"I'm wearing that shirt you like..."

I just got a second Blackberry and a second line.

Why?

Because back in July I had an experience that convinced me that any adult who would like to be perceived as responsible should carry separate work and personal devices. And, being a procrastinator, I just now got around to it. But the horror of my lesson still lingers.

Here's what happened:

My girlfriend Anne and I had plans to go out for a bite and a drink on a Friday night after work. We planned to meet at my houseand then head downtown.

I was home changing in my room, when she got to my place. She knocked on the door, I was upstairs. I didn't hear her, so she let herself in, having to pee. Not wanting to scare me, she sent me a text message from the bathroom to let me know she was in.

"I'm in your upstairs bathroom, FYI. Don't freak."

I got the message, and, picturing her sitting on the toilet texting me, giggled and
replied, telling her to come into my room when whe was done and mentioning the shirt I'd chosen to wear that night, knowing she'd get a kick out of the choice.

The shirt was a recent favorite addition to my wardrobe: a long, thin, dark blue silk number. It was perfect, except the last time Anne and I had gone out, 3 weeks prior, I had worn it and made an embarassing discovery. We had taken about a million photographs, and the following day when reviewing the pictures, we realized that the flash of the camera combined with the thin fabric of my favorite new top created a perfect storm - the unintentionally sheer-in-photos shirt. You could see my bra and a little cleavage in literally every photo. WHOOPS.


But I loved the shirt, and as I recalled its one downside, I chose a darker-colored bra less likely to make a guest-appearance in photos this time around, and made a mental note to ban flash-photography.

A few moments later Anne burst in, laughing.

"You're wearing the shirt!"

"Yep, couldn't resist," I said, dropping my cell phone into my purse before slinging it over my shoulder and pivoting in the mirror for one last check on our way out of my room. "I knew you'd get a kick out of it. By the way, who text messages on the toilet? Dork."

We headed downstairs, on our way out the door. On our way, I pulled my phone back out of my purse to check the time. But rather than being on the home screen, my phone was on the "sent text messages" screen, where I could see the last 5 or 6 texts I'd sent.

I must not have locked my keypad before dropping it into my bag, I thought, hoping I hadn't pocket-dialed anyone accidentally when my phone was in there squished against all the other hundred things I carried in my purse.

Hopeful, I looked more closely at the screen, at the list of my recently sent text messages. But something wasn't right.

The last two sent messages were not the ones I'd sent to Anne, though I hadn't sent any others after our little exchange when she was in the bathroom. Curiously, the texts I'd sent Anne were two down in the list - the 3rd and 4th most recently sent messages.

Looking closer, it all became clear.

"OOOOooooOOOOOOOH MYYYYY GOOOODDDDDDD," I wailed. April came running.

"What?! What?!"

I showed her my phone.

"Oh. OH! Shit!" she said.

I hadn't pocket-dialed anyone. Nope, it was worse. I had pocket-forwarded the last text message I sent Anne -- you know, the one about my shirt and where I was -- to my boss.

My male, married, BOSS. And worse, I hadn't done it once... I had sent it to him twice.

The messages were exact copies of the ones I'd sent Anne, and they read as follows:

"I'm in my bedroom. Meet me here when you're done. I'm wearing that see-through shirt you like."

Let me repeat that:

RIGHT AFTER WORK, I POCKET-FORWARDED MY BOSS A TEXT THAT SAID, FOR ALL INTENTS AND PURPOSES, "I AM A SCANDALOUS HOOCH. COME TO MY HOUSE AND SEE MY TA-TAS."

"Oh shit," Anne said again, as if that even came close to expressing the horror of the momen.

"Good, thanks. I am dead. I am a dead person," I said, not in the least dramatically. "What do I do? Oh FUCK, WHAT DO I DO???"

We silently stared at each other for a moment, me holding the phone like it was about to self-destruct, she just, well, gaping at me. I think we were waiting for what we thought would surely be the text response from our boss: "You're fired". Or worse: "On my way".

And then Anne, looking at me holding the phone away from my body like a grenade with a "doooo someeethingggg!!" expression, cracked. She burst into hysterical laughter, and I, seeing no other possible option, joined her.

It was the only thing that could be done. I had accidentally forwarded on an unintentionally seductive text message to my boss, with my butt, through my purse. Who in the hell do these things happen to besides me?

An hour or so later, when I hadn't recieved a response, I sent an explanatory email to said boss, explaining what had happened and falling on the sword for not having separate work and personal phones. He responded immediately (clearly he hadn't known what to say, a small relief in the big scheme of things) shrugging it off.

To this day, we haven't spoken about it. But, as I said, I now have separate work and personal devices. And I am locking my keypad for good measure.

Try not to panic, it's only heaven.

Heaven is totally overrated. It seems boring. Clouds, listening to people play the harp. It should be somewhere you can’t wait to go, like a luxury hotel. Maybe blue skies and soft music were enough to keep people in line in the 17th Century, but heave has to step it up a bit. They’re basically getting by because they only have to be better than Hell.

–Joel Stein, Columnist for The Los Angelas TimesRead his whole post here

My personal heaven? Lots of sun. Lots of water. Lawn everywhere -- a little long, but not unkempt. Popsicles. Footballs and frisbees and fishing off docks. And kissing.

And dogs. Many dogs. Maybe a dog to person ratio of, like 1:1. Have you ever noticed that usually dogs are a lot easier to be around than people or, say, cats? And sometimes more interesting.

Speaking of interesting, can somebody please explain to me what a jellyfish actually IS? Do they drift, or swim, or both? Do they hunt, or just run into their food, or both? And where does their food go? I've seen lots of jellyfish, but it appears to me they are all hungry, because I've never seen a jellyfish with a fish in its "stomach". Because I'd know. Because they're clear.

Also, while we're talking food and confusion, what is the nutritional value of a mushroom? As far as I can tell, their closest relative is dirt. Or maybe rocks. Or sponges. In any case, they're delicious.

