Life in the Slow Lane

I think the term "gift exchange" has inherent problems. It makes me think of exchanging clothes: an attempt to gain something of equal value for something that is not quite right; and it makes me think of money exchange: handing over something of familiar value for a pile of monopoly money that may not even get you Free Parking. Is it any wonder I think "gift exchange" sounds mercenary? Of course there are the mercenary exchanges, the "everybody bring a wrapped picture frame and everyone will go home with a different frame" and the infamous white elephants. But when gift giving is done well, it is not merely an exchange. Gift giving done well is one of those magic things that brings greater satisfaction than any component by itself. By no means is it merely an "exchange". Maybe it is better called a gift boost?

Coming soon to national television... Yours Truly. When your work place becomes the key filming location for a national television program, you are bound to get the occasional "oops I just walked down the hallway where they are filming, I hope my shirt was tucked in okay". But this is even better. Two people walked into my cubicle, with a camera rolling behind them, and voila! I think I could have used some advance notice and a green room. So yes, at some point, you may see my lovely desk which looks remarkably like a bad day at the paper mill while I am working. And you may see me trying to type at a professional speed level while not typing anything of a sensitive nature... in Spanish. And you may see how it actually looks like I don't know how to type at all and you will see all of the red squiggles that Microsoft Word helpfully puts under words you misspell . And you will see me turn six shades of pink. But then maybe the editor will decide that I don't add a

I happened to walk by a magazine today and I read on the front cover "41 Great Gift Ideas". Seeing as this year my Great Gift Idea list is approximately two gifts long, I thought I would take a peak and see if I might get any brilliant ideas I could then claim were my own. But gentle readers, you will be happy to know that I have been saved from the temptation of plagiarism. If even 20 of their 41 gift ideas receive the ranking of great, then I guess I have a longer list than I thought I did. One of their gift suggestions was little colored bud vases "which will make even an ordinary flower a great centerpiece". AhHEM. Since when is a flower ordinary? In my opinion, if I had a bunch of little colored bud vases, I think I would have to go find a bunch of flowers so that I could turn the vases into great centerpieces.

Here at Slowlane Labs we continue with the high quality research you have come to expect and rely on. And we know you will benefit greatly from this new discovery: Making the front passenger seat of your car both home office and picnic basket may be hazardous to your picnic basket, home office, and passenger seat. With the rising costs of restaurant meals and the sometimes limited access to previously perceived-as-necessary pantry and fridge space, many of you have no doubt stumbled upon the perfect solution of winter picnics in your car. With a loaf of bread and a jar of PB and J, winter temperatures turn any unused car seat into prime picnic-basket space. Add a selection of snack items, and any day can be a day for the non-work-a-day world of a picnic. And no doubt if you have ever commuted to work or school, you have taken advantage of the extra minutes in the car when you have arrived a few minutes early or you are waiting for your next class or for the light to turn green, and

At my place of residence, I have a lot of time to think about molasses in January when I endeavor to get on the great world wide web. I was walking through the house the other day wearing three layers of clothing, a scarf, a knit cap, gloves, socks and slippers and my house mother asked, shocked "Are you going out?" "No, I'm going to go check my e-mail." The room really is that cold. I'm not sure whether the cold contributes to the speed of the connection, but I do suspect that it affects the speed of my blood flow. After waiting ten minutes to load half a page of any of my four personal email accounts, I feel very sleepy and I come close to looking for a snow bank I can curl up in to get warm. Fortunately, because the room has no comfortable place to curl up, I am saved from the danger of hypothermia. If only I could get some molasses out of it all.

I've been accepted to grad school!

I'm VIP at the place where I get the oil changed in my car. Every three months, on my lunch break or at 5 when I get off from work, I dart around the corner to Lube and Smog. I'm sure they are always very pleased to see me, as they cut short their lunch break or realize their day isn't quite done. And that is even before they open the hood. Every time I come in, they tell me how difficult it is to change the air filter and polite frustration turns to more colorful language as the entire crew remarks on how long this routine service is taking. Frankly, I was surprised when they handed me the VIP card after my first LOF . I thought for sure they would not go out of their way to encourage my return. And I secretly suspect that they regret that particular gift each time I flash the card. But then, maybe anyone who manages to find this place (just off of New "Unnamed" Road) is VIP.

