Life in the Slow Lane

Our new office building will have all new furniture. That means we leave all that we have now behind. Can you hear the circling vultures? A co-worker wanders through and says "Anyone claimed that bookshelf yet?" "Um... no." "Good. If anyone asks, it's mine." Or a casual conversation... "I really like that table. I'd like to have it." "Yeah, isn't it nice? I'm sure you could find one like it at Target or something." "No, I want that table." Like the flags of Imperialism, names are staked on every bookshelf, lamp, and anything else that will make a decent transfer to a living room. For some reason, it all seems so terribly disrespectful to be planning the appropriation and relocation of things we will still use every day for the next two months. But maybe what I feel is just some weird backwards jealousy over the fact that no one has yet laid claim to my filing cabinet-sized desk nor my magic push-you-out-on-th

The Complete Idiot's Guide to Being a Model No further comment.

My first day on the job, as I was shutting down my computer, one of my co-workers passed by and called out "Goodnight!" I started laughing. I thought for sure she was joking. It was only 5 o'clock! We still had another three hours of day light for all sorts of activity, and bedtime wasn't for another 5 hours, why on earth was she wishing me goodnight? But somewhere over time I started saying it, too. Not because I thought it made any more sense, but because that is what we say at 5 o'clock in the 9 to 5 world. I figured it was just one of those things that showed a gaping hole in the sufficiency of the English language. What other terms would you say to someone whom you have seen all day today and will see all day tomorrow? And then today it happened. Night-time came before 5 o'clock. As I sat at my desk and looked out at the thousands of cars making their evening commute with their headlights on, I wanted to say "Hey! I think I got gypped! Somebody stole

Today I set out to accomplish the serious task of spending seven cents. I know, I know. You are thinking "How on earth can spending seven cents be a serious task?" I tell you it is. It took me nearly an hour and a half to do so. The problem all began several months ago when I signed up for a Macy's credit card so that I could save 20% on a wedding gift I was purchasing. A month later when it came time to pay the bill, (what with my change in residence) I had neither my credit card nor my statement and the customer service representative couldn't tell me how much I owed. So I had to guess. And I paid seven cents more than I owed. I never intended to keep my Macy's credit card. I wasn't even going to activate it. But month after month I got the notice that I had a seven cent credit to my name. I'm not one to enjoy contributing to paper waste, so I knew it was time to spend those seven cents. There is a reason I never intended on activating my credit card. I

I'm putting together a list of things to do on Friday afternoon that look like work and could technically be called work, but isn't much like work. So far I have: 1) Delete unnecessary emails from Outlook. 2) Write obvious plans in planner. 3) Check mailbox. 4) Sanitize computer keyboard and telephone. 5) Visit the water cooler. 6) Check for new emails to delete. 7) Change the picture on my desktop. 8) Straighten the pushpins in my walls. 9) Visit the snack area for possible new arrivals of cookies. 10) Clean mug. 11) Check mailbox. 12) Put sticky notes on things that I might forget to do on Monday. 13) Browse through the letters still to be answered and plan carefully for the best time to grab a selection so as to avoid the most trying and insure a good Friday next week. 14) Count letters already answered to maintain bragging rights. 15) Check mailbox. 16) Look for new emails. 17) Check for new emails. 18) Check for new emails. So yeah. I need help. Not only have I not been ab

For those of you who are blissfully unaware, Christmas is less than two months away. I've already participated in sending Christmas greetings to 30 people. I probably have another 20 or so, and then I get to move on to people I know. Which of course is another dilemma. This year is perhaps the first year when it makes sense for me to send out the traditional holiday greeting. Of course every year it is wonderful to get excited at the Christmas season and do your very best to express in words, that cannot possibly suffice, the incredible truth of Christmas, but usually the traditional holiday greeting serves an entirely different purpose. It says, in varying degrees of transparency, "Here I am. I'm still alive. And I want you to know that I'm still alive. And I want you to remember me. And I'd like to know you're still alive, too." I find this particularly necessary this year because after moving to a corner of the world that I didn't even know existed

You know you might be in for a time of it when you receive a 20 page epistle where at the bottom of the first page you read "I won't write much here as usually once my pen takes off it is very hard to stop it, and I don't want to overwhelm you with stuff which probably wouldn't interest you." You know you will be in for a time of it when at the bottom of page five you read "Sorry I haven't kept my writing as neat as is comfortable for the reader but my best intentions in this regard usually do lead the reader to the hell of illegibility."

