That's My Bix!

Esteban received this email yesterday… note the time stamp.

—–Original Message—–

From:

Sent: Wednesday, September 12, 2001 1:57 PM

To:

Subject: Disaster Recovery Story Idea

Dear Esteban,

I’m writing on behalf of XXXXXX Telecommunications, Inc., a leading provider of world-class information technology (IT) infrastructure and managed service solutions for large, data-intensive FORTUNE 1000 enterprise companies. I thought you might be interested in the following story idea relating to yesterday’s events, and how it effects companies that handle mission-critical back-office IT systems and applications.

Tuesday’s tragic events will impact businesses that were located in the World Trade Center in a number of ways. One of the most significant is the loss of their mission-critical systems and data.(emphasis my own–Weetabix) A University of Texas study showed that of businesses that suffer a catastrophic data loss, 94% close within two years. Of those companies, 43% are forced to close at the time of the event, while 51% continue to operate for another two years before closing. This is a direct result of not having in place an effective disaster recovery program.

Of the 350 businesses operating in the World Trade Center before the 1993 bombing, 150 were out of business a year later. A major reason for this was the inability for these companies to recover their data during the two weeks that the FBI shut down the building to investigate the bombing. The companies that had contingency plans in place were able to quickly resume operations. This was not the case, however, for the 34% of businesses that did not have offsite backups.

Despite the need to have a contingency plan that mitigates the risk of losing mission-critical systems and applications during a disaster, 82% of major corporations do not have effective protection against such a loss. If you are working on a business story relating to this week’s events, and the impact it is having on the business community, we would be very interested in providing you our expertise on how companies can and have prepared contingency plans for unforeseen disasters.

If you are interested in speaking with XXXXX’s President and CTO, ########, please feel free to contact me at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

XXXXXXXXX

Esteban replied back:

I am not interested.

I have to say that this isn’t the most sensitive e-mail I have gotten. You might have at least waited a couple of days before using this tragedy as a pitch.

The PR bastard wrote back, making yet more excuses about his email:

Dear Esteban,

I apologize for any harm I might have generated. I fully understand and appreciate the sensitivity of yesterday’s events. The fact of the matter is, I’ve been approached by several reporters looking for this particular angle for biz stories they are currently working on, and I thought it might be helpful to others. But you are right. As one reporter who called me yesterday said, he hates to be writing about anything relating to these tragic events, but he’s got work to do.

Again, please accept my sincere apologies. I will consider the timeliness of my approach from here on out.

Best regards, XXXX

Nothing like leveraging a tragedy to get a little free publicity for your company. The world of business must go forth, after all.

Apparently, after the planes hit the buildings, a reporter called up to the 89th floor of one of the towers where people were trapped and said “What’s going on up there?” The reply “We’re fucking dying up here…. click“.

John Irving, through the guise of Hester the Molestor in “A Prayer for Owen Meany” said it best.

“Television gives good disaster.”

A page from my poetry journal today:

09/11/01 9: 35 am.

The sun shines today.
In fields, white butterflies frolic.
No planes are in the sky.
Over and over, a scene from ‘Die Hard’ plays on the television
The building gets blown up
The building comes down
People look afraid
But no one yells ‘Cut’
The reels just keep spinning

Dogs really know how to show pleasure. They get all excited and stuff and it just makes me happy for them… to know that one being can put so much energy into anticipation.

Today, I sat behind a lady in a McDonald’s drive thru who got a Big Mac extra value meal for herself and three happy meals for her three Chow Chows in the car along with her.

No, I don’t live near Turkey Hill and it was not Martha Stewart in the car. I doubt that The Martha does not allow such plebian fair to pass over the mottled shaggy lips of her canine status symbols. I’m certain that they dine on fresh Uni from the shores of Maine and braised tongue from a kosher deli on 45th in Manhattan.

