Vicious Piece of Nookie

Hey kids,

There's a little piece of software on my computer, it's called a VPN client -- lord only knows what "VPN" stands for -- that allows my computer to remain in contact with the mothership in Reno, no matter where I am. I can access files, servers and all sorts of stuff from a million miles away.

The graphic that comes up when I fire up this little program is a gal, standing in the surf, with children cavorting in the background, on an impossibly sunny shore. She's consulting a little piece of machinery, probably some kind of smart phone. Maybe she's dashing off a quick email, or trading stocks or bidding on a contract.

It ignites my imagination every morning when I start up my computer and this lucky beachcomber pops up and prompts me for my username and password, this thought that I could be doing what I do from the beach, or a diner on Hwy 1, or a treehouse in Africa. Anywhere except this hot, airless room in the back of my house, surrounded by stacks of old magazines, dirty dishes and abandoned baby toys.

I imagine that on Martha Stewart's work-from-home days, she's not elbow-to-elbow with non-working computers and long-dead monitors, or that there's a funny smell that drifts up from her wastebasket that may or may not be a wet diaper from a couple days ago. Her office window probably doesn't look out over an abandoned plot of back-of-the-back backyard that houses that damned sandbox overrun with cat piss and black widows that her frickin' mother-in-law gave her that she never EVER wanted in the first damned place cuz she knew she'd never let you kids play in it because it would eventually be overrun with cat piss and black widows.

Can ya tell? I need a vacation. I promise to check in every hour on the hour via the magic of the ol' VPN, no matter how many cabana boys I'm covered in, no matter how many limes I've put in the coconuts and drank 'em all up.

Grrrrrr. Love you.