Today I sat down at my desk, the most knowledgeable about things pertaining to my department. I'm surprised you weren't able to hear the scream evoked by that statement. But perhaps that scream would be overshadowed by the scream resulting from the statement "I am responsible to train three new hires starting this week." It really is too bad that people do not have USB ports. I could have collected all of the knowledge from my previous co-workers and just kept it on a thumb drive or (couple dozen), and then this week I could quickly plug them in and voila: a department up and running. Needless to say, my faith in my ability to train is not a strong faith. But perhaps I have unknowingly trained them in the most important things: all three brought me gifts this morning. I think I may work that into the training manual.

In my job it is often just as important to read what is not written as to read what is. This is why the letter which asked what action we would recommend in explaining suicide to a child weighed heavy on my heart. The details were heart-breakingly vivid, and the depth of emotion made me wonder whether the writer were parent, grandparent, or older sibling. I sat for a long time, carefully crafting a letter, trying to address the needs of any of the potential scenarios I imagined. Finally, I signed my name to the letter and sent it off. I was not expecting the reply that came quickly back. "Thank you for answering my question. I hopefully won't ever have to be in that situation, but I was just curious." "Just curious"? That answer works just as well here as it does to the question "Why did you stick thumb tacks into your sister's fingers?" or "Why did you pour bleach on the dog?" There is that old cliche "curiosity killed the cat&

I think my blog is on the verge of an identity crisis. The most consistent reason new readers visit here is for the song lyrics I posted to annoying children's songs more than two years ago. And how can I, in good consciousness, continue to post on a blog titled "Life in the Slow Lane" when I've said I would do what promotes the very antithesis? (work overtime) But if I stop posting about the things of the Slow Lane, who will carry on? Who will confess to a board member stopping to comment on how she owns nail color the exact shade as I am wearing on my toes, but she only bought it because she knew she would never wear it so it could be seen? Who will instruct on the proper way to wash a car (leave it in the rain) or what to say when an eleven year old calls you to share what he is eating for dinner? Indeed, I would be tempted to stop posting altogether if it weren't for the fact that this blog is contributing to the sanity of at least one person in this great

The number of digital photos taken on my trip to Peru. I, of course, did not have a digital camera. But someone had the brilliant idea that we would collect everybody's pictures and combine them on to a CD. I do appreciate that, as I couldn't get my flash to work on my film camera, but 3026? I don't even have the time to figure out how to get the computer to open the file, much less look through it. Although, if you want a peak at a few of the pictures I took, which are not on the CD, take a quick trip over to my flickr account. Maybe one of these days I will get some narration on them.

Today three different people mentioned how they met someone over the weekend who knew me. Three different connections, three different occassions. I guess this means I've put down roots.

Coming through the airport in Lima, I became swept up in the closest thing to a mob I have ever been in. Late night, long lines, inches away from the final security check point, and then everyone was redirected past the long line they just stood in, to a desk about 15 feet long. When approximately 200 people swarm around a fifteen foot long desk, yelling, shoving passports in faces, and pushing through the crowd, you begin to look around for any potential trigger that could turn the sparks into an explosion. Airports are already a place of tension: signs that say "Jokes aren't funny", delays, lines, prices of food, miles of corridors to walk between ticketing and departure gate, carry-on-bags that will leave your shoulders mismatched for years to come. Oh, and yes, how could I forget the now standard Plexiglas crates of all forbidden items: combustibles, fire arms, knives, and hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of nail files. And so there I stood in the middle of a new

In the middle of a busy Saturday morning in the shopping district, among all of the sights and sounds and pressing close of people and taxis, I caught a glimpse of what must be the real reason I came to Peru: grenadias . Grenadias are grand ideas: a passion fruit shaped like a grenade (hence the name) full of little juice covered seeds resembling fish eggs. With a description like that, you might wonder why they are grand ideas, but as a kid grenadias were a special treat, more desired than chocolate even. Perhaps it was because we only were able to get them when we were staying in Bogota. Or maybe it was because we were only each allowed one or maybe even only a half. Or maybe it is the combination of sweet and tangy and slippery and crunchy and the fun little bowl the shell makes. But when more than ten years of searching comes to an end in the middle of a busy street, on a crowded sidewalk, there is only one solution: pull out some money and make a purchase. Of course in such a