Ironically, I was on my way to let Ward and June’s doggies out to do their squatting and sniffing. Ward and June are out of town today, so we have dog watcher duty. I actually love to go and let the dogs out. Mercedes and Miata love to see me. I always make my excited voice for them, calling them “My little Furred Monsters!” I trot them out the door and wait for them to do their duties. Miata is a diva and wants to be let back in the house immediately. Mercedes is a terrier and longs to be able to go on 16 hour scouting maneuvers of the backyard. I’ve seen her kill rabbits and sparrows with lightning fast precision. You’d never know she was a cold-blooded killer, considering the lovely kisses she gives.

I finally coaxed them back into the house and tried to give them a treat, as I was leaving and I needed a diversion to get myself out the door without inducing their whines. I tried talking up the treat, giving it lots of P.R, and they were buying it. Until I tossed them each a Milk-Bone.

They both looked up at me as if to say “This?????!?! This is it??!?!?! You freak, you were marking this up like we’d get prime rib or maybe a nice dead skunk to roll in!!!'”

It’s a good thing that they have short memories, or I’d lose their respect.

Once upon a time, three months before I graduated from college and spent a summer in England, my cush job at the Homeless Shelter got eliminated. That sucked. It sucked especially because I had to find a part time job for only three months, and then I’d be gone. That really sucked.

So I got a job at a bank. I was supposed to be some kind of personal banker, but I was “starting out” as a teller (read: they couldn’t get anyone to apply for the teller position, so they dangled the carrot of “personal banker” out there and watched who bit).

Anyway, I was working a drive through lane (which I always loved, because I didn’t have to talk to any of my hateful, disapproving co-tellers) and this guy drove up with a dog in the car. I knew the drill. Do whatever transaction the guy needed and also hand him a doggie bone.

But he had different request.

He leaned over and whispered into the speaker, hiding his mouth, as if his dog could understand, or possibly read his lips.

“Er… Barkley here is supposed to be eating these treat things from his vet… they have medicine in them…. er… but he won’t eat them…. um, so I was hoping that I could send it through and then maybe you could show it to him over there and then maybe he’d want to eat it when it came back?”

I tried not to chuckle. He sent the little doggie biscuit through the little vaccuum tube.

I then proceeded to talk up this doggie bone like it was going to offer the best damn doggie orgasm that the bank had to offer. My voice escalated from baby talk to doggie talk to what I can only describe as the language that dolphins use to communicate.

Let me tell you. I worked that doggie biscuit. I worked that biscuit like a big Pimp Doggie. I wiggled it from the window. I dramatically put it back into the carrier.

Barkley was almost attacking the carrier when it got to him. I thought he would urinate on the seat. His owner removed the treat and

Barkley inhaled it.. and a horrible look passed over his face…. a look of disception… a look of a discovered deceit. He looked at me and I felt that I had sinned the biggest transgression in my life.

Ptew. Out popped the veterinarian-prescribed doggie treat.

The owner looked up at me, shrugged, and drove away. I stood in front of the drive thru window, crestfallen.

I had just acted my heart out. It was a Canine Academy award type performance. And it was spit out on the seat of a shabby BMW by a dog named Barkley.

Anyway, I got the same look tonight.

This is why I have cats. They trust no one.

Thanks to everyone who participated in the discussion on the message boards. Still looking for points of view on the topic, so head on over and discuss/reply. I took away the annoying “Articles” button, but if navigation is still a pain in the ass, let me know and I can change it.

Also, how sweet is Scott who sent me a lovely letter asking if it bothered me that he reads this page and asking I’d rather that he not? God, I just love Scott! He’s so awesome. If you were wondering (and this is what I told him), I’ve only censored myself when I broke my own rule of not saying anything in here that I wouldn’t say to someone’s face. And that was my own fault.

Not that I’d call my Grandmother a Mafia Grandmother to her face. Nor would my Aunt Brumhilda like the fact that I discussed the starvation of her children. But cest la vie. They’re not on the internet, so I’m not going to worry about it.

