use OTHER technology to make my dream happen. And also to share my experience with people who don't really care about my G-rated hell.

Now where do I put the DVD? And what is this cupholder thing?

Like The Jeffersons, but with more flushing

I just got promoted. I know, yay me.

It's pretty exciting. I've been here less than a year and I'm overjoyed and flattered that the powers that be feel I am ready to go to the next level, or at least I'm ready to fake being ready. That's a huge vote of confidence.

I know I've come a long way in that time. I've gone from a writer of deliverables I'd never created about things I'd never written about to being a subject matter expert in a pretty high-profile area. I've gone from being a lone wolf to being part of a team, and now the boss of really talented and cool people.

But there's another metric I use to gauge that I've really arrived. I think it says it all.

When I started last June, I was assigned to the best cube available. And by that, I mean the best cube available to someone completely lacking in seniority in an office with a fully staffed creative team. I got the toilet cube.

That's right, my cube was right next to the john. Of course, I was not in a position to complain and having worked at home with my children, husband and dog, it's safely established that I can work through anything. (I type this while simultaneously answering a question about the meaning of life for my son and detangling a toy from an embarrassing wealth of twist ties.)

But still. A flush is a flush. And two dozen flushes a day can really rob you of your self esteem and sense of worth in a company. I could hear everything. In consolation, I knew it wasn't as bad as the toilet office on the other side of the building, where it sounded like people were squatting right next to your desk. However, I still had to deal with some less-than-genteel noise, and with people balancing their notebooks and coffee cups and shit on the walls of my cube while they hit the head. I'm a good citizen, though, I figured things would change someday.

A few months after I started, an editor with a bit of seniority left and through a strange twist of good fortune, I became the one with enough longevity points to take over her cube. So I moved a little further from the toilet and closer to the awesome writers with whom I've established a great deal of love over the last 8 months.

The ultimate position of privelege for a non muckety-muck type at my company is a cube by the window. With this exulted spot, you gain a little more natural light and a lovely view of Highway 36 and StorageTek. (The fuckers on the other side get to look at the Flatirons. Not that I'm bitter.)

In the last two weeks, I got promoted and two managerial types with window seats announced that they were respectively leaving and going remote. That meant of course we were losing some amazing talent. But it also meant there were two window spots open. And as a now-manager, I get first crack.

So in less than a year, I've gone from toilet cube to window cube. I don't know if that's a record, but I feel it's significant and I'm pretty proud. Best of all, I get to stay in my row with my peeps, just one seat closer to the window. Win-win.

But I'll never forget where I came from. Every time I hear a flush, I'll think of my roots. It keeps me humble. Movin' on up, indeed.

You talkin' to me, sonny?

Something happened yesterday that left me walking around thinking I'm All That. I was at the light at Pine and Folsom the other day, driving my family truckster. I saw two mountain bikes pull up directly behind my car and observed that the twentysomething guys riding them seemed to be hopping. And waving. They must see someone they know. Whatevs.

Then the bikes pull up next to me. The guys keep waving in my direction. I seriously do the thing where you look around to see if someone else is there receiving the wave. Then I look around and wonder if I have a flat tire or a "Wave if You Think I'm a Jackass" bumper sticker. Nope.

I am used to doing the big city AVOID AVOID AVOID thing, but I had to see what was happening. I looked over and they were definitely waving to me. Trying to get my attention. Because? Call me crazy but I think they actually thought I was cute. The guy closest to me definitely had that "How YOU doin'" look on his face.

I figured that there must be some mistake. I mean, it's me. Do you not see the dueling car seats? Or the crow's feet? Is this Be Nice to a Tired Working Mom Day? As far as I could tell, there was no ulterior motive. Either my windows have some kind of soft lighting filter, or I was lookin' pretty fine. Nice.

They motioned for me to roll down my window. "Are you going left?" the extra-friendly guy asked.
"Yeah."
"Great! So are we!" Mmmmmkay!

Then the moment went from being a mere ego boost to the most hilarious thing that's happened to me this month (granted, it was June 2, but I'm not sure anyone can top this.) The other guy was hopping around on his bike, doing little tricks, basically showing off and smiling at me. Then....he fell right over. Yep. Right on his ass, next to my car. It was the comic timing of the century.

As someone whose motto is, "It's only funny until someone gets hurt...then it's hilarious," it cracked my ass right up. Especially when the guy jumped up with this happy goofball look on his face, arms raised, as if to say, "Hey! I'm okay! Thanks for watching, and be sure to visit the gift shop on your way out!"

Then sadly the light turned green and the floor show was over. We all turned left, but speed separated us. Still, I could see my admirer waving at me as I drove away. It was a golden moment, where I got to feel all hot and stuff and also got to laugh heartily at someone else's misfortune. What could be more perfect than that? I'm still smiling.

I'm off to walk past some construction workers now. I'm on a roll.