An Honest Out of Office Auto-Reply

I leave for Montana for a week on Friday and am considering using the following as my Out of Office Auto-Reply message. What's the over under on time till firing?

Hello. If you are reading this, that means that you are in the office and I am not. I’m sorry. While you’re sitting at your desk, listening to the mind-numbing din of fluorescent light bulbs, willing the clock hands to move already, I’m probably out basking in the sun, or climbing a mountain, or sitting on the bank of a river watching it fall over itself and listening to it laugh. Like Siddartha, but with beer.

During my week off, I will be attending a wedding, and then traversing the Montana countryside. During your week, you will do things that probably won’t matter in the slightest in a few months. In all likelihood, I will be forced to wrestle a bear and scramble to safety (possibly using its hide for a sleeping bag later on), while you will passive-aggressively deter your cubicle neighbor from stealing your stapler for the third time this week by keeping it in your desk drawer from now on.

In the event that the bear episode doesn’t go as I envision, and I do not return from Montana, you will probably not receive a response to this email. In the event that I’m only slightly maimed, you will receive a response to this email, it will just take longer as I may have to learn to type with my feet or nose.

If you need immediate assistance, you may contact my boss, though she is very busy so don’t be self-absorbed. Picture your amount of work, multiply times one hundred million, then think about if you’d want to respond to your email. Didn’t think so.

Peace!

Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay...

Lindsay Lohan has officially gone from jailbait to jail bound. Since I heard the news, all I've done is wonder, why am I the only person in the world who has yet to put Ms. Mean Girls in handcuffs?

Many of us have spent hours pondering the actress' mighty fall from glory. She captured our hearts with her freckled, impish performance in The Parent Trap, and tickled us pink with her endearing, but befuddled (and kinda bitchy) perpetrations in cinematic masterpieces such as Mean Girls, Freaky Friday, and, uh, those other ones.

Lindsay was the princess of Tinseltown and the Queen of America's collective heart. So what happened? How did we get here, Linds? Help us help you!

Drug possession, DUIs, and lesbianism--oh, my! The hard-partying starlet has somehow pulled off making court-ordered ankle bracelets and passing out on the sidewalk the new sexy. While we wait for her to rise from a pile of her own Marlboro Light cigarette ashes like an over sized handbag-clutching Phoenix, she continues to break our hearts, one infraction at a time. It's like watching a glacier, once so imposing and majestic, slowly fracture and fall bit by bit into the sea.

Lindsay is Hollywood's hottest Humpty Dumpty. Except skinny. And drunk. Here's hoping that a few months in the clink will put Humpty back together again. I'll be sure to do my part and send her brownies and a copy of A Long Walk to Freedom...

Afternoon Delight

There are several dangers associated with jogging alongside a puppy. Most notably, puppies are unpredictable and also complete chickenshits. I learned all of this the hard way last week when a ferocious window dog assailed my jogging partner Gracie and I with a series of ferocious window barks and grunts. Consequently, and to make a short story shorter, I made a large donation of my leg and hand flesh to a sunny sidewalk in front of ferocious window dog's house.

The fall and related injuries have precluded me from doing a number of things, some good (dishes, manual labor) and some bad (high-fiving, showering). Today, a little over a week from the incident, I decided to tempt fate, get back in the saddle, and take Gracie for another jog.

It was approximately 470,000 degrees outside today so while I was getting my cardio on, I began to feel extremely guilty about having dragged the pup along. I adjusted my route so she could take a dip in what locals creatively call The Basin.

The Basin is an estuary and home to all sorts of estuarine animals. While Gracie was frolicking in the water with her stick and presumably having the time of her life, I happened upon a small horseshoe crab nestled into the wet sand.

Horseshoe crabs both fascinate and terrify me. You don't have to look around too hard to notice that there is not a lot else on the planet that looks like a horseshoe crab. They predate dinosaurs by, like, a lot, and pretty much make all other species look bad because they're so well-adapted. They essentially kick ass at existing.

Their defense against predators is basically just to be a horseshoe crab. From above, they resemble a rock with a long, spiky tail (not used for spiking, used for righting themselves and steering, although I'd totally spike the hell out of something if I had that tail) and who wants to mess with, let alone eat that?

This particular horseshoe crab was small. Too small, I thought, to be laying its eggs on the shore. I was fairly certain they didn't just kick it on the beach unless they were laying eggs. I was nonplussed, and, as the tide ebbed, my concern for this creature was growing.

I very logically decided to engage HSC in a dialogue.

Excuse me, little horseshoe crab, do you need some help getting back into the water?

