Because if I post this here, I won't actually send it. Maybe...

Dear Boss #1:

I did not create the Internet. I just didn't. That's a fact. I have created a lot of great things in my day including this blog and an impressive bong I made out of a blue Gatorade bottle in high school, but the Internet, I can not take credit for. I'm also a graphic designer born after 1984, which makes me one of the more tech savvy receptionists. Again, I'll give it to you. But all of these factors do not make me the all-knowing Master of Computer Technology. It just means I can Photoshop a really comical picture of Pam Grier's body with Tiffany Amber Thiessen's head in under five minutes. Or a picture of a praying mantis named Scott wearing bifocals writing a screenplay. Or an image of Alex and Maya Angelou floating through space entitled, "SPACE BIFFLES." That's the extent of my computer magic right there. Is it helpful? Not really. Is it hilarious? Yes.

You know what I regret, Boss #1? I regret on that first day of work when you came to me and said, "I'm pressing the 'C' button on my laptop, but the coffee dun't come out!" that I walked over to you, all fat and cocky and held you in my arms like a wilting flower and whispered, "Shhhh...I'm here now." I regret that I showed you where the coffee machine was and explained to you that a laptop is a word processing machine and not another asshole. Because it was then that you looked at me through slick, wet eyes and decided that I was the Empress of all that is Digital and Holy. And from that moment on, you came to me with any problem that was even remotely technological. From missing Word documents to dead vibrator batteries, I'd take a few Common Sense pills, hit auto-recovery, pop in a few double-A's and tell you to, "go get 'em, Tiger."

But guess what? There are some technological problems that I can not solve. Problems that go beyond my knowledge of when in doubt, CTRL-ALT-Delete and/or power cycle the router. Sometimes, I just don't know why the Internet isn't working. "So, call Comcast, Estupida," I can just hear Boss #2 saying. "OK, what's our account number?" "Jo no sey." "But I need it to call Comcast." "Just geev them the number to our telephono." "Which number is on the account?" "Jo no sey." "Ok...what name is on the account?" "STOP GRILLING ME FOR INFORMACIÓN!!! Who are you—Border Control?! Just fix it!" So like the gringa I am, I call Comcast and explain to them that our Internet isn't working and I don't know our account number or the account telephone number or what name the account is even in, but if you don't help me, my boss is going to beat me like a piñata. And Comcast, bless their collective hearts, is always sympathetic but never helpful. They put me on hold for the rest of the day and nothing ever gets solved and I go home and curl up in a ball and gently rock, knowing that in 10 hours I'm going to have to come back and do it all over again. And all of the managers in all of the Comcast, Netgear and Dell help centers in the world ask me the same question—"who is your Network Administrator?" And I explain to them that I'm 99% sure it's me and 100% sure that my soul is slowly creeping out through my asshole.

What I'm trying to say, Boss #1, is that I don't know how to fix the Internet or the wireless printer router. This is the crossroads we're currently standing in. And you don't get it. You can not grasp the concept that I can't fix the Internet. You are convinced that as The Empress of all things Digital and Holy, I keep the Internet up my snizz and can queef it out on demand. But I cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die that is not the case. Because if it were, I'd be charging 50 bucks a queef and not eating gummy fangs for dinner and working for you.

I understand that you're frustrated, because I'm frustrated too. But you know what's not going to help? Throwing your flash drive at me and yelling "MAKE THIS WORK!!!!!" before stomping off like a child. I don't like that as of yesterday, I can honestly say that I've had a grown woman throw a flash drive (or as you call it, a "computer-stick") at my face. You are a grown-ass woman. If you're frustrated with me because I refuse to queef out the Internet for you, don't throw shit at me. Because I'm a fucking human being. And when you've cooled down and realized how grossly inappropriate you were, don't make a joke out of it. Apologize. Because throwing shit at me is not funny. Knock-knock jokes are funny. Old people talking about sex are funny. Family Matters is funny. Having a temper-tantrum and throwing shit at me is not funny. And if you're that frustrated with me for holding the Internet deep within my womb and refusing to grant you access because you haven't paid the toll, try talking to me about it. If you can answer me these riddles three, I swear I shall grant you access to your precious Internet:
1.) What is our Comcast account number?
2.) Can I please have some petty cash to buy a new router?
3.) Are you aware that I'm not an IT person?

That last one is an honest-to-god question that I want answered. Do you know that I'm a receptionist and not an IT person? Because knowing how to use a computer does not make me a computer expert. Being able to do "fancy" things with the computer like opening a new tab without the mouse or dragging files onto your "computer-stick" doesn't mean I'm going to be able to fix every single computer problem that arises. When you bitch and moan that your computer is too bright and I click the "less sun" button to dim it, that doesn't mean I'm Bill Gates—it just means I know my ass from a hole in the ground. I can connect the dots that Mr. Sad Face Sun is probably the guy I should talk to if I want to dim the computer screen. There's a difference between intelligence and common sense. And I'll be the first to tell you, I have neither. I'm just really good at fiddling with shit. And that's what half of using a computer is. Just clicking things and opening and closing shit and messing around until you do whatever it is you're trying to do. And you, Boss #1, are completely capable of doing this, you just prefer when I do it. And you know what? That's fine. Because frankly, I have nothing else to do and if me figuring out how to turn off your daily Outlook reminder makes me look like a genius in your eyes, I'll take it. I take the small wins when I get 'em because I, overall, am a loser.