My friend's aunt drinks non-alcoholic beer. Which is funny, because while I like the taste of beer, I also like the warm fuzzy feeling it gives your brain, right at the outer edges, kind of like when you're just about to fall asleep or orgasm. But my friend's aunt just drinks non-alcoholic beer because it reminds her she used to have orgasms, I think.

Speaking of things that are manufactured to impersonate good things but minus certain unsavory parts, why hasn't anyone come up with a non-tobacco and nicotine cigarette yet? For all the orally-fixated people of the world (me, for instance) that would be a delightful thing -- and unlike non-alcoholic beer, you would be getting the ultimate satisfaction of smoking (hand to mouth to hand to mouth) with none of the gross side-effects, including but not limited to stinkiness, wrinkliness, cancerousness, terrifyingly gutteral chronic cough and poorness due to ridiculously high tobacco taxes. (Not that I suffer from any of those afflictions, as I am not a smoker; I just think it's worth noting.)

Last night I was so anxious about having been on (lovely, relaxing) vacation and away from (interesting, fast-paced, exciting) work that I decided to throw a party, cook for 8 of my closest friends, and drink a bottle of red wine. Which was a good idea, up until the 3 a.m. panic attack, when I woke up and was so stressed out all I could do was reach stiffly for the blackberry next to my bed and breathe too fast (in and out, shiraz-flavored panting) while scrolling through the next four months on my outlook calendar frantically, the whole time convinced that I was going to drop dead of a heart attack at the tender age of twenty-something-too-young-to-die.

Panic attacks are interesting because when they strike they are stealthy, only waking you up from a dead sleep when you are already apparently in the grip of death, grim reaper with his gnarly hand on your heart, which is pounding out of your chest. Your limbs tingle, giant tears hang out in your eyes threatening to roll down each cheek. And my panic attacks, at least, are about nothing specific, but rather everything minute and inconsequential.

For example: My toilet is clogged, not flushing right. No big deal, need to plunge and draino again and that will probably fix it up, right? Right?

But if plunging and draino doesn't do it, what then?

What if I damaged the plumbing in the house and the pipes break and water goes through the second floor ceiling and down into the kitchen and they have to dig giant holes in my room to repair it and I get kicked out and my cat escapes or drowns in the runoff and my friends have nowhere for me to stay and I can't find another place to live and I get fired for missing work because I have to canoe through my house and then sick from the standing water and can't afford the medical bills and then my boyfriend leaves me for someone less quirky and confrontational and significantly less disasterous in every way and I am left with only that hooded sweatshirt I hate because it chokes me and my highschool yearbook and a guitar I still can't play, lying on my friend's parents' couch where I die alone and still unable to play "Blackbird"?

Panic attacks are about, you know, stuff like that.

And all you want is for somebody to tell you you're not going to die and maybe pet your head like when you were five years old and remind you that you're not alone, not at all alone, and not a crazy person, well maybe just a little.

But nobody's there, so instead, you picture the worst case scenario: you, dead.

And then it occurs to you that maybe, just maybe that might not be so bad. And then you have an idea: Distract yourself from your own unnamed panicky dread by picturing heaven. (Aaaah, and here is where this post starts to come together. Do you see it now? The genius? Thank you.)

And then, as fast as they came, the panicking and palpitation and panting are gone and you are waking up extra early later that morning and going to the gym to get the lingering panic out and then you're at work, all early-like, and things have changed since you were gone, but not that much, and people are glad to see you and your things are still in your office. Even the stapler and your plants, Spike and Henry.

And there are flowers on your desk. And a friend mailed you a book while you were gone. Both these things make you smile really big even though nobody is looking.

And someone tells you you're "glowing". Which is funny, because if a panic attack and 4 hours of sleep following a bottle of wine makes you glow, you think, you should be basically beaming most of the time.

...

I'm back, and while perhaps not entirely recovered from my vacation, I'm thankful for it almost without exception -- the only exception being the overflowing "in" box on my desk.

I'll get back atcha when I've had a bit more oxygen and maybe a little something to eat. In the meantime, welcome to a whole new week. Try not to panic.

You know what works for me? Picturing heaven, with the dogs and the lawn and the docks and the sunlight. And the kissing. Especially that. That's better than Hell and panicking, both.

Bare in Vegas

Before I even start this post, let me establish two things:

1) On principle alone, I hate Las Vegas -- the whole God-forsaken sequin-covered dayglow/nightglow, water-sucking, smoky, trashy, silicone-filled city.
2) I enjoyed the shit out of Vegas on my trip

Everything Vegas stands for is pretty much the opposite of me -- well, with the exception of virtually unconsumable volumes of alcohol. I don't own a closet full of "clubbing" clothes (much less a single club-appropriate -- read: nonexistant -- outfit), I don't care about Lindsey Lohan's 21st birthday party. Gold on ceilings just looks gaudy to me, and though I'll occasionally puff on a cigarette at 2 in the morning, I strongly dislike being places where everyone can do just that, indoors, all around you.

Plus, prostitution makes me sad, as do those terrible clear-soled stripper shoes all the women in Vegas (working or not) insist on wearing. What ARE those?

Oh, and it's like the hottest place on earth.

[I was going to say "in the universe", but there's the sun and all those stars, which I'm pretty sure are burning balls of gas, so I figured I had better keep it believable.]

And I'm a Seattleite.

But I prescribe to no motto if not "When in Rome...". And so I did Vegas. With gusto.

I packed my optimism, a few hundred bucks in cash, a pushup bra, 7 (seriously) pairs of heels, 5 (yep) pairs of jeans, and a few dresses. Oh, and my bikini and about forty pairs of earrings.

I stayed at the Mirage, and again in true Vegas style I went to the pool upon completion of my first workday there. It was 112 degrees outside, and pretty much everyone had the same idea as me: get wet, lay around half naked, get buzzed, then go out to eat and on the town. So the easily 1,000 occupancy pool and surrounding areas were packed. For about 5 minutes I considered squeezing in among the masses on some tiny crowded recliner, until I saw a sign. My salvation.