I felt as though I was saddled with the responsibility of this animal's life, his very existence hung in the balance, and I was the only one who could tip the scale in his favor. I decided that this HSC would not perish ... not on my watch.

Mustering as much courage as I could, I walked cautiously up behind the (still very much harmless) creature and did the equivalent of tapping him on the shoulder.

Tap ... tap.

Hi. You might remember me, I was just here a few minutes ago. It looks like you're stuck, and possibly too infirm to propel yourself back into the water, so what I was thinking was that I'd go ahead and pick you up and just plop you back in the water so we can all go back to our days. Cool?

I assumed he was on board, peered at him for what felt like forever, and went for it. I put one finger underneath the front of his little horseshoe head, and another on his side. He apparently became aware of my presence at this point because he began squirming frenetically back and forth, wiggling his way further into the sand. Naturally, I let out a high-pitched squeal and ran ten or so steps away without taking my eyes off him, as if he were going to spring into action and assault me like Bowser from Super Mario Brothers.

I cursed myself for not anticipating this. Of course HSC was going to try to move. He didn't know I was trying to help. From a (very) safe distance, I queried:

So, was that, like, an evasive measure because you think I'm a predator? Ideally, if you were trying to escape would you have preferred to have ended in the water? I'm still just trying to assess what your level of helplessness is at this point.

I grabbed a stick, since I was now resolved to the fact that there was no way I was touching HSC again. I plunged it into the wet sand below him, thinking I would gently lift and maneuver him to the water (unless he tried anything funny, because then he was getting catapulted). To my surprise, I struck something. I started to uncover the sand and saw what appeared to be a rock with a ... long, spiky tail.

*GASP!* Oh my god, they're mating! They're mating, Gracie! Did you know that?! This is incredibly awkward!

Sheepishly, I covered the bottom one back up, placed a couple of nice-looking shells around them (to enhance the mood) and offered my sincerest apologies to HSC.

On my way out, I realized that I should have known that creatures with that kind of shelf life on this crazy planet probably don't need my help. I took one last look over my shoulder and was fairly certain I saw HSC wink at me.

The Suckiest Bunch of Sucks That Ever Sucked: A New Moon Recap

In a belated but obligatory effort to keep up with the mainstream, I finally watched New Moon. It was Saturday night, I was two glasses of wine deep, my cat was on my lap, and it just seemed fitting.

I had seen Twilight and found it entertaining in that sort of one night stand, sit back and let it happen without too much scrutiny kind of way. I wasn't expecting anything great, and it was something to do.

Refusing to read the books, I'm told that there is quite a bit more to these stories than meets the eye on the big screen. This is somewhat encouraging because otherwise I'd be seriously concerned for this generation of teens. If all I had to look forward to was the cinematic stylings of Bella and Edward, I'd be sexting too.

While no one could possibly be mad at the overabundance of boy abs (but seriously, Taylor Lautner, eat a bagel, bro), Edward and Jacob look like lesbians. I realize that pubescent girls/gays and unfulfilled soccer moms everywhere just cringed, but I'd like to point out that Edward wears more make-up than I do. The man sparkles for Christ's sake. He's not a sex-symbol, he's a My Little Pony.

Jacob is feisty and all, but Michael J. Fox was a more convincing wolf, and at least he partied and could slam dunk. And seriously, the wolf graphics? Jacob basically morphs into a cartoon. Considering the budget for this movie, it was really pretty audacious.

The most vacuous, pouty-lipped, behind-the-ear hair-tucking disaster is, sigh, Bella. In the deepest sense of the word, I just CANNOT figure out why I should root for her as a protagonist. She's basically as boring as sugar-free vanilla pudding, and, as far as I can tell, does nothing but constantly bleed in an apparent homage to the Russian Royal Family. It's just plain inconvenient considering the company she keeps.

She assigns all of her self-worth and self-esteem to whichever other-worldly dude will stay by her side the most fervently. When there's a guy around, she's elated and stable (but remarkably, still pouts with the same frequency), when there's not, she's suicidal. A truly responsible message to relay to teenage girls.

I get that high school can be painstaking when you don't "fit in" but, like, join the photography club or play an instrument or something. All I want is a reason to believe that she's as enamoring as she's supposed to be, and not the girl in gym class who gets smacked in the face with a volleyball and runs crying to the nurse.

To summarize, the two hottest guys in the history of high school and other vampires/creatures that predate Bella by, like, hundreds of years are captivated and fighting for scraps of her glazed-over, sulky attention. And I don't have the slightest idea why.

The only hope I have is that post-nuptially, Edward will turn Bella and she'll be slightly more interesting as a vampire, or at the very least, require fewer rescues. It's not like she was doing much with her soul anyway.