Aside from my taut muscular temples, I have nothing going for me today.

The day started in the normal way for a Saturday. Wanted to go to the Farmer’s Market, but didn’t. That’s a reoccurring theme. I just shouldn’t plan to go, as I’ve gone exactly ONCE this entire summer. It just sets up the day on a down note.

We started out the morning with the intent that we would go out and get breakfast and then go to the farmer’s market and then maybe to Sam’s again. We went out to our favorite little diner for pancakes and other breakfast type fair. Then I wandered into a neighboring baking supply store because I am feeling a little Martha Stewartesque and have need of cookie cutters to be the embodiment of domestic simplicity that harkens the beginning of fall. Nothing like a little nesting instinct to start your day off right.

I ended up with some lovely leaf-shaped cookie cutters… an oak leaf, a maple leaf, a little curvy leaf and a generic leaf shape. I intend to make cookies which are frosted in fall colors. That is sufficiently “A Good Thing” for me.

Then it was 11:18 am. Farmer’s Market is done by noon, so we skipped it and headed to Sam’s Club instead. There we spent way too much money on way too little stuff. I hate going there. I end up spending $150 and walking out with ten items. You don’t get a lot there but you get a lot of what you get. That’s the only way I can explain it. Plus, you must also wait in The Line of Unending Agony to check out. They have thousands of people on Saturday mornings, yet only four narcoleptic cashiers. I got some chicken breasts, some fresh salmon (boneless and skinless, WHOOOOHOOOO!!!), 96 loads worth of laundry soap, 40 pounds of cat litter, the DVD of “The X-men”, as we’re going to give our VHS copy to my little brother, some more Ghiradelli brownie mix (mmmmmmmmmmmmm), 10 pounds of white rice, and a purse. After my current purse’s cavernous compartment taunted me when I lost my keys, I have utter scorn for it. I dropped $40 on a new one at Sam’s. It wouldn’t have been a bad deal, but it came in a six-pack.

Oh, and we also had to get the fourth “Harry Potter” book. You see, originally, I bought all four books for my little brother and then borrowed them back to read them myself. I kept them too long and he took back #2 and #4 (because I had misplaced #1 and #3 and told him I’d give them to him later). Then I started rereading #1 and Esteban did as well. I went out and purchased #2 in paperback and then went on to read Jonathon’s #3. Esteban wanted to just buy #4, but I didn’t want to buy it until it came out in paperback, opting to borrow Jonathon’s back, in exchange for #1 and #3. But Esteban couldn’t wait that long. Yep. Book crack, that’s what Harry Potter is. Utter book crack.

Then we got home and I had a hankering for a peanut butter sandwich on Wonder bread. Yes. I know we had just spent $150 at Sam’s on “groceries” but there was still nothing I wanted to eat (except for the salmon, which is marinating for 48 hours for Monday’s din-din). Thus, I went grocery shopping. Again.

The sky had a strange grey ceiling of clouds. It was not especially warm, yet it was intensely humid and there was a hot wind blowing. That says nothing but unstable air. I got to the grocery store and spent another $80.

Oh, and I saw our local television station’s meteorologist in the dairy department and then later, arguing with his wife about which kind of snack cracker to get… Cheese-Its or Nips. He looks like a leprachaun.

Meanwhile, back at Rancho Weetabix, Esteban had ensconced himself on our recliner with Harry Potter. He’s so whipped by that book.

I returned and made myself a ham and garlic salami sandwich on a sourdough brioche (yes, I know I was originally hungry for peanut butter, but I am an enigma!) and watched “Bring It On” for the seventh time.

It rocked. As always.

Esteban was driven from the living room by the cheering. Grumbling, he returned to his computer room ostensibly to continue to work on an article.

“This is not a democracy… it’s a cheerocracy!” I shouted after him.