During the very ceremonious opening ceremonies on the first day of our work here, a woman got up on stage to lead the audience in singing. Perhaps I'm spoiled in the quality of music I am privileged to listen to, but quite frankly, it was awful. It was so awful that I found it nearly impossible to sing along and found myself thinking "Even I could sing better than that." Last night was the very ceremonious closing ceremony. We arrived on time, which turned out to be an hour before everyone else arrived. But apparently that was a good choice, because on the program, the translators were scheduled to sing. At least I had half an hour to remember where I put my singing voice. And half an hour to convince myself that if that other lady could sing, so could I. This was important to consider as I had been elected to sing with the microphone, since I actually knew the song we were going to sing. Of course, I didn't know when we were scheduled to sing, nor what our cue

Normal communication at its best is like swiss cheese: It has holes. The holes are what is not understood or what is lost even before leaving the mouth of the speaker. And, as we all know, translating adds more holes. And if you happen to like cheese and all you get are holes, it can be quite disappointing. So with my translating abilities ("leather" instead of "neck" and "brakes" instead of "braids") I've been giving out a lot of holey cheese. But occasionally I can cover up one of the holes spoken, I can put a little more cheese back into the conversation. Of course, no one realizes the shifting holes but me, but that is probably a good thing: no one wants to eat cheese that moves.

For all you might hear about it just being an issue of mind over matter, let me tell you that it is disappointing to realize that the problem is not that easy to solve in the wee hours of the morning. Of course nothing is easy to solve in the wee hours of the morning when one should be asleep and instead is sicker than she's been in a long time. Barely in country 24 hours, and running out of clean laundry. This whole "packing light" thing seems to be about as effective as "mind over matter".

I will be out of the office from now until sometime when I decide to return. Doesn't that sentence have a nice ring to it? Personally, I think I should be out of the office more frequently, because this is the one and only time when I can leave things I was unable to finish on a neighbor's desk, since surely it cannot wait until I return. We politely forget that it has waited on my desk nearly as long as I will be gone. I would appreciate it if you kindly forget this, too.

What with the great accoustics in this building, I'm worried that I will cough and be heard around the world. Someone walks down the hall and we hear "Quiet on the Set!... slash office!" I might be tempted to get some work done, but that would probably make too much noise.

I have noticed a trend that as the day goes by, and I get more and more tired, I lower my desk chair little by little. But somedays the chair is incapable of lowering as much as I require. Because sometimes, I would really like to lower it enough that I can roll completely under my desk and sometimes I would really like to lower it right through the floor. It's too bad, really, that this chair is so limited in its features.

"Hey, are you excited!?!" Perhaps you already know that the correct response is not "Huh? About What?" And I know that, too. But these days, it's hard to know what people are referring to. Is it my new boss (Don't tell her I used the "b" word)? or my new living situation? Is it the press release I wrote for the website or the response we are waiting for from the TV show? Are they talking about my trip to visit my parents or the trip to Peru? My dinner with church friends or dinner with my cousin who really knows how to cook? Or maybe they are asking about my sister's wedding or the eventual day when the ugly ring worm is nothing but a memory. Or. or. or. I know anticipation is nine-tenths of enjoying an event, but my view these days is not leaving a ton of room for anticipation. I guess I will have to wait for the day when I can better enjoy the emotional build up. When I think about that day, wow, do I get excited.

It's been one of those days where it gets to be 5:00 and I haven't even finished making my "To Do Today" List.

Out on the Mommy-blogs, I occasionally hear mention of a baby-sitting co-op, wherein Mommies exchange babysitting through a system of points, and everyone gets to benefit from the skilled childcare provider that is also called Mom. I think in the work-a-day world (as opposed to the Stay at Home Mom world, which is the work-night-and-day world) someone needs to begin the proof-reading co-op. Really, I'm not sure how much more explanation I can come up for it, because it seems like such an obvious need that I can't figure out why it isn't already in place. Although, maybe I can. Because come to think of it, a great percentage of what I proof-read leads me to believe that in an exchange I would come out poorly. And I'm one who misspelled "grammar" until I was in college. But seriously, something has got to be done. If for nothing else than greater peace of mind when something I write gets mass-produced and sent around the world.