Canada Wins Men's Hockey, Remains Polite

Accepting their oddly-shaped silver medals at the awards ceremony yesterday, the American athletes looked dejected, embarrassed, and inexplicably (or, actually, pretty explicably) sweaty.

Likening it to losing a wrestling match to a younger sibling, one U.S. player said, "Whatever. Mom and Dad like me better anyway."

No one really knows what that means, but one thing is certain: had the US won yesterday there would be a tremendous amount more shit-talk and gloating, as is the long-standing tradition in the States, along with being better than Canada at everything.

Olympic officials initially considered launching an investigation into the game's legitimacy, due to the almost complete non-reaction of the Canadian players.

"It was an unprecedented and confusing display of sportsmanship. Politely smiling? Who does that? It wasn't until we saw them at the bar afterwards chugging Labatt Blue that we knew how excited these guys were."

While Canadian hockey players and fans remain gracious about the victory, it is certain that, perhaps for the next four years, their neighbors to the south will resemble those silver medals: totally bent out of shape.

The Unfriendly Skies

If it were an equally viable option for me to arrive at a destination by crawling through broken glass and used baby diapers, I would opt for that instead of ever setting foot on an airplane. My feelings toward flying have transcended discomfort, and landed squarely around an emotion I typically reserve for bananas and genocide: it's an exquisite hatred.

Not that it's an altogether pleasant experience for anyone, having to wait in line, shoeless, like some sort of sock-wearing imbecile. Inevitably finding yourself standing behind someone who has apparently time traveled to the present, and has no idea about the TSA's expectations (albeit ridiculous) of today's modern passenger. I constantly consider yelling, "Terrorist!! Look at all those liquids and gels! They're not even in the quart-sized bag! She's probably gonna turn her kids into crotch bombs! Why are you even taking a plane if you're a time traveler?!" just to get them out of my way.

Out of all of the things that make flying an excruciating ordeal, it's really just about two things for me. First, I have a relatively significant fear of heights. It's not unusual, and actually, when you think about it, might even be pragmatic. Somewhere in that primordial, good old-fashioned caveman part of our brains, a mechanism evolved telling the conscious mind it's scary to be up high, inhibiting us from chasing our two-to-four-legged dinner off a cliff, ensuring we stay alive long enough to have baby cavemen and propagate the species. It's science, and you're welcome.

Secondly, I have an extreme aversion to confined spaces. Innately, right down to the core of my being, I grapple with this. Possibly another residual caveman brain function, though it's perhaps not as logically sound because of, like, caves and all.

To be specific, it's the type of confined space in which I find myself hurtling through space at 600 miles per hour, next to complete strangers who, in all likelihood, would step on my face rather than assist me in an emergency. I find this concept disheartening on a good day, and altogether calamitous on a bad one.

Being on an airplane is the only scenario in my life in which I worry about being adequately prepared for dealing with the worst case scenario. I might feel more comfortable if the little pre-flight safety blurb included: In the event of emergency, the flight attendants will move through the cabin passing out complimentary shots of Johnny Walker and parachutes. All I want is a fighting chance. I don't think it's too much to ask.

Once, drunk with the "knowledge is power" illusion, I figured the more I knew about flying and how planes operate, the more comfortable I'd be. So, I did a little reading on lift and Bernoulli and Newton and the viscosity of air. I realized with shocking abruptness that my prior Sesame Street understanding of what was going on outside my upright seat back and locked tray table was plenty of information. Plane goes fast, something happens, plane goes up....plane goes slow, something else happens, plane goes down.

The more I knew, the more I could worry about. Well, if the power needed to lift the airplane is proportional to the weight times the vertical velocity of the air...omfg, what if it's not?! What happens?! Not a particularly productive exercise for me.

But what's life without a little incapacitating fear once in a while? The second we stop feeling it is the second we stop evolving, at least according to my earlier, very scientific theory.

So, for now, I'll continue to fly, monitor my elevated pulse while sweating profusely and frantically asking the person next to me, "Is that normal?!". Eventually, as always, I'll arrive at my destination unscathed.

However, you can believe wholeheartedly that I'll be the first person in line for the grand opening of the Baby Diapers and Broken Glass Transportation Company. And I'll probably even be able to keep my shoes on.

Catholicism Rubs Me the Wrong Way

A Memoir

It's impossible for an eleven year old to listen to a man with only eight fingers. He could be saying that he's about to give you a lifetime supply of Tootsie Pops or Pop Tarts or some other wondrous prize, but the only thought running through your mind will be, "where the hell are his pinkies?!" Don't try this at home kids; it's just plain impossible.