Bare.

Bare, for those of you unfamiliar, is an "adult" pool. I knew this because it said "Bare... adult lounge" on the sign. But, as I'm sure you can imagine, I had no idea what that meant.

All I could think was no kids allowed. No waterwings, maybe no teeny-boppers, even. I pictured a luxurious, quiet pool. Cushy loungers, a professional or maybe even high-roller crowd. I looked around once more at the loungers crowded with lithe 8-year olds, families and fraternity boys -- a shrill-voiced and splashy crowd -- and turned towards this "Bare" place.

I was in.

I took the road less traveled (all signs pointing to Bare lead to mysterious labrynth of paths, all under heavy palm-tree cover) and arrived, finally, at a red-carpeted, velvet-roped, bodyguarded entrance to Bare. It looked like an exclusive nightclub. I looked down at my strapless bikini, gold flipflops and oversized bag.

I felt underdressed. I wished I'd worn earrings.

"So," I said, coolly, keeping my sunglasses on lest the european man barring the door see my hesitancy, "What's this" (here I gestured casually to the general direction of "IN") "...all about?"

"Well," he said conspiratorially leaning in, "it's an adult pool."

Um, duh? I paused, waiting dumbly.

"Like a nightclub in the day," he continued. "European dress code."

"Europe--" I started to ask the world's stupidest question before realizing he meant "clothing optional".

"Aaah," I leaned back, nodding stupidly. I was so far in now that even though this whole "european" thing scared me a little, I couldn't back down.

"Forty bucks for guys, twenty for girls," he said, matter-of-fact. Then he tilted his head at me, sizing me up. "You by yourself?" he asked.

"Um, not really... yeah." I confessed.

"I'll take care of you, then. Go on in, free."

Now I really had to go in. I nodded, steeled myself, and pushed past the rope.

As I sauntered in, sunglasses still on, trying not to look around too much, I felt pretty effing risque. I was in VEGAS. ALONE. At an ADULT POOL. With a EUROPEAN DRESS CODE.

[In my head, all this was in caps, I assure you.]

I found a cushy lounger, leaned back, took out the blackberry and assessed the situation:

Many pools, some hot tubs. Many attractive waiters and waitresses. Many topless women, all with gargantuan breasts, a male companion and clearly tipsy.

The rest of the afternoon I worked on the tipsy part and the enjoying the sun part. I ultimately relaxed enough to remove my thumbs from my blackberry (I spent the first 30 minutes there, at least, texting play-by-plays of my observations from inside Bare to my companion who would be joining me in Vegas later that night, which had the double benefits of easing me into the scene and sexually frustrating him.)

The music pumped, the steam rolled off the hot tubs and settled on the pool, gorgeous staff rolled towels, propped chairs, lit cigarettes and delivered libation. Women grinded up against their men in the shallow pool. Men tried not to fall over while ordering many Budweiser Selects and groping their bouffant-haired, fake-breasted women all at the same time. It was so Vegas. And it was pretty entertaining.

A couple rich older men came by and introduced themselves as, essentially, rich older men, which was totally standard but also pretty entertaining. And I befriended two women to the right of me who left their kids and hubbies home and had come for some girl-time (and how!).

By the time it closed and I returned to my hotel room to shower, eat, see a show and gamble with a lovely tall man who flew in to spend the weekend with me (and says things like "hello, pretty girl" to me, unprovoked), I was a little tan, a little tipsy, and very impressed with my nerve... giddy, even, with the possibilities of Las Vegas.

While I didn't get married, I did gamble, and eat fabulous food, and see Ray Romano in the hotel twice, and drink $15 melon-colored cocktails composed primarily of Grey Goose, and wear ridiculously uncomfortable heels. And I hit on 12, and 13 and sometimes even 14 playing blackjack, even though it's unadvisable.

Because, well, when in Rome...

Two things

1. Last night was a long night. Dinner, wine, walk, skyline-gazing, a fresh rosemary-fight (don't ask), a late-night house intruder... the point is I woke up hung over and exhausted today. And smelling like rosemary. But again, not the point. The point is that I actually cleaned up pretty good, if I do say so myself, and thought I was keeping it together quite well. Until one of the founders of my company walked by and said in the sweetest east Indian accent -- I shit you not: "Are you doing something differently?" while gesturing to my face/head region. When I replied that no, in fact, everything was as it should be and nothing was different, he said "Hmmm. You look like you partied... a lot." Sheesh. Hold no punches, why don't you?

2. I will be in Las Vegas starting tomorrow morning and ending Monday night. There is a 25 percent chance I will get married there, a 50 percent chance I'll get sunburnt, a 75 percent chance I'll experience feelings of guilt after gambling and a 100 percent chance I'll get blitzed. Oh, I'm also working there. So none of the above (except the guilt) will be done on business hours. Which means there's also a 100 percent chance I'll come back and sleep for three days.

As always, I'm certain there will be stories, which of course I will share. Stay tuned, and have a great weekend!

Fiscal responsibility.

Legwarmers got a makeover this weekend. Why? Well, I wanted to go shopping, but am trying a new thing called "fiscal responsibility" so as to not have to live in an apartment with a cat for the rest of my life, so instead of buying completely essential things like clothes, shoes, an animatronic monkey head, a lifetime's supply of Otter Pops and tires for my car (all of which I otherwise likely would have purchased last weekend), I chose to wear my roommate's clothes, drive a car with dangerously bald tires (oh, and STILL no front license plate) and change the outfit of my... blog.

Happy Monday, all!

Down slopes from here

At work yesterday, a colleague who is at least ten years older than me and is originally from an eastern European country (this will become relevant infomration in just a moment. Please hang in there.) bumped into me in the kitchenette conveniently located just across from my office.

We were making tea and chit-chatting when she realized it was my birthday.