As I recently confessed, I've gotten a little out of hand with my coupon use. Several weeks ago I spent a 75 cents off coupon on two boxes of Newman's Own popcorn. First, let me advise you to save your 75 cents on something else. The popcorn is kind of gross. But inside each box of popcorn was a coupon to save $1.00 off of some item from Newman's Own. I didn't want to save $1 on gross popcorn, so I decided to branch out and try some other products from the brand. That is when I bought a carton of limeade. Now I should have realized, when one of the first things I did when I brought the popcorn home was to take the bags out of the box, that I did not appreciate staring at Newman's Own face every time I went looking for some item of food. But taking individual bags of popcorn out of a box is a lot simpler than taking the limeade out of the carton. So every time I opened the fridge, there was Newman. And so a battle begun. Did I want to leave him in the front so that I

This week was National Letter Writing Week. I know what you're thinking... "What?!? You waited until Friday to tell us that this was National Letter Writing Week?" Yes, dear readers, I did. But don't worry, I probably wrote enough letters to make up for all of you. Actually I just did some more research and discovered that National Letter Writing Week was the first week of October. I don't suppose it changes anything, though. The entire point behind bringing up the themed week was to point out that you probably did not write any letters and I did. So Ha! I feel special. I think I'll go write myself a letter now.

Yesterday I wandered into a library and found Bill Clinton's book My Life in the fiction shelves. This isn't the start to some bad political joke. It is to wonder why on earth someone has decided that "Large Print" is a subgenre of fiction just like "Westerns" or "Mystery". It would seem to me that there are better ways to organize a library. But what do I know? My personal library has a first aid kit shelved with everything else non-fiction.

There is something gloriously delightful about walking barefoot across an open field with the wind blowing your skirt and singing at the top of your lungs while on your way to work. Perhaps it is the tinge of rebellion in being barefoot during the work day, or the feeling of being untamed just moments before calmly answering a business call, or even the idea that the people you pass are deciding whether to look upon you with pity or jealousy. But friends, as wonderful as this feeling is, it is ever so much greater to do it on the way home from work.

In the little corner of the world that is my cubicle, there is a suspenseful event taking place. A race, five months long is approaching the climactic end. The participants are the blue pen I use for just about everything and the white-out roller that I use for just about everything I use the blue pen on. People would understand if I gave a bit of help to the pen, right? I mean, just a wee bit of little help here... and a little help there... overlooking a few scribbles and misspellings. You'd understand, right?

I've developed a bad habit since moving out on my own. You know that woman who is standing in front of the one item in the store you came to get? The one who is shuffling through her ragged envelope of coupons trying to find the one she just knows is in there somewhere? That's me. I might need to make it to a Couponaholics Anonymous meeting, but I'm not ready to become a recovering addict yet. Who can blame me when my last receipt shows that I saved $14.18 on a total purchase of $25.37? My favorite receipt (I'm looking for a frame 2.5 inches wide by 26 inches long) shows that I saved $59.50 on a purchase of $87.61. That's what 24 double coupons can do for you. Just imagine the face of the guy behind me when I whipped that stack out. But I'm not one of those that will buy something just because she knows she's saving money. I'm smarter than that, let me tell you. I got a coupon that offered $1.00 off a bag of fun-size Crunch bars. Who could resist, reall