In this case, the eight-fingered man is a priest at my church and is decidedly not offering a prize. At least not anything I'm interested in at eleven. Eternal life and salvation are the least of my worries. I have the rest of my life to worry about my soul and being swallowed by the pits of hell. Eternity, to me, is sitting in church for an hour every Sunday.

My mom, obviously on to the fact that I'm not listening, as I'm currently slouched down in the pew and counting ceiling fan rotations, instructs me to sit up and listen to the father.

"Do you have any Lifesavers?", I ask.

She shakes her head no and shushes me.

Damn it.

"Does it count as a sin if you think a swear in church?," I whisper, slightly concerned.

I see her eyes roll and swear I detect a slight smirk. Getting my parents to laugh in church is the ultimate win-- even a small, thinly spread wisp of a smile is a chink in the armor; a small but exploitable gap in the unified front of church-going and godliness. Ha, I'm funnier and more interesting than church. Take that, God. It's usually my goal to make them laugh at least once during the sermon, particularly when there's no possibility of Lifesavers or any other suckable candy that guaranteed my parents at least a couple of minutes quiet time, but today I'm much more interested in getting the full story of the eight-fingered father.

Church wouldn't be so bad, if it wasn't preceded by a full hour of Sunday school. Sunday school starts way too early and reminds me of a pre-game show. No one cares about the pre-game show. They're getting nachos ready and beer cold. They're here for the main event. God, in his omnipotence, should be well aware of this.

To make matters worse, my Sunday school teacher is literally the most boring human being alive. At this point, I'm fairly certain he's actually one of the apostles. It's the only possible explanation as to why he's so old and boring. He's not in touch with the way things operate in our advanced, modern society. We have Nintendo now, the most important discovery of the 20th century. There's no way he can compete with that. He's constantly making us leaf through our Sunday school workbooks that contain pictures and seemingly endless stories of miracles and tales of Jesus and his crazy antics. Anyone that wasn't an apostolic time-traveler would know that modern kids would be much more interested in reading if the illustrated biblical characters looked more like the Dream Team or New Kids on the Block. Duh.

When he talks about the crucifixion, which is a lot, I find myself secretly rooting for Jesus. That, just once, Jesus would look (disdainfully, of course) at Pontius Pilate and say, "Yeah dude, I'm totally the King of the Jews. What are you gonna do about it?" This would enliven the crowd of Romans and Jews alike and culminate in a WWF-style cage match between Jesus and Pontius. Which Jesus would obviously win by pile-driving Pontius head first into the mat and then helicoptering him into the toga-ed crowd. That never seems to happen though. And I still have an hour of church after this...

Kneel, sit, stand, bow, shake someone's hand. The father sings something. Hymn. Sit. Another hymn. Stand. I wonder if the lady playing the organ lives full-time up on the organ balcony. I imagine her fixed to the side of organ day in and day out, steadfast in her duty, devoted only to playing the music of the Lord. Nuns would go by twice a day, three times on Sunday, to feed her some eucharist and wine. Occasionally, when the church is empty and she has the ears of the Lord to herself, she plays baseball music to keep her spirits up. She imagines the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit all enjoy a good rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." She plays on into the night, the sounds of the organ echoing out into the dark, empty pulpit. She plays herself to sleep, only to be gently roused by a nun in the morning with a fresh plate of warm eucharist.

Well, that train of thought lasted about twelve seconds. Now what? I look around. Kneel. Finally, when I'm totally unable to occupy my mind any longer (I've looked at every single stained glass window and for being so colorful, they're all alarmingly boring--couldn't they at least have thrown in some saints getting mauled by lions?), I break down and frantically, in far too loud of a whisper, ask my mom why the father only has eight fingers.

"I'm not sure. I think he was born that way," she responds.

I squirm in my seat, swinging my head back to the altar, incredulous. Being told anything or anyone was "born that way" is the worst possible answer to a question. There aren't any follow up questions. There's no room for imagination or exaggeration. Up to this point, the possibilities were endless. In my mind, the father could've been accosted and captured by a gang of angry Jews in South America while trying to build a school for blind children. They might have been merciful and agreed to let him go with his life, but kept his pinkies as a warning. There could've been a freak baptism of teething twins who, upon being plunged into frigid holy water, had a knee-jerk biting reaction and clamped down onto the nearest objects for survival. But, no. This would not be chalked up to a fluke occupational hazard. There was no derring-do, he was just "born that way". End of story.

I think about it for a while and realize that I can find some solace in this. Because if a person can be born without pinkies, and still want to come to church everyday, a place with boring stained glass and overzealous organ ladies, he must really love God. So, surely, there's still hope for me.