(Perhaps the party hat, streamers and plate of cupcakes gave it away. Or the fact that I kept spontaneously yelling “GUESS WHAT? IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” every 7.5 minutes. Or maybe it was the two – TWO – new wrinkles.)

“It eez your birthday?” she said, lighting up like Robin Williams on a bender. No, really, just like that exactly, only harder to understand. “Eenjoy eet!” she continued, “…Because you are steeeel fresh!”

“Fresh?” I was confused. “What am I, a dairy product?”

Clearly, we were having language barrier issues. Or perhaps I was a tad bit defensive about my steadily climbing age. Either way, I wasn’t backing down.

“I didn’t realize there was an expiration date,” I quipped. At which she burst unconsolably into laughter. Ten minutes later, she recovered, and as she left she threw back over her shoulder one final, confused, heavily-accented blow:

“Oh, to be young and beeeeautivul. Eeet eees all down slopes from heeere.”

Say it aint so.

The Bare Ass Booze Pitch Post Plug

Kevin of the "Bad Pitch Blog" (link under "linkage" at right) put up a post today discussing a bad pitch I sent him a few weeks ago.

For you non-PR types out there, a "pitch" is typically an email (sometimes snail-mail or phone call) directed to a journalist (or group of journalists) from a PR person who intends for the journalist to read/hear the pitch (about the PR person's client or product) and then subsequently write about it, put it on TV or otherwise propel it into the world by virtue of the large captive audience they have at their attention.

This particular pitch was sent to me from a journalist friend who recieved it some time ago. He forwarded it to me for a laugh, and in an effort to emphasize why he almost categorically hates PR people.

While I couldn't defend the pitch, I did have a laugh -- and passed it on to Kevin, who publicly, hilariously, and scathingly disembowels ill-advised pitches like these every day.

Thank goodness I didn't touch it here - I couldn't compete with his post. Check it out, and laugh: The Bad Pitch Blog: The Bare Ass Booze Pitch.

Honestly.

Time ran out and down the street. "Come back!" she said.

I usually like to post a little somethin' somethin' early in the week, as I know y'all are particularly bored Monday through Wednesday. But unfortunately I've been having those days where you sit down, start working, look up, and it's 5. It would be awesome if I could do this like it were my job, but unfortunately I have to, like, pay rent and shit. Which means I am work's bitch. Get used to it.

I haven't even been EATING, which is completely unheard of. (And has me fantasizing about chocolate-covered gummy bears, which are the greatest things ever to be covered in chocolate). And while I cross off things at the top of my to-do list, I feel like I have a gag legal pad or something, because somehow the list gets longer by two each time I cross off one item at the top.

In short: I'm burning the candle at both ends, here, people. Hence the neglect yesterday and this very short post. I don't know if I'll get to posting more this week. But I assure you I have many an idea and no shortage of stories, so when I get back to you, it will be awesome.

I've pimped him here before, but I sincerely dig Hugh McLeod's little cartoons. On business, advertising, stupidity, sex, and the blogosphere. Oh, and New York and sometimes London.
As I'm boring you to death today, you should really check him out. He can be found HERE.

Enjoy, and have a good week. And if you happen to live near Seattle and you have any chocolate-covered gummy bears you can spare for a starving, overworked girl, please email me at youwillfindliz at gmail dot com and we'll arrange a dropofff/pickup location.

And possibly sexual favors.

For me, not you, jackass! I'M the one who needs stress relief, remember? Sheesh.

HEATwaaaayve! Naked! Bagels! Laywers!

Over the past week, Seattle has experienced a major heatwave. (No, not like the band, like the weather.) And it almost killed me.

It has been so fucking hot here that at night, even after popping a Xanax AND a Tylenol PM (which I'm sure will probably kill me if the heat doesn't), I STILL can't sleep. Instead, I lie there on top of my bed very close to naked, "glistening", as each one of my limbs goes entirely numb (because of the drugs), and fantasize about either dying of heatstroke or driving to my air conditioned office in my underwear, breaking in, and sleeping under my desk until morning, where I'm awoken by our small and very shy hispanic office cleaning man, who is hitting me with his vaccum cleaner, trying not to look at the strange half-clad white girl under her desk.

Meanwhile, what I should really be concerned about is the fact that I'm so heavily medicated that I couldn't get out of bed to save myself if there were a fire or defend myself if there were a prowler (and even if I did, I'd be in my underwear, and with all the drugs there's no way I could get further dressed, so that would be pretty embarrassing, too).

(And other totally logical and likely examples of dangerous things like that.)

By the time I got to sleep last night, it was 4:15 a.m., and I was sprawled out in the middle of my livingroom floor in front of the sliding door and open screen door and window, with three fans pointed right at me and set on full-speed, pushing around air so hot it feels like I'm being blowdried all night. Awesome.

When I finally started to wake up, late, I was groggy and disoriented from the long night, and it was bright as all shit in my apartment. So, I kept my eyes closed to ease into this whole "waking up after 3 hours of tortured sleep" thing. The noise was incredible. It was like I was lying in the middle of a helicopter pad. And then I realized, as I really began to wake up, that it was super bright in the place because all the windows were open. All the windows were open. OPEN. And I was LYING, BARELY CLOTHED, ON MY FLOOR with my hair blowing everywhichway, for all the neighbors and commuters on the street directly outside my sliding door, to see.

After the momentary frozen shock of it all (and a few "WhoOOOOoooo!"'s from outside), I rolled over onto my stomach and army-crawled to the hallway, in my undies, where I found refuge in the form of a pillowcase, which I wrapped around me like a too-short towel/too large tube top and dashed into my dark, hot bedroom, where I sat on the floor and half-giggled, half-burned in humiliation until I was approximately 10 minutes late for work, exhausted and still not dressed.

Awesome.


But, on the upside, my office is today full of 1)food 2) coffee and 3)reasonably attractive young lawyers.

Fridays are bagel days at my office. And that makes me VERY happy, as I spend the rest of the week calorically scrimping (no breakfast, Zone Bar for lunch, a couple Americanos, and salad for dinner) so that I can drink whatever I want (alcohol is very high-calorie!) and, most of all, indulge on bagel day.