If any of you happen to see a burning bush, I think it's for me. I've always considered myself to be somewhat slow of speech and lacking in oral skills. Once I dreamed that I woke up from a surgery to discover that my tongue had been amputated because of a horrible infection. I cried and cried, thinking how I never really appreciated my tongue while I had it. (Technically I did still have it because they had tied it to my hospital bed even though the smell was sickening.) So, me, of the bumbling tongue, got an email from Ms Founder... you know the one who has spoken in front of crowds of thousands... the one that has spoken with presidents... the one who is heard by thousands around the world on daily radio broadcasts... that one. She wants me to coach her on the pronunciation of a few words. So I'm looking for the burning bush. But if you find it before I do, point it out to me. I'll be the one in the tiny cubicle mumbling everything I know about Spanish pronunciation

In the last six years, I've gotten ten years younger. Or, in other words, right now I am younger than I was 10 and a half years ago. You think that gives you a headache? Think how unnerving that is to me! At 18, someone assumed I was over 30. As an 8th grader I was thought to be in college. And now? My dental hygenist (only five years older than me) comments that she thought I was much younger, and the dentist calls me "sweetie" like I am some four year old who got separated from my mother in the grocery store. I was just about ready to write that off as something peculiar to that dental office, especially as the office manager also used a term of endearment with me, but then three cities over in an automotive repair shop, of all places, it happened again. And it wasn't a withered grandfather type or creepy machista ... it was the female service coordinator who was, perhaps, only ten years older than me. "I'll be right with you, Sweetie." What has happen

Today one of my co-workers got a fortune cookie with a fortune which read : You are not illiterate. Maybe it was a fortunate cookie.

The room I rent is nine feet wide and ten feet long. This, of course, makes for some interesting dynamics. For instance, if my recliner is even partially reclined, the door cannot open. When the blinds are open, I can't use the printer. If I forget to move my computer before I sit in the recliner, it topples to the floor. When my fan is on, I can't open my dresser drawers. If I forget to cover my mouth when I sneeze, what with the velocity of a sneeze and the reflective properties of semi-glossed walls, I can catch my own cold before I've finished sneezing. But when I can't close my door without tucking my trash bag in such a way that it won't interfere with my bath towel drying in a position that won't put stress on my computer's power cord which is, itself, placed so that the iron and blow drier won't impede it's mobility and I trace the carefully reasoned placement of each item all the way around the room... I just give thanks that there is a door

Today I made steps to further world peace. The website for my work, as I have previously mentioned, has a form for those who would like to leave a question or comment. In the address section, there is a drop down menu for selecting which country you are from. Currently the list includes 63 countries. Seeing as I have personally been to 21 and I know I have not been to a third of the countries on this fair globe, I realized that there is a problem. Actually, I didn't realize there was a problem until a writer noted that Austria wasn't on the list. I can understand Monaco not being there... even Eritrea, but Austria? So I enquired. We should know by now, that when we enquire about whether we can make a change, it becomes our duty to fix it. So I got to figure out which countries to add to the list. Fair friend, do you want to decide how many countries and which ones should be on the list? I feel like I am faced with the challenge of the UN and the Olympic counsel and then the

Overheard conversation between two children, aged approximately 6 years: "No, no... it's right next to the freeway." "Oh, good. I hate the freeway."

Go to any Bridal Shower or Baby Shower where the programme includes several games, and you will probably be able to find the semi-silent conclave of women refusing to participate in the shower games. Well maybe there isn't such a group at every shower, just every shower I've ever been to. You can make what conclusions about that as you will. One of the games at last night's Bridal shower was "Pin the kiss on the groom-to-be". It was not the groom-to-be in person, just in photograph, but the kiss was not just a paper kiss... it was in person. The guests were supposed to apply lipstick, take the blind fold and a generous spin, and smack the picture -- in order of their birth date. I have never seen so many women under the age of 29 forget when they were born. It also proved to be a most opportune time to get lost on the way to the bathroom.