Oh, and while we were coming home from breakfast, I was taking a drink of soda and Esteban purposely bumped my head forward so that I’d spill soda all down my shirt. Then he laughed so hard he had tears streaming down his cheeks and had to stop the car for a minute.

Sometimes I swear I’m living with my brother.

And people say I’m the one who’s hard to live with????

Ha!

Man. That was a boring entry. Blech.

Blecccccccccchhhh!!!!!!!!

I guess I’m not giving good diary today. It’s very weird outside and it’s putting me all off. Oh well. Maybe later.

I am the poo… take a whiff.

Guess what I found out yesterday?

I’m a bitch.

That’s right. Me. A Bitch.

Or apparently that’s what a bunch of guy friends think.

Maybe not a bitch per say, but hard to live with. They have somehow gotten the impression that I am hard to live with. They think Esteban is a saint for being able to put up with my shit.

This is what happens when I give Esteban a bunch of kudos for being a wonderful husband. This is what happens when I show him LobotomyBabe’s entry in my guest book that heralded Esteban as a ‘good man’.

I become Cruella Deville without the stylish wardrobe. Roseanne WhateverHerLastNameIsNow to Esteban’s John Goodman.

I’m aghast. This whole time, I’ve been thinking that we were the paragon of a healthy loving relationship, both in private and to the rest of the world. This whole time, everyone’s been thinking that our home life is an enactment of ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ but without the witty iambic pentameter and Italianate architecture.

It all comes down to this: I don’t think of myself as a big girly girl. I’ve discussed this in the past. I like to hang with guys. I consider myself even an honorary guy sometimes. When I lived in London, my buds were the men. When my flat mates had a ‘penis exposure incident’, I wasn’t on the ‘Oh My God’ side of the fence with my girl roommates; I was on the ‘Laughing my ass off’ side of the fence with my boy roommates.

Thus, I don’t think anything of arguing with them when I think they are wrong. I don’t think anything of giving them shit or what have you. The women I know don’t do this, but I do. It’s part of my charm, I’d like to think.

It’s also part of the reason everyone thinks I’m a harpy ball buster.

Esteban was quick to point out that HE does not think that I am hard to live with. He just admits that I am argumentative. When I said ‘What? I’m not argumentative.’, he was quick to point out that I was arguing about whether or not I am argumentative.

For the record, I am very easy to live with. I don’t require very much from Esteban. God, I will go for ungodly long amounts of time before I bring up the things that he neglects around the house (stinking sink of dishes comes to mind, not touching a bag of garbage for six months comes to mind). I know women who require that their husbands ask permission before doing anything without them. I know women who tag along to every event that their husband wants to go to and then act all bored and pissed off while they are there. I know women who won’t allow their men to do ANYTHING that doesn’t involve them. I know men who regret every day since they’ve become married. I know men who must clear every single monetary purchase with their wives, including going out to lunch with their friends. I know women who berate their husbands publicly as being ‘stupid’ and ‘worthless’. I know men who had more autonomy when they were ten years old than they do now.

I’m not like that. I don’t own Esteban and I certainly don’t take the attitude that I’m his mother and must govern him.

But I guess they’re not basing their opinion on those little facts. They’re basing it on the fact that I have an opinion. They apparently don’t like women who disagree. That Gloria Steinem brain voice of mine never lets up, I tell you.

But then, maybe I’m biased. I mean, Esteban said that several people think I’m a scary person, so maybe I give off that aura. I do admit that I’m very sarcastic (I’m sure you didn’t get that impression from this diary, did you????). I also admit that I have occasionally been misinterpreted in my intentions. For instance, once as a joke, I took Scott to task as a joke for referring to me as ‘a spouse’ rather than a friend and I know I came off badly with that. I also don’t put up with much bull from certain people, so that probably supports it, too.

I’m sweet and lovable. Really. I’m a kitten.

I just want to get up on a platform and yell ‘I AM NOT A BITCH!!!!!’

I’m not. I just play one on Diaryland.