Today was 1/2 a jalepeno bagel with jalepeno cream cheese and 1/4 a cinnamon twist bagel with strawberry. Delicious and incredibly overindulgent.

To top it all off, we've also got a bunch of lawyers and consultants in our office this week, (apparently we only hire the 25-35 year old, attractive lawyers and consultants - Yay!!!) which means we ALSO had fresh coffee in every office (I guess to impress/motivate them. I dunno). I am on my third cup. Buzzzz.

So not only am I focused (thank you, caffeine) on work, but I've also been incredibly productive otherwise today: I've made eyes at at least three delicious little lawyer-types, who keep walking by my office.

Probably because they think I'm cute. (Which would be a minor miracle, as on three hours of sleep I look like Rob Schneider.) So far, at least one made eyes back. (I think. Or maybe he was checking himSELF out in my window.)

(I've got to stop with these excessive, sarcastic, parentheticals.)

(It's really getting ridiculous.)

________________________________

Have a good weekend, all!

(And if you have a little time to click around, check out Ron Silliman, who is smart and on point with poetics. Because after you leave here, you probably need a little intelligent stimulation. Just looking out for you.)

Martinis in the desert on a school night

I am writing this, a few martinis in, from a hotel room in Phoenix. Like, Arizona. But I guess that is obvious.

I am supposed to, at this minute, be in Seattle. In bed.

(There are cactuses here! Or cacti, rather. The desert is a very scary place. Not to be confused with dessert, which is my favorite.)

Don't know if you saw it in the news, but D.C. basically turned into a giant underwater city this weekend. Which was perfectly timed, as I was there for work. Did you ever see Waterworld? Yeah, me either. But I feel like it must have been like D.C. There was so much rain it actually caused buses to float, cars to die, trains to cancel and planes to be grounded.

Mine was one of these planes.

But I didn't realize it until after schlepping my shit back and forth in the Dulles airport, nearly screaming at a couple America West employees, being frisked in security after standing in a half-mile long line, and then standing in a Subway line, where a woman who spoke no english made sandwiches as slow as humanly possible. And not only did she put each bit of shredded lettuce on the sandwiches one at an excruciating time, the sandwiches ended up all messy and sloppy and falling all over the place. I almost jumped over the counter at her.

Only after all this, (while in 88 degree weather in torrential downpoar and wearing heels, which I'd spent the weekend in, standing on the cement floor of a trade show), did I recieve the details of my delayed flight, which caused me to miss my connection in Phoenix, which caused me to sweat even more in my suit, possibly cripple myself in my heels, stand in yet another line, and then be told I'd be staying over in Phoenix until the next available flight, which is tomorrow.

So now I'm at the Hilton, and I've cancelled tomorrow's meetings, and I've changed out of the goddamn suit, and am now in a jean skirt and a tank top and flip flops like a local. And it's just fine. Fine fine fine. Sheryl Crow fine. Soon to be Jimmy Buffet fine. And then, maybe later, if someone gives me a stick and a smoke, John Daly fine.

Oh yes, I've been to the bar.

And I'm going back.

Cheers!

Goodbye Nessy, hello career

Well, this month I was supposed to be leaving for a 3-week trip to Europe, during which I would be watching World Cup games, drinking unhealthy amounts of German beer, searching for the Loch Ness Monster and generally engaging in ballyhoo across Western Europe.

Was supposed to be. Past tense. Because I'm now not. Because I took a new job, which I love, but which also necessitated the cancellation of said trip.

And now, in an ironic twist of fate, I will still be spending the month on and off planes -- for work. I just returned from business travel which had me in NY until yesterday morning, and am leaving again for NY on Tuesday, returning Thursday, just to leave again on SATURDAY for D.C. returning MONDAY. And so on.

It's been a whirlwind couple weeks, and doesn't look like it will be stopping anytime soon. But such is life. And frankly, though I can't say I don't feel a twinge of remorse every once in a while when I think about the debauchery that would have accompanied the Europe trip, I'm having a helluva time.

And a major perk is traveling first class (they serve breakfast! and alcohol! and endless coffee!) and staying in rad, cushy, couture hotels in major U.S. cities. If not for that, I mightn't be so positive about this development.

More is coming soon, but I must first get out from under the 400 emails I have to read and respond to since my return. Not counting yours, of course. :)

Parking lot puking

Woke up exhausted today. Got an extra coffee in the morning, thinking I'd just slept badly. It wasn't long before I was swept by waves of nausea. I actually got up from my desk a couple times, headed to the ladies room. When I got there, all I wanted to do was puke and get it over with. But then I realized that if I did, there was a good possibility that someone else would come into the bathroom while I was hurling.

And since the only people on my floor are folks that work at my company, they would recognize my feet, and speculate.

Eating disorder?
Hangover?
SARS?

I just couldn't go through with it. So, swallowing hard, I retreated back to my desk, where I considered getting under it and throwing up in my wastepaper basket.

Finally, lunchtime.

I dodged the executives who usually ask me out to lunch and hit the elevator. Down to the lobby, across to the second elevator and down to the parking garage. Finally I arrived at my car door, weak, green, and clammy. I climbed in, reclined the seat, and thought I'd just take a little power nap during my lunch break.

Slept for 30 minutes, then woke up nauseous. And this time, it was for real.

Flug open car door, in a panic. Swallowing frantically, I scoured the garage for an appropriate place to hide and puke. Nothing. Desperate for relief, I finally ran around to front of car, where I hunkered down, squatting (skirt hiked up, mind you -- NOT ladylike) between my bumper and the cement wall of the garage.

And up came the coffee. And water. Relief, at last.

I'm a bad puker. I get all teary and shaky and super self-conscious. I want my mommy.

