This week is a short week for us here at the Blue House. We’re closed Thursday and Friday for Thanksgiving (and post-Thanksgiving shopping) as I’m sure most offices are. And there’s nothing I like more than a good holiday full of family, friends and food. But why is it that the days leading up to such a holiday oftentimes are the most stressful days of all?

Granted, I’m not the one cooking the bird this Thursday, but I’ve still got a lot on my plate. We’re traveling out of town for the weekend, which means laundry and packing — and with a 1-year-old you can never pack too many clothes! I’m dreading my trip to the grocery store to pick up the ingredients I need in order to make my “dish.” And, to top it all off I’m running in a 10K Thanksgiving morning. (If you remember from my previous posts I use the term “run” very loosely.) I wonder if the List has anyone who specializes in “holiday help” that I could hire? Or, at this point, I think I’d hire someone just to run the race for me. I know, I know, it’s my own doing. Sigh …

But I know that if I can get the laundry done and clothes packed, if I can tidy up the loose ends here at work, if I can successfully contribute a “dish” to the big meal AND somehow cross the finish line (other than on a stretcher) — I know I’ll have a house full of family and fantastic food to look forward to. And I couldn’t be more thankful.

I'm going to divert from the typical stuff discussed here. I'm sure you're on the end of your seat, anticipating what I'll discuss. Let's go back in time to when the Beatniks were cool, juvenile delinquency was on the rise, Playboy was just beginning and Grace Kelley was simply beautiful. I'm talking about the 1950s and Spam.

Why Spam? Because I didn't know there were so many darn types out there!

Here in the Blue House we like to kid around with each other. Typically this involves many 'reply all' e-mail chains that spin out of control like a Midwestern tornado. If you step away from your desk during one of these 'spam storms' you return to 15,000 e-mails talking about stuff on cats or pies in the office kitchen.

I like to wait for the right moment in these 'spam storms.' Typically this happens on e-mail No. 526. Why No. 526? I have no idea, but when we pass that magic number, I like to send out a picture of a Spam can to shut everybody up. I'm sure my co-workers love me for this.

So in honor of Spam (the mystery meat type) killing spam (the electronic type), I've decided to post a bunch of Spam can pictures and throw a few interesting facts about Spam out there. Here you go:

• Despite associating Spam with the 1950s, I've learned it was actually introduced in 1937.

• The original name was Hormel Spiced Ham, but then shortened it to Spam.

• Austin, Minn. is home to Spam Jam, a carnival devoted to the mystery meat every Fourth of July. Don't you think they would've picked a better day?

• The Spam Jam is not to be confused with Space Jam, Michael Jordan's best movie.

• The Spam Jam is not to be confused with Spamarama, which is a yearly festival held around April Fool's Day in Austin, Texas. Really? April Fools Day? OK ...

• Spam was one of the few foods excluded from British food rationing during the World War II. Hitler was defeated; Churchill thanked Spam.

• Since World War II Spam has become very popular in Japan. No punch line. That's the joke.

And that's all I know.

I hold an Angie’s List record. No, I haven’t done any research to prove it. You’ll have to trust me (as I unsuccessfully told Guinness World Records officials). To my knowledge, I’m the longest-running intern in the Angie’s List Publication Department, and probably in the entire world.

Being an intern isn’t the most prestigious job. I really resent how I spend half of each workday pushing cars out of the mud and doing frivolous, humiliating parlor tricks to amuse staff members. Of course, I look at the glass as half full: All those ruthless insults were actually “constructive criticisms.”

I’ve been at the List almost two years. As my desk neighbor Matthew likes to joke, that makes me a “senior intern.” Well, I’m sad to say I’m retiring that esteemed, albeit paradoxical, title. It’s time to move on.

In a few weeks, I’m graduating college and beginning a new epoch. I’ve been told the world looks much different to college graduates. Doors open. Gaps close. Wages increase. Mountains crumble.

I’m excited to experience all of that. Yet I won’t encounter this new world without feelings of gratitude and heartache. The truth is, I’ve really loved my internship at Angie’s List. I learned a lot, grew a lot, and never stopped having fun. By title, I was an intern, but not once did anyone treat me as anything but an equal.