However, It's the leap from "can you make my screen less bright?" to "can you make the Internet appear out of thin air?" that I have a problem with. Because knowing how to google "insert a signature in Outlook" does not mean I can perform miracles. And I don't appreciate that when I can't perform miracles, you don't believe me and think I'm holding out on you. Trust me, if I can do something to shut you up and get you off my back, I'm gonna do it. My goal is to interact with you as little as possible on a daily basis. I just want to write my little blog and watch The Hulu and eat my chicken wrap and get through the day as quickly as possible until it's time to go home. I don't like when you come to me with your problems. AND YOU DO! ALL THE TIME! You come to me with all of your problems! "Meghan, my phone is too loud!" "Meghan, I don't know how to save something to the desktop!" "Meghan, my daughter doesn't want to go to college!" "Meghan I have a UTI!" "Meghan, I'm not happy with my husband anymore!" GAH!!!! On one hand, I'm flattered that you think I'm competent enough to deal with all of these problems, but on the other—I'm just the fucking receptionist. And you pay me accordingly. Specifically, you pay me like a fucking migrant worker. So if you want me to be your receptionist, IT person, life coach and gynecologist, you need to give me a raise. Oh and some health insurance and vacation time would be dandy too.

In conclusion: I am not an IT person. I didn't get my degree in computer science from Westwood. I don't always know how to fix your computer. And this is not my fault. We need someone we can go to when we have computer problems who is not me. And more importantly, you can not be mad at me about this. To drive the point home, I'm going to leave you with a list of things that I am 100% capable of doing and a list of things that I ma 100% not capable of doing. Study the list. Learn the list. Respect the list. And stay in your own lane or I will drive you off the road.

Things I Can Do:
- File
- Organize
- Answer phones
- Dust
- Take crucial naps
- Snuggle with Evie
- The Electric Slide
- Work a remote
- Make a bangin' salad
- Design a tri-fold pamphlet
- Make a mediocre cup of coffee
- Take a message
- Shake your hand firmly

Things I Can Not Do:
- Fix a broken wireless router
- Reconfigure the printer router
- Hack into our neighbor's wireless
- Read your mind
- Make new light bulbs appear out of nowhere
- Make a special Comcast Seal channel because you're really in the mood to hear "Kiss From a Rose"
- Spackle the walls
- Prescribe you Amoxicillin
- Fix a broken dishwasher
- Convince your daughter to go to college
- Upholster a chair
- Duplicate a set of keys with the two hands God gave me
- Power your laptop with bodily fluids and willpower

With a false sense of respect and affection,
Meghan C. McBlogger

Things That Blow My Mind:

- There are four seasons worth of Sweet Valley High episodes on You Tube. Word. The fuck. Up.

- I was out to dinner with my parents the other night, discussing the social impact of the classic 1982 film Grease 2, as you do, and mentioned how smokin' hot I find Max Caulfield aka Michael Carrington:


I was then informed by my parents of the following:
1.) Maxwell Caulfield was on Dynasty as playboy Miles Colby (who later went on to marry Fallon Carrington aka the namesake of my future unborn daughter) in the 1987 spin-off The Colbys. Full. Circle.


2.) Maxwell Caulfield is married to Juliette Mills aka TABITHA THE WITCH FROM PASSIONS.


=



The fuck?!

3.) Juliette Mills aka Tabitha the Witch from Passions IS HAYLIE MILLS' SISTER.


My mind is thoroughly blown.

- Speaking of Maxwell Caulfield, this is quite possibly the most homosexual photograph in existence:


So there's that.

- Praying mantids can eat small vertebrates such as tree frogs, small lizards and mice. That's fuckin' insane to me. That means in the battle of praying mantis v. mouse, the praying mantis would win. Insane. This keeps me up at night, and I am fully aware of how pathetic that is.

- Sometimes I feel completely cut off from the world because I work alone (like any good superhero) and given my anxious tendencies, I don't watch the news or read the newspaper. I figure if something major happens, someone will eventually tell me or I'll read about it on Gawker. Last night my sister was over and mentioned "the airplane crash." My reaction: what crash? The look of pure horror and judgement in her eyes was astounding. She asked if I was being serious. I said yes. She asked again, but not in a buddy-buddy, oh girl, you so crazy! kind of way, but more in a genuinely concerned about my well being kind of way. Oh, I'm sorry! I watch Dynasty all day, what do you expect? It's perpetually 1981 in my world. The most newsworthy thing in my mind is Reagan getting shot.

So yes, I'm pathetic and slow and way late on the ball and blah blah blah, but holy shit—the Air France crash: WTF?! This is blowing my mind. Not only is it completely disturbing because the plane vanished, but they had like an hour of turbulence in the air leading up to the crash. That gives me the chills and makes me want to vomit all at once. AND THERE WAS AN 11-YEAR OLD BOY ON BOARD FLYING ALONE BACK TO BOARDING SCHOOL! I can't stop picturing him as Harry Potter! It's breakin' my heart! What do you think those people were thinking during that final hour? And they say the plane went down 1-3 miles under sea. MILES. Like that timed thing I didn't run in middle school. MILES. This is blowing my mind in the worst way possible. ALSO! The plane hit a wall of thunderstorms? Now I haven't flown in a year or so, but don't planes have radar? Alex's iphone has radar for Christs' sake. It was able to tell us how long we had to stay outside at happy hour until the rain hit the other night, I'm sure it could tell when you're about to hit a wall of thunderstorms. You know, so you don't plummet miles into the sea.

...'Eh...this is why I live in 1981. I'll be watching Sweet Valley High and gently rocking if you need me.