[Note: I called my mom after this puking episode, and after the obligatory 'ooohhh, sweeetie!!!', she got straight to the point:
Mom: "Oh my God. You're not pregnant, are you? Because that would really..."
Me: "No! God, Mom! That would be entirely impossible. ENTIRELY. Jesus.
Mom: "Well, you can't blame me for asking. But yeah, I guess that would be impossible."
Me: "Wait--what the hell is that supposed to mean? Why would that be impossible? I mean, I'm not a gargoyle, for God sakes!"
Mom, condescendingly: "Oh, no. Of course not, sweetie. You have a winning personality. You just focus on feeling better, now."]

Puking honestly traumatizes me. I fight the whole process. Every heave is painful, and in between them are little hiccups of misery. Like I'm 8 years old.

But afterwards, everything changes. Momentarily, I'm overcome with a rush of euphoria. Afterward, I'm always sure I'm cured of whatever ill got me to the puking part to start with. It's like I'm on a narcotics binge and am manic and superpowerful.

I've been saved! I've once again thwarted death! I'm the queen of the world! I can FLY!

Of course, that's why people do drugs: to escape reality. 35 minutes after the parking lot puke I was back to misery.

And periodic puking.

But I'm the kind of person who never believes other people when they say they're sick and have to leave work. I mean, how many times have you called in sick just to sit in a beer garden all day, or to spend the day on the lake, or to start your weekend early? So because I don't believe anyone when they take sick days, I am held captive at work when I'm actually sick out of some sort of weird reverse psychology guilt complex.

[I should be Catholic, I swear.]

And since I'm leaving on Friday for Philadelphia and will be in NY Sunday and Monday for work, I doubly can't justify taking off early today. So here I sit, queasy, weak, gross, in my skirt and heels (which I thankfully missed in the parking garage squat), waiting for 5:30.

::sob::

[If there is a Mommy in the greater Seattle area who could maybe just stop by my work and give me ginger ale and brush my hair and call me 'sweetie', please comment with your full name, home and cell numbers and location. Or better yet, just come. Here. And make me all better. Please.]

Elevator Adventure

If I were ever to write a coffee table book, I think it would be about things that have happened to me or in front of me in various elevators throughout the course of my life. Some depraved, hilarious, scintillating stuff happens in elevators, you know?

For example:

Today I got on the elevator on the 25th floor of my building. I was going down. On floor 19, the doors opened and a verrry old man got on. He was basically the embodiment of the color gray. Gray hair, gray skin, gray wrinkles, gray eyes, grayish/bluish clothes. Gray walker.

He was not a fast-moving gentlemen, what with the lifting of the walker and the thrusting of it forward and the slow stepping. (Rinse, repeat. Rinse, repeat.) He was slow enough, in fact, that the doors nearly shut on him twice in the amount of time it took him to cross the "threshold". Once he was (finally) in, he stepped to the back of the elevator and leaned against the handrails, exhaling heavily.

I zoned out on the little flat screen that displays today's headlines in the elevator, awaiting our arrival at the lobby. I heard the *ding* signaling our approaching floor, and as the doors opened (I was still reading headlines), I heard a second sound. The old man. Saying the following, with true horror in his raspy old voice:

"OH. MY. GOOOODDD."

As you can imagine, this was a bit unsettling. I looked up, and followed his slack-jawed stare beyond the elevator doors, where our next passenger was waiting. You see, we hadn't arrived to the lobby. We were on the 13th floor. And our newest passenger was a giant.

Well, a giant woman, anyway. She easily tipped the 400 lb mark. In fact, standing outside the elevator, she almost seemed too wide to fit through the double doors.

The old man was near apoplectic about this development. He wheezed, and, still wide-eyed and grimacing in revulsion, took his hand off his walker and clamped a death grip on the handrail inside the elevator. He then spread his legs, as if bracing for the elevator cables to snap under the weight of our new companion, sending the whole box hurtling through space. This man was honest to God afraid the woman was going to break the elevator and kill us all.

As you can imagine, this was both terrible and incredibly funny. So much so that I had to remind myself to shut my own mouth and wipe the look of gleeful horror from my own face.

As the large woman stepped onto the elevator, the old man shrunk back into his corner, still gripping the handrails and "getting low", with his legs spread wide as if he were in a defensive basketball stance.

The large woman then turned around to press the "door close" button, and it just got better. She was one of those HouseSpiders. By which I mean she had the shape of those spiders you find in your house that have huge, disproportionate backs full of tiny baby spiders, which spill out and scatter when you squish the mother. In other words, this woman had a heinie the size of a second normal human being.

She adjusted, backing further into the elevator as the doors shut, and I had to again close my own mouth and stifle a snort as the old man reached out his right hand (the one holding his walker), and gave her rear end a little nudge with his closed fist, just to let her know he was there.

It was priceless. This old man was so frightened that he'd be crushed by this large woman's sizeable behind that he actually gave her a little bump for good measure. I nearly peed.

I swear to God if a book called "The Life of an Elevator" comes out now I'm going to just totally lose it. The only good news if this happens is that no one reads coffee table books, (particularly when comprised of short stories) so it will probably flop, right?

My heritage: Workoholism and Alcoholism (or "Workers, drinkers, robbers and nutjobs" or "Why I am the way I am")

PART 1: My mother

When my mother retired from her career as a buyer and trainer at the headquarters of a very large department store, she did exactly what no one with any sense does: went immediately back to work.

She "retired" almost 15 years ago and is now probably doing more than she was when she was working full time AND raising children AND keeping the house AND taking care of a small farm, etc. In fact, I know she is. She runs half a company, substitutes at a high school, sells high-end golf carts, volunteers for the fire district (or something like that -- I don't know, it's related to firemen. I can't even remember what I do half the time).

She also has a book club and a Bunco group (if you don't know, just think a bunch of women gossiping and escaping their husbands once a month under the guise of winning some cutesy prizes at the end of a 3-hour long dice game). Plus, she hand-makes and sends probably 20 greeting cards a week, writes letters daily, manages the household finances, works out and volunteers for the county's voter registration office. She is just a total busybody. She works hard, and doesn't know how not to.