So, I’ll miss it. My family lives in Georgia, and that’s where I belong. My second family, though, lives in the Blue House. And how do you say goodbye to such wonderful people? You don’t. You say, “Thanks.”

So I saw my first snow before February yesterday. Every relative I had below the Mason-Dixon line called me and asked if I was in line “at the Wal-Mark's stockin' up for the blizzard.' And honestly, yes, the thought crossed my mind. Maybe even more than once.

It's exciting for me to get familiar with a new climate, albeit the cold end of the climate at this point. The Blue House is endearingly chilly, yet delightfully cozy, with everyone bundled up while working away. I like it in a way. More excuses to drink hot chocolate.

My car on the other hand does not like the weather. Every morning Nadine, my little car, whines and moans. You can tell she thinks that it isn't time to be this cold. It's not time to scrape the windshields. She huffs and puffs as I turn the key, trying to get her engine going. I don't know much about weatherizing an older vehicle, but I bet the List can give me a few ideas to ease Nadine's creaky sprockets on future — even colder — Indy mornings.

A couple of days ago, I experienced what most people avoid and fear — an auto accident. I'll spare you the details, but the end result is this: My pride and joy, my ever loyal and faithful partner, my trusty friend, my truck is gone. As a result of the impact, my  1999 GMC Sonoma was reduced to a wretched visage of its former self, with a twisted, smashed and broken front end, and it began its journey to that Elysium Junkyard in the Sky.

I consider myself lucky. Unlike Paul's very scary and traumatic collision, I and the other drivers involved left the the scene of the accident without injury and all three of us were covered by insurance. My insurance company, in particular, has some of the best claims service I've ever experienced. Three business days after the accident, my truck has been inspected, declared a total loss, and I have a check to go toward the purchase of a new vehicle in hand. These factors will lead me to rate them highly when I fill out an Angie's List report about their services.

But as I face the prospect of buying a new vehicle, most likely another truck, I'm sentimental for all the memories I made with Mabeliene (the never-spoken name I gave her when we first met). All the moving we helped my friends with; all the furniture we hauled together; the motorcycles we picked up and transported from places like Chicago, Cincinnati and Cicero, Ind., back to Indianapolis; and the road trips to Brown County State Park, Edinburgh, Ind., and Chicago and Michigan — in all, we spent 40,000 beautiful miles together. Most of all,  I'll miss the daily drives to and from work — though she had her minor problems like a leaky power-steering unit and misaligned driver's side door, she was dependable and never let me down.

When I collected my personal possessions from the smashed and deformed shell of my beloved friend, I thanked her for doing her job of always getting where I needed to be and ultimately keeping me safe from danger.

Last week I had the unpleasant task of giving a highly rated bike shop its first C and D grades that it's received in a long time.

Maybe I caught them on a bad day. More likely, I think I used a service that is not their forte: bike rental.

Some friends and I decided to ride mountain bikes on a local trail, and a couple of us, including me, needed to rent mountain bikes.

The bike shop we visited was the natural choice: Its member reviews are filled with reports of excellent customer service. But that wasn't the case on this day, and not with my bike.

The employees conveyed a blasé attitude and their miscommunication with me and each other resulted in my friend and I standing around needlessly for 20 minutes.

Despite mechanics 'checking out' the bike, once I got it on the trail I noticed the kickstand rubbed against the rear tire and several times the seat collapsed — an unpleasant sensation, to say the least. I pointed these flaws out to the mechanic when I returned the bike and he said, 'Yeah, the kickstand will rub if it's not properly adjusted.' OK. Whose job is it to check that adjustment? As for the seat collapsing, he just shrugged.

I'm the first Angie's List member to rate this company's bike rental service. My advice to them: Either stop renting bikes or bring that part of their business up to the same high standards their other work is known for and praised for on the List.

I did not enjoy giving this company a bad review, but I feel it's important to point out the good and the bad. A friend of mine disagrees. She used an A-rated house painter on the List and he did a horrible job. He begged her not to give him a bad review — begged. He gave her a huge discount. My advice to her? 'Warn other members about this guy.' Her heart, however, is softer than mine.