in utero

It has been a hectic and uncomfortable week, and the stress has been dribbling down in torrents from the ceiling -- I'm my very own rain god, replete with acid moistness -- in a nearly unmanageable deluge. I hear that's going around. Deadlines at work, deadlines at home, assorted chaos, frenzy, and now a trip to Tennessee. I leave on Monday to visit one of our newest customers for three days....

...and at 12:32 am this morning, I read the following passage in Eats, Shoots & Leaves by the hilarious Lynne Truss, and thought: Life's really not bad.

"I write quite differently in emails," people say, with a look of inspired and happy puzzlement -- a look formerly associated only with starry-eyed returnees from alien abduction. "Yes, I write quite differently in emails, especially in the punctuation. I feel it's OK to use dashes all the time, and exclamation marks. And those dot, dot, dot things!"

"Ellipses," I interject.

"I can't seem to help it!" they continue. "It's as if I've never heard of semicolons! Dot, dot, dot! And everyone's doing the same!"

Well, really.

(Dot, dot, dot.)

Life really isn't that bad, for which I can thank my firm Japanese genes. I strongly suspect that had I weaker genes from, say, Ireland, I would have shedded large clumps of hair and taken on the air of a dilapidated Cabbage Patch Kid by now. Fortunately, the silken locks of my ancestors evince no interest in abandoning ship -- not today, anyway -- and so I'm left with my looks and my health, though whether my looks in any way reflect my health is something for other people to lie about when the time comes.

I didn't mention it here, but last week the Island of the Purple Monkeys shrank a little, losing a few feet in coastline to the tumult of the tides. Damn those jetskis. As a result, three purple monkeys were tossed into the waters, to sink or drown as they saw fit. It's ruthless on the Island of the Purple Monkeys; it's a reality TV show without FCC oversight. At any rate, one of my favorite purple monkey is no longer playing the Purple Monkey game. His loss has left the office a little quieter than I'm used to, outside of my more energetic ranting and raving. This week was made memorable by the announcement that one of my other favorite monkeys would also be leaving soon.

Let there be no misunderstanding here: harrowing as it is to live on a small island populated entirely by small purple monkeys, it is possible to grow attached -- even, I daresay, fond -- of some of my fellow denizens. I imagine it is somewhat like the close bonds formed by survivors of hostage situations; members of military combat units; stage crews of American Idol.

This particular purple monkey, beyond being well above average in looks, intelligence, charm, and general sanitation, was also notable in that he fed me very, very, very good chocolate from time to time. In fact, it was his habit to pause work in the middle of a stressful afternoon, whip out several expensive bars imported from assorted countries, and conduct mini chocolate tastings. He would attempt to educate me with informative snippets about each block, ("This one is has a slighty bark undertone to it, with good texture. It's from a particularly good harvest out of Venezuela,") while I would lean back in my chair, coat my taste buds with quality chocolate, and think hazy thoughts about nirvana.

Lesson for diabetics: a small piece of truly good dark chocolate contains less sugar than your average dinner roll.

We need not go into the reasons why I will miss this purple monkey, though if you don't think the chocolate tastings alone are reason enough, it is possible that you will -- if you haven't already -- discover that you have grown testicles sometime soon. I have been assured that there are women out there who don't care much about chocolate. I number myself among them. However, there is a principle involved, and we women can't stick together to perpetuate a stereotype about our own gender, what's the point?

Somehow I seem to have wandered off the topic.

(What was the topic?)

Dot dot dot. That's right. There was no topic. Sorry 'bout that. It's been a long week. Let's try this again when I get back from Nashville.