PART 2: My father

My father, in sharp contrast, retired last year after a very successful career in human resources as "upper management" or "the man" at a major utility company in Seattle. In essence, think "the Bobs" from Office Space. Yep, that's him. An white man in a suit telling people they're not doing their jobs, firing them, and making sure they're more efficient, which everyone obviously hates.

When my dad retired from this job, he did something that baffled my mother and I:

He retired.

Yes, he literally took off his suit and tie for the last time, put on hammer pants and a sweatshirt, made himself a gin and tonic, went straight to his favorite recliner and went directly to sleep (with a newspaper across his lap and a spoon and a jar of peanut butter handy).

His days now involve mostly reading, working out, puttering about, surfing the Internet (purportedly reading the news, and not looking at pornography; I'm just not asking any questions), sometimes fishing, or golfing. But where his DNA and mine are clearly shared becomes apparent the moment you spend a day with him. One of his favorite passtimes is the same as my own: having a good, stiff drink.

On particularly big days (family gatherings, for example) this might begin as early as 3 or 4 pm and last until about dark, when he finally is guaranteed to fall asleep in his recliner. During these days, primary activity is mostly limited to the worn path from said recliner to the liquor cabinet and/or fridge and then back to the recliner.

Now, my father is not an alcoholic. I think he just figures he's retired, and he enjoys a martini now and then, and what the hell. It strikes me as the mentality of a college student, really. The "eh, fuck it, how about a drink" mentality. Which I totally get.

It IS worth mentioning, however, that alcoholism has reared its head elsewhere in my family, the same way being Type A has...

PART 3: The Crazies

I have a great-uncle who we call "Squinty-Eyed Claude". Squinty-Eye is a drinker. One popular Claude story has to do with a family reunion for which he showed up thoroughly sauced and slurring and during which he followed around two little girls who he was trying to befriend but instead repeatedly reduced to tears, and raised their mothers' suspicious eyebrows. Claude has one eye that's always smushed up like he's got something in it, and his cheek sorta squishes up towards his eyebrow, almost making his whole eye dissapear. He looks like he's been around the block because, well, he has been around the block -- with a flask.

Somehow ol' Claude managed to produce a son, "Crazy Lenny", who looks like he's been around the cell block a few times because, well, he has. Crazy Lenny took to drinking like his father (which is to say that he does it like it's his job, only he's never quit it, been late to it, or lost it). Anyway, Crazy Lenny has a problem with judgement. He has a grossly inflated sense of self which more often than not, drunk on both Pabst and some crazy, powerful idea, has inspired him in the past to do completely insane things.

Once, while running from the police after robbing a store, for example, Crazy Lenny ran to the rooftop of a nearby building. This whole "escape to the roof" thing turned out not to be such a good idea, because once the cops followed him up there, of course, he was stuck without an escape route. At this point, most normal people would probably just give up the goat, surrender, and do a little jail time.

Well, Crazy Lenny wasn't too keen on that option. So, sized up the building he was standing on, and, determining that he was both brilliant and related to Spiderman, he decided he'd just jump from the rooftop to that of the building next to it. [Please remember, these are regular mid-sized city buildings, with a good hunk of thin air between each.] So he ran, and jumped.


I like to think that somewhere in the middle of the jump he decided maybe he shouldn't have done that, right before he fell, like Wyle E. Coyote in some Roadrunner cartoon, three stories to the street below.

A few hours later, he was lying in jail with a broken leg and a slightly more reasonable perspective on how to be "on the lam", so to speak. But apparently this didn't do much for his sense of his own physical ability, because a few years later, after getting out of jail, he would attempt to jump into an open boxcar of a train for a ride, only to misjudge the speed and distance of the train, jump too late, and bounce off the boxcar, sliding down to the train tracks. This is not a good place to hang out, which is also something Lenny learned when, split seconds later, it severed his arm, but leave his alcoholism and bad judgment intact.

So I think it's pretty clear that par for the course in my family is to have either Workaholic or Alcoholic tendencies. These two things may or may not also lead to At Least Slightly (or, in the case of Lenny and Squinty, Very Dangerously) Crazy tendencies.

__________________________________

I think we had a breakthrough in "group" today, folks.

Seattle to L.A. to Seattle: First class, ballers and Canadians.

This week I flew to L.A. and back for work. The way there with my client was delightful. First class. An endless supply of tiny little bottles of water. Gorgeous scones and strawberries on real plates. A coat rack. A perky little woman with sticks in her hair and blindingly white teeth who flirted with my client and largely ignored me, but relentlessly refilled our steaming coffee mugs.

The way back, we caught an early flight, as we got our work done early and wanted to dodge the nighttime Grammy traffic that we would likely have been caught up in had we stayed. The catch, though, was that we couldn't ride first class. That's right... we were to join the zoo in coach.

Hey, typically, I AM the zoo! I'm no high-maintenance traveler. But when you've flown first class less than eight hours earlier, there's something about the back of the proverbial bus that seems less than appealing. Perhaps it's that it IS less appealing.

I was seated two rows from the very back of the plane, which is a little scary in and of itself. Then, as the rest of the passengers began to file in and find their seats around me, I realized that I was to be squeezed in between two hurking seven-foot men. Turns out the entire USC basketball team would be flying, with me, back to Seattle. This is where I commenced to panic a bit. What if I had to pee? Would I have to straddle these incredible hulks to get out? What if there was turbulence and I started to spaz out and instinctively reached for a hand to hold? What if they spontaneously chest-bumped mid-flight and crushed me between their gigantic sternums?

