After a recent spate of complaints, I began to think I should give up editing for Blogcritics and become a pimp. They have it easy compared to what we editors endure.

Oh, the glorious life of an editor. Yeah, I know you're all thinking that we editors sit around in some room, passing the bottles of booze, the smokes, and the haute cuisine. Sure. Wouldn't that be a beautiful thing?

Reality check!

Fact is, the life of an editor is a lonely job. Unless you count the endless emails.

Imagine a handful of people sitting around in their individual abodes. Contrary to popular belief, we do not live in a commune on some exotic island.

So there we sit. Alone. We look at the volumes of emails all screaming for attention. Editor 1 has sent out a missive letting everyone else know that they're working on an article requiring input from others. "Is this going to get us in legal trouble?" "Is it just me or does this read like someone fed a dictionary to a hamster and ran it through a duck press to see what came out?" "Can someone please edit my article about the breaking news story from three days ago?" Ah, yes, even editors must wait in line. And we're regularly stumped by some of the articles we read. Yes, we read all the articles. Forget the sexy centerfolds, we have to read everything!

Then, after six hours of nonstop emails, queries from writers and other editors, and near-blindness, I realize I need to use the bathroom (Damn, is it supposed to hurt that much when I pee? Why can't I just have a foley catheter and skip the whole 'pee like a racehorse' thing twice a day?), tend to a starving or bleeding child, nod at a spouse or significant other, and maybe grab a piece of that stale and suspicious-looking piece of pizza in the back of the fridge. As I step over the pile of unread mail and newspapers and dirty clothes, I grab the milk from the fridge and sniff at it warily. I think, "when was the last time I went to the store? It smells iffy. If I drink it, will I collapse on the floor and writhe in pain for hours? If I take my chances on the milk and the pizza, end up with food poisoning, do you think the writers will understand that I can't reach the computer from the bathroom and their articles are going to have to wait?"

The crying from another room remains largely unheeded. For me, I know my boyfriend will live if he doesn't see me for a few more hours. Hell, I got him those movies to keep him busy. Why can't be occupy his time like my son does - with Gameboy Advance and the Blades of Thunder game? "Look at me! Be with me! I have needs, too!" Men.

The lonely and beleaguered editor settles down in front of the computer again, having tended briefly to personal needs. Said editor contemplates trifocals for a split second, dismissing the thought as another timewasting activity. Who needs vision? Oh, well. Whatever.

Climbing over the bodies of editors past, I approach the pending queue. How could there be another 40 articles in pending since I walked away 38 seconds ago? Don't these writers have lives? Must they churn out an endless stream of content? Crikey!

Diving in, I consider the possibility of joining the circus. Surely, it would be quieter in one of the three rings and cleaning up after the elephants. What on earth is this? What does the author mean by "the talker in the movie spun around and disappeared after talking to the other talker"? Huh? Isn't this an article about the latest takeover of the L.A. Times by the Branch Davidians? I'm confused. Hmm, I'll email the other editors, maybe they'll get it. HOLD FOR CLARIFICATION. I email the author, while I'm at it.

After emailing everyone, I notice someone else has a question about something I know a lot about. I read that. Wha-aat? Oh, okay. I'll handle it. Except Yahoo groups is slow and the issue has already been resolved and I'm just mucking things up. Crap!

Moving on, I pick up another article. Oooh! My luck's changing. I should buy a lottery ticket. This piece doesn't require anything from me other than hitting "publish". I start humming "Glory, Glory, Hallelujah" and wiggle delightedly on the sofa. I let the phone ring as I embrace the next article with great anticipation and hope for another easy edit.

Suddenly the sky darkens and theme song from Jaws is heard in the background. I haven't a clue as to what this is about. I'll email the editor of that section. Oh, wait...that editor's in the hospital. Hmm, what to do? Oh, I know, I'll ask EO to have a look at it. Yeah, that's the ticket. I know he's not busy. Right. He emails me back asking why Advance hasn't been updated and why the hell haven't I written anything on the latest concert or TV show. Uh, I'll pretend I don't see that email.

Going back to the pending queue, I realize that it's been another four hours since I heard a peep from anyone in the house. I briefly consider hobbling up the stairs to check for signs of life. Nah, if they needed something they'd have shrieked or rattled their chains.

Next article is fairly straightforward. No attribution for the quoted text, but hell, who cares? Oh, wait. This is looking really familiar. Google. That's what I'll do. Googling the quoted passage, I discover the whole article is simply a collection of paragraphs from the 40 articles on GNews. Another email to the author and the editor group.

On to the next item.

Crap! Was that a mouse that just ran over my foot? Oh, no...it was just the weeds swirling around in the water. Water? Uh oh. Fine, whatever. I'll deal with that later.

The food poisoning is starting to get the best of me. I ignore the rumblings in my belly and publish another four articles. I'm not sure they made any sense, but I hope. I'm a hopeful person.

There are 12 BC Yahoo groups digests in my mailbox. Do I dare read them? Nah. I'll wait.

I finally read EO's email and respond. He sends one back telling me not to worry, he was just curious and wanted to update the affiliates with good news. I quickly check Advance, realize that I forgot to publish the articles I added to the site, make the changes, and publish. I wonder where my template went for the articles. I create a new one. EO's happy. The affiliates are happy. My kid shows up at my side, having gnawed through his restraints, and he wants food. Didn't I just feed him last week? Whatever.

Crap. There goes the power. Damn. I knew I forgot something. Those people at the electric company sure expect a lot, don't they? Money, money, money. I make a call and beg for them to restore service. After all, I can't run the respirator for my boyfriend manually and well, you know. No such luck. It'll be three days before they can turn the power back on. Fine. I pick up the laptop, grab the kid, step over the trash that's collected by the front door and head off to Panera where I can feed my kid AND have free wifi.

I publish another couple articles. Amazing how much faster this goes when one's eaten and had a chance to clear one's brain for a few minutes.

I'm feeling good about everything and start to do a little happy dance in the middle of the restaurant. People look at me with pained expressions. C'mon, I'm not that bad! I then realize that I've been sitting in the place in a long t-shirt and nothing else. And, what's that smell? Oh man, when did I last shower?

Eh, if they can't handle it, screw 'em.

Back at the computer, I see the writers I contacted earlier have responded. Ouch! Such language! I kick it up to EO. He has nothing going on, right? Right.

My son nudges me and tells me that they're kicking us out of Panera. Reluctantly, I load everything into the car and head back to the bleakness of my powerless home. By some miracle, there's a light shining from within. Whoa! The candle I left burning in the bathroom after my earlier visit seems to have set off some sort of chain reaction and the place is on fire. I grab the cell phone and dial 911. Thankfully, there wasn't much to burn, what with the flood from earlier. Whatever.

I send my child over to his dad's house and call a friend asking for a place to stay for a couple days. I secure a room, a shower, some clothes, and most importantly, Internet access!

All is right with the world once again.

Maybe I should try my hand at the presidency. That shouldn't be too hard after all this, right? Oh, crap. I can't. I have to get back to editing. And, really. Why would I give up my glamorous life as an editor for such a thankless job as that?