Teenage Sunshine

That would be the name of a product sample I received this morning. You don't want to know. Neither do I, actually.

I have been at work for approximately 1 1/2 hours (I got here a solid 45 minutes late) and have accomplished the following:

• deleted the spam from my Inbox

• emailed my roommate to ask him why the word "horse" is so funny
• RSVP'd for a pizza party at 12:30 (that should be sad!)
• stared at an email from a former professor that I've been meaning to respond to for weeks
• moved the plastic skull from the left side of my monitor stand to the right side of my monitor stand

As I was attacking these important tasks, my boss stopped by to discuss our upcoming trip to Hollywood, where we will attend a giant sex toy/porn convention. Mostly lame hermit that I am, I asked if I would have time after the end of the convention each day (~5 pm) to do some work. I of course meant writing, but she apparently thought I meant I would be burning to get back to my suite for some good note-taking or email-responding hilarity. Whatever, anyway, to this she responded, "“Oh, no way. After the convention there are fancy dinners and bars and strip clubs and industry parties. Don't worry, I'll get you so drunk you'll forget all about work."

If I were maybe anyone else, this might sound appealing. But no, I'm already exhausted at the thought of spending 72 hours in an apparent stripper-watching, porn star-schmoozing, booze-swilling nightmare. With my boss. In Hollywood, which is already a frightening enough place to be (although the rest of LA is actually kinda neat). I can just see it now---there I'll be, clutching the bar, cowering behind my (my what? I just realized I'm going to have to figure out a sophisticated drink to order) let's-just-say Jack and Ginger, wearing something horribly unglamorous like a black tank top and jeans and, for the love of god, sneakers, holding up a lighter (courtesy of Wicked pictures!!) in an attempt to read the poetry of Mary Oliver through the smoke-soaked gloom. Just like when I was 13 and my father took me to Fenway Park to see the Red Sox and I spent the entire game reading The Tempest. If only that weren't a true story.

Oh well, maybe the booze and good food will help take the edge off. The last time I went to one such shindig was several months ago right here in San Francisco. My old boss pulled up to the office on her Harley, I hopped on the back (wearing my boyfriend's handy motorcycle jacket), and off we went, zipping past the marina to the warehouse district. There, among the corrugated buildings and gaping loading docks, erupted an enormous white tent brimming with people, the obvious majority of whom were men. After an hour spent weaving among titles and toys and posters and contract stars tottering on heels higher than anything I've ever slept on, let alone stood on, my boss kindly euthanized me with several ounces of complimentary wine that I drank from a Dixie cup in the "snack area," where one could enjoy a hot dog while eyeing a sea of jelly rubber weenie. A short while later, after losing the raffle for the romantic cruise to Mexico and some autographed Roller Blades (damn!), we hopped back on the bike and headed back to Oakland. For days afterward, I could scarcely look at any combination of words (including those composing CNN headlines, email subject lines, and menus) without turning it into some demented sexual pun. I shudder to think what will happen to me after 3 days of such festivities.

Oy. It's now 12:15 pm and I really should be getting back to work. I just opened a package addressed to me from an artist in London, and it is literally stuffed with what appear to be the tails of bunny rabbits mounted on ceramic wands. Duty calls, folks, like the ghost of a bunny rabbit dragging its ceramic skeleton through the London night.