Luckily, I somehow rationalized my way through my initial freakout, and began to cope with the fact that I'd clearly have to share my personal space for a few hours and there was nothing I could do about it. After this realization came and went, I relaxed and began to actually enjoy the traveling debacle. The "ballers", as it were, were relatively uninteresting. There was only a little leering, and though they spent a good amount of time yelling back and forth across the many rows between them, there was also only a little lewdness. Then, once we took off, one to my left fired up "The Godfather" on his laptop, and another put in "When Harry Met Sally" (no joke), and I spent the rest of the trip not working, as I'd planned, but alternately reading the lips of two distinctly different sets of fictional characters. A few times I giggled out loud at a Harry Met Sally Scene and had to quickly stifle it to hide the fact that I was watching out of the corner of my eye. It was a little embarrassing when I was found out, and the Harry Met Sally-watcher looked over at me as he angled his laptop a bit more away from me and towards him as if I was some creepy Peeping Tom (or maybe he was just embarrassed about his choice of film).

There were also some shrill Canadians on the plane. They were seated behind me, but I know there were three little girls and at least one adult female, based on their loud, rapid-fire conversation througout the flight, held primarily between two girls, who I am pretty sure were somewhere between 12 and 15 years of age. My favorite exchange between the two went as follows:

Little Canada One, pointing out the plane window to lights below: "Isabella! Is that New York, eh? Ohmigod, I think that's New York!! Isn't it?"
Little Canada Two: "Um, maybe!"
Please remember that we are en route between L.A. and Seattle... direct flight, no stop on the East effing Coast of the country.
LC One: "Isabella!! Would you rather be in America than in school, eh?"
LC Two: "Totally! America is soooo cooooool."

Cheese and sex and GapingVoid cartoons

One of my all-time favorite bloggers is Hugh MacLeod of www.gapingvoid.com -- not just because he is an intelligent former NY-based ad copywriter, or because of the sharp things he has to say about the ad business, the life business, and just business in general, but because of these devilishly witty cartoons drawn on the backs of business cards. These cartoons often, and eerily, parallel my life (and the things I might think to say if my brain were to grow about 300% and I were suddenly able to say something funny in 4 words or less).

This one, for example.

I have left my former job.

Formerly inspiring, formerly stimulating, formerly creative and strategic and MINE, but mostly just former. I left this job due to irreconcilable differences (actually I suspect my new idiot-boss resented the fact that some of his employees -- by which I mean me -- weren't impressed by his obsessive need to validate his masculinity by buying stuff and womanizing, and therefore didn't have any interest in sleeping or hanging out with him. That -- coupled with a few good ideas that challenged said boss' vague, unoriginal brand concept but might have propelled the company into actual success -- was my downfall.)

Do I sound bitter? I know I do. But honestly, it's just really funny now. Why?

Because it turns out that no matter how long you put up with the shit you swear you'll never put up with, you eventually come to your senses one way or another and realize that there's only so long you can hold your tongue and politely nod before you just about poison yourself with your own insincerity. And thank God for that awakening.

Next time, I just hope I spend less time settling and more time looking ahead to the next thing. Ever read that "Who Stole My Cheese?" book? Like that.

Next time, I want to have my eye on the new cheese prize far in advance of sitting around being terrified to go out and find the cheese because my crumbs of moldy, abusive cheese are somehow my safety blanket.

And I'm pretty sure I will. Because it turns out that, like there are many people with whom you can have good sex, there are many companies/products with whom you can have a collaborative and fruitful professional experience -- the cheese. And that is almost as good as sex -- because it happens every day and you simply can't fake it or stroke its ego. And in business, you get paid for your hard work. And when you seek out new cheese/sex/career moves before you actually have to, you can usually find some mouse/person/company willing to give you MORE cheese than the one before.


So now I have a new, better job. Downtown (which is obviously better than the head-in-hole suburbia of former job).

More responsibility, happiness, collaboration, vision, creativity, money. More cheese, more sincerity, more work, better results. Why didn't I think of that?

Instant Messaging: my drug of choice

Before I discovered instant messaging, I was a relatively good employee.

Aw hell, why bother with humility? I was a fantastic employee.

I would show up early, work late, wouldn't take a lunch break. I would actually anticipate problems, projects, and extra work I would eventually be asked to do and have it done in advance. I would do my job, and then clean up the messes of the people around me who couldn't successfully do their own. I was the posterchild of the overworked, underpaid college graduate who is clearly overqualified for their position but is just ignorantly, blissfully happy to have a job anyway. I would cite the downward-spiraling job market (in Seattle, anyway) and justify my superiors' assaults on good taste, manners, and general professionalism with ridiculous, humble remarks like "well, he's the boss", or "well, this is a wonderful learning experience for me".

Quite simply, I was a job snob, refusing to sink to the job performance mediocrity and petty complaints of my colleagues because I just didn't think it was right. I took no personal calls on the job, never checked my personal email, and generally strived for perfection in all aspects of my work.

Then, at the advice of a rebellious friend, I downloaded MSN instant messenger. And I think it was the combination of a general awakening to the crappiness of my job and exposure to the wonderful communications technology of IM that led me to this particularly pathetic point in my professional life (how's that for alliteration?):

In the last two days, I am quite embarrassed to admit, my sole motivation for going to work in the morning has been to see which of my "contacts" little blue torso icons indicate they are "online". Then, my day really begins in a way it never has before. I spend it "chatting" -- exchanging sarcastic stories and wry remarks with an assortment of my friends (who I have discovered also must be mediocre employees). I have actually caught myself typing a zinger about one person or another around me and then giggling out loud, which immediately brings on a fit of guilt and cover-up coughing.

The downside? I am in a constant state of panic that someone will discover I have fallen from my formerly comfortable moral high-horse and am now rolling gleefully around in mud-slinging conversation and comaraderie with my friends, who are mostly disgruntled employees or students, on "the clock".

I probably spend at least a total of 30 minutes per day on just frantically minimizing my IM screen as people walk past my desk. But the stress is all worth it -- IM is the perfect drug. Why?

1. Just try to randomly test me for it.
2. IM = instant gratification
3. Instant Messaging has only one mild, but proven, side-effect: extreme apathy about all things important (job, school, responsibilities, self-respect, personal values, one's work ethic and better things to do with one's time, in general).

Why are we still talking about legalizing marijuanna?