Minor travels

Today there was Much Strangeness. I got up early and flew to Chicago where I ended up walking a distance equivalent to three marathons at this big, huge-mongous trade show for all things manufacturing. There was definitely some pretty cool stuff there, and I end up not even much bothered by the fact that all the nifty new things we saw somehow caused my project list to double. I guess it’s job security, right?

Flying somewhere and back in the same day has a surreal effect on me. I clearly remember walking out of the house this morning, and it feels like that was this morning. But the whole time I was in Chicago seems like some crazed, feverish dream brought on by the consumption of spoiled cheese, year-old Jujy fruits, and Yoohoo*! My brain has always worked that way: whenever part of a given day is split between different locations, my memory always makes me think it was a completely different day. And not just like yesterday, but more like weeks or months in the past.

For that reason, getting back from a vacation always screws me up something powerful. I suppose it’s my sub-conscious trying to keep me from having Residual Vacation Syndrome, wherein a subject refuses to revert back to normal life because well, it’s normal life; everyone knows it’s much more fun to pretend to be still rockin’ Coronas on a beach someplace warm and sandy.

To make things even stranger, as soon as I turned my Blackberry back on after landing back at home tonight, I found an email waiting for me. The message proudly proclaimed to be from Cottenelle, and the subject stated very clearly that the Puddinette “has sent you a Cottonelle FreshMail

Blink, blink.

Yes, you read that correctly. My wife sent me some virtual toilet paper today. It took everything in my power not to assume that this was some form of passive-aggressive commentary on my email box, or worse.

As it turns out, my “FreshMail” message was actually a theoretical coupon for something or other, which I’m supposed to receive by US Post Office in four to six weeks. Of course, in four to six weeks, I will have completely forgotten about today’s little email-based exchange and will almost certainly find myself wondering aloud in an empty room why the Hell I just got Cottenelle in the damned mail.

And yes, of course I forwarded the offer back to her. I didn’t see any reason why I should be the only one around here with TP in their mailbox.

Pud’n

*except I haven’t really consumed any of these things

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