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You guys are really super-doop good to me-- you know that?

You read-- you're loyal. You comment, some of you, and they're mostly insightful, interesting, engaging comments. Every now and then I'll get innocently flirted with, and that's always good for my ego. Sometimes you'll crack a joke, or reference an item in a column that's 200 posts ago, and that's pretty good for my ego, too. You're nice to me and respectful of each other, and you never ever whine that I'm not much for commenting on comments, probably because you know it's kind of a pet peeve of mine and that, if I have a comment that I feel requires one back, I'll leave one.

In short, you don't expect a lot of me and, in that respect, you're rather like my middle school math teachers. Except that I'm sure most of you shave regularly.

And there are a couple of you out there who stand up to me, calling me out on my rampant, AIDS-like hypocrisy, and I'm most grateful for those of you. (Not that I want all of you to start doing it, that would be a total suckfest.) Yesterday, Colleen was catching up on some of my blogs after returning from her vacation (I know that because, all of a sudden, seven comments showed up in my inbox on blogs from a week ago, not because I look through her mail and obsessively finger her kitchen utensils while she's at work) and she left a comment on a blog of mine about how much I hate my job-- a subject I touch on with frequency and aplomb. After reading my tautly-paragraphed whinings about my passive-aggressive chair and my boss that smells like farts, she responded with:

"'Boohoo, I'm one of the 90% of Americans who has a full-time job.'

Quit your bellyaching. And be grateful for your malodorous chair."

Oops. Was it something I said?

Of course, Colleen's right-- I'm a complete and utter crybaby because, no matter whether my office chair smells like fresh-baked croissants, industrial varnishing, or goat excrement, at least I have an office chair to befoul forty hours every week. Did it ever occur to me that under or un-employed individuals might take exception to a post about how much I hate work in a climate when 10.2% of Americans are unemployed? Yes-- the same way some of my pathetic, acne-ridden, hopelessly single readers might get turned off when I write schmoopie blooperings about my disgustingly adorable marriage, the same way my poor, unfortunate reader who tools around in a funkified, rusted out shell of a1987 Ford Festiva might get his panties in a barb when I complain about the fate to which I have been consigned-- a 2001 Chrysler PT Loser.

Here's the thing-- Colleen said something. She even managed to do it in a cute, hey-you're-a-jerk-but-it's-okay kind of way. In case you haven't realized, I can be pretty insensitive sometimes, I can run off at the mouth and I can alienate-- it has been known to happen. Hey-- I lost my best friend simply by opening my mouth. So, I know that.

I know.

And I don't want to lose any of you. I've lost too much in my life already. So, long story short, stick around. And open your mouths when you need to.

I still hate my job, of course-- that doesn't change a thing, and nothing changes.