The first week I started at my job, everyone in the department went out to lunch. Almost exactly seventeen months later, here we are again. Same restaurant, same table, same people. Most of us even order the same meal. But 17 months ago, the purpose of the outing was to say "hello" and to begin getting to know each other, and now it is to say good-bye. I'm not saying good-bye. They are. Writing letters, that is what we do, and this week there were three letters of resignation written. It is just one of those things, when it becomes time to move on to another stage of life. But how come their new stages of life all arrived at the same time? I have seen a great deal of good-byes in my time. I know the hollow sound of the "Call me" and the "Keep in Touch!" that never rings true, and as I hear their plans of moving cross-country or settling down with Baby, I wonder if these words will again be spoken for the comfort of the moment or if, maybe, our y

I pull to a stop and put on my parking brake, trying to remember which way I am supposed to turn my steering wheel when parked on a hill. I grab my purse from among the bags of food on my passenger seat and teeter on my heels up the steep driveway. As I approach the door, it opens and after the barest of greetings I am standing in "my room". As unfamiliar as it is. So this is it. The end of my months of nomadic wanderings. Today fall hangs heavy in the air and I am glad for the wall of boxes that contain nearly forgotten luxuries like cozy pajamas and sweaters. I gingerly open the box marked "winter clothes" and breathe a sigh of relief that I will not need to hunt through the other six boxes that mention some item or other of warm weather clothing, as I used my wardrobe as packing material. I sigh with relief because there on top is my soft, snuggly sleepwear. And underneath that is a light bulb. I really can't be bothered now by why a light bulb made friends w

In my work world, it is irresponsible to believe that I can start at one task and expect to carry it to completion without interruption. At any time the phone might ring, and I may spend the next 45 minutes with my phone tucked up against my ear and then the following hour putting together resources and a letter to the caller. Or perhaps an e-mail will pop up in my inbox with a request that I translate the letter and send it internationally before I leave for the day. Then maybe someone passes by and asks if I can help them help a friend... and they will come back in a few minutes to pick up whatever I can put together. As each interruption arrives, I pull out the necessary tools and push the first task aside to make room for the new. And so it is that the more interruptions I have had, the messier my desk becomes. Pens get lost under new stacks of paper; I pull out my foot stool for the surface space it provides. I think sometimes my brain works the same way. The more interruptions

I ran across a web page today that required a security question before you could ask the company a question. The reason, they said, was so that you (and only you) would be able to log-in to their website to retrieve the answer to your question. The idea of my company operating our comment page like that blows my mind. I can't figure out what extraordinary secret stuff you might ask that wouldn't be safe to have sent to you in an email. Then I took the time to look at their security questions. And friends, I took it as proof that they aren't out to make it easy for you. One of the options was "The first letter of the name of your best friend followed by the last four digits of their phone number." Not only do they make you choose a best friend, but who remembers the last four digits of a friend's phone number when they are "Memory 4"? And even if you took the time to look up their number in your phone's memory, you would be faced with the d

I bought myself a shirt the other day. As I was trying it on, I noticed in big, bold letters the word "Anxiety" on the tag. Anxiety in black and teal. Perhaps I should have avoided buying the shirt, but certainly I should have known better than to wear Anxiety on the day of my dentist appointment. Because try as I might to keep it all in one place, as the dentist starts flinging options about decisions that need to be made before he will authorize the hygienist to take off my bib and for good measure he throws in a few extra anxiety producing words like "that shouldn't be happening" and "surgery, which I wouldn't recommend", my decision making capabilities begin to look like the black and teal squiggles on my shirt. And I begin to suspect the cute little "for show" black belt around my rib cage is hooked too tight. It makes me wonder, though, what was going on in the designer's life? A bad trip to the dentist?

Back when all of my belongings were contained in a 9x10 room, I got into the habit of taking two months worth of gas money out of the bank and keeping it in a little cubby of my bookshelf. Once in my nomadic life, however, it was no longer practical to keep my money in the bookshelf, and thus the problems began. Of course I tried to maintain some of the same thought processes that led me to choose that particular cubby as an appropriate place for my cash, but sometimes it made sense to go with the book theme, sticking the money inside the front cover of the likeliest looking book, and sometimes it made sense to go with the cubby theme, tucking it safely out of sight in one of the boxes, whether it be for Tupperware , shoes, or everything else. But then money technically qualifies as "important papers" so maybe I put it in the bag of mail I need to sort through; but it is also something I should probably have on hand when I travel, so maybe it is with my flashlight and ext

Corn harvest Originally uploaded by biukalee Just because I want to share more pictures.

Gloria Originally uploaded by biukalee With a little bit of food, water, and something to keep the sun and rain off me, I could stay in this little corner for a very long time. From here, the noise of the city -- dogs barking, kids yelling, horns, motorcycles' and cars' engines, banging music from a hundred different houses, goats bleating, and dozens of voices -- recedes into a murmur of humanity that allows for me to hear the wind entangling the grasses around me. From here, the houses look quaint and charming, you can almost forget that the people in the kitchen have front row seats to the toilet and shower, that water must be hauled, and that mosquitoes are more prevalent than places to stand or sit. But as uncomfortable as some of this is, there is a strange feeling that if I walked a ways, through the tall grasses, between swaying palm trees, over the dirt road destroyed by heavy rains, I could find my way home. I would remember what it was like to walk barefo

Walking to sitio Originally uploaded by biukalee For those of you interested in pictures of the civiled couple, be sure to check out my flickr pages.

It's been more than two weeks since a real post made its debut here. Back in January, Caedmonstia wrote my New Year's Resolution to read "Go 2 weeks without blogging." (It is listed in between "Wax her legs" and "Take up an extreme sport".) Because, obviously, they all seemed equally likely. And it took an international flight (spending September 11 on three airplanes), fighting against tropically contracted ailments (I think I passed one of them along to a dog. So embarrassing !), and three name tags -worth of events to do it, but I did go 2 weeks without blogging. And so please pardon my silence as I remember what sorts of things we expect to find here, Living in the Slow Lane.

Earlier I mentioned that my birthday was made special by what others did for me. I know this was over a month ago, but I thought I would share some pictures from the surprise party.

Eventually I will get some pictures developed and posted here, but until then, some of you may find idle amusement in viewing the video footage Caedmonstia is posting on her blog from my time in Brazil. I may regret directing you all over there as soon as she posts the disturbing images of my face covered in mosquito bites, but if that is the case, maybe I will just change the link to her blog so you can't follow it over there.

This weekend I spent some time in the interior of Brazil. Let me tell you, just in case you are unaware, it is a world away from my life in California. In the small city of Gloria, I became the talk of the town during the two days I was there. That may perhaps become another post, but for now I would like to write of things that are similar between these two worlds: for now I speak of bathrooms. In the big glass building I work in on the hill, the bathrooms are top of the line. Some tour guides have even wanted to include them in the authorized tour. But let me tell you how the bathrooms in Gloria match up point for point. (A indicates at work, B in the interior) A) You don't need to worry about flushing the toilets: it is all automatic. B) You don't need to worry about flushing the toilets: someone else will in another few hours, when there is sufficient water for the task. A) You don't need to remember to turn on or off the light as you enter and exit the bathroom: al

I was very disappointed to realize this morning that I slept through a lesson on constellations in the midnight sky. I figure that is the only explanation for the profusion of little dots on my face: The mosquitos were in astronomy class. If I counted correctly, there are 68 mosquito bites on my face. The handle of the big dipper, which is between my eyebrows, points directly to the north star which is the easiest star to spot, as it is located on the very tip of my nose. But as disappointing as it was to wake up to such body art, I am relieved to be able to report two bits of good news. The first is that I did not inhale any additional mosquitos. The second is I am the keeper of the camera.

1) Stubbing toe on reef rock 2) Being tasted by over-eager tropical fish (at least I didn't bleed enough to draw the attention of over-eager tropical sharks). 3) Inhaling a mosquito (I'm hoping the trauma of traveling through nasal passages will keep the mosquito from doing too much damage in my lungs.) 4) Being rained on while inside, under the covers, fast asleep. (It is difficult to continue sleeping when there is a drip drip-dropping on your head.) 5) Proving, that yes, indeed, sunscreen does work to prevent sunburn wherever you remember to apply it. (The places that are forgotten...)

I am sure you will all be very happy to know that my luggage arrived. The best part is that I no longer wake up to a conversation between Pinky and the Brain: "What are we going to wear today, Brain?" "The same thing we wear every day, Pinky."

Number of flights scheduled: 3 Number of diversions for refueling: 2 Number of flights rescheduled: 2 Number of flights delayed (after rescheduling): 2 Number of flights which ran out of food and water due to extended flying time: 1 Number of flights where flight attendant gave out free alcohol to calm passenger: 1 Number of flights which included real life drama in the seat behind me: 1 (Infant passed out... wasn't breathing) Number of flights where I had use of three seats: 2 Number of flights I was able to sleep: 3 Let me tell you, gentle readers, those last two numbers go a significant way towards making up for all the other numbers.

No matter how cool the nestable Russian dolls may be, I always feel a little let down when I get to the last tiny doll that does not open. I'm not sure what I expect, I still remember learning about equations that represent a value as it approaches zero. I should know that in this sort of situation, it never becomes zero. Which should give me a measure of comfort as I look at my last remaining bag. I think the "packing with a Russian doll" progression began sometime back in May, when I packed all my things into two Buicks and a minivan. I streamlined down to just one Buick which had enough room for me in the driver seat as long as I kept my purse in my lap. Then I could get it all in the trunk. Now all I have with me fits into a carry-on bag that doesn't even have its extension zipper let out. I gave some thought to the possibility of losing my luggage when I was packing. But I've enjoyed a measure of simplicity in the last few months, due in great part to lear

In the world of correspondence, there are always loose ends. And leaving loose ends while gone on vacation does not go over well. So it went when one of my frequent callers asked me who was filling in for me while I was gone. Filling in? I told him that there wouldn't be anyone, that pretty much everything I left would be waiting for me when I got back. "But who shall I call?" For one brief moment I considered who there might be who would not curse the day they befriended me if I gave out their name. And then I realized that there is no one I have achieved that level of friendship with. The good news is that I also realized there is no one who has made me enough of an enemy either. Two weeks, Frequent Caller, two weeks. And then it is that I start a quiet list of everything I will not miss while I vacation by the sea. Perhaps the list is quiet now, but there may be a day, on the crystal green shores of Brazil where I will shout in relief that the phone does not ring f

I've been clutching my agenda recently like Linus holding his blanket. It's not nearly as cuddly, but it's become equally essential for my well-being. It is probably even as dirty. My day planner used to fit inside my purse, where I would occasionally pull it out to jot down appointments or brilliant thoughts or whether the child I was babysitting was supposed to eat yogurt for lunch or not. But then my key chain started collecting keys to houses and the inside pockets of my purse began to bulge with accessories I planned to put on while driving to work. And so my agenda moved out. But even as my purse became as overloaded as a nomad's camel, I suddenly required my planner to remember trash days and pets' names and what I was supposed to do last time I found myself with internet access. Yet there is a problem with such lists of things you are remembering not to forget. The lists get so terribly long and reading through it makes you think that going to bed earl

Sometimes a birthday is so wonderful that you wonder why people complain about them. Sometimes a birthday is so special that it is hard to believe that everyone has one every year. Sometimes you want to package a day and carry it with you so you can enjoy bits and pieces of it all year. People ask me "Did you do something special for your birthday?" I'm not sure that I did much of anything worth noting... it is what everyone else did that made it special. It's been a good week.

With the number of tours coming by my desk, I have had plenty of practice reciting the 19 second version of what I do. Unfortunately, in this case, practice has not led to perfection. Otherwise, why would some tourists give me a blank look when I have finished? All performers dread the blank look, and as I stand surrounded by unanswered letters, trying to explain what I do, I am no different. So I add a few more amazing statistics and hints of harrowing interactions, but the blank look stays blank and the tour guide continues on. I sit back, dejected in my chair, trying to remember what else I do that might light a spark of interest. And almost, just almost, I call out "And I can sing the alphabet backwards!" But then there are those visitors, that blessed sort, that after my 19 seconds they lean in, resting their arms on my wall, and wonder how on earth I manage to do all I mentioned. Oh, I could kiss them! Instead, I rush to tell them that even though it may look like I am

I always suspected there to be only a handful of ways a person could organize their kitchen in a sensible way. And of course, of all places to be sensible, the kitchen ranks high. Which is why when I open what should be the silverware drawer and find the dog's leash, or go hunting high and low only to discover the cooking utensils and the dish towels must have traded spaces, I wonder what sort of nonsense I've encountered. Opening cupboard after cupboard, and drawer after drawer, I'm a sleuth and a snoop, trying to understand the way of things. But in this line of detective work, bravery is boldly confronting the greatest test of my investigative skills: unloading the dishwasher.

Sometimes my choice of wording is horrible. The other night, the lady of the house cooked, checked to see we all got fed, and then left for some event or another. Her husband took his plate into the family room where the TV was on, showing the last few minutes of Notting Hill, while I sat at the breakfast table in the kitchen. Right at the point of the movie where the two love interests (Erin Brockovich and Darcy, I think) are figuring out that they've been dumb and really do love each other, he brought his plate back over to the kitchen, commenting "It's pretty good, isn't it." I must admit that Notting Hill does not make my list of favorite movies. It may have something to do with the roommate I had who watched that movie approximately twice every week on her computer which was conveniently located directly across from my bed. But I don't want to go around offending other people's choice of movies, and so I said "Just the right sort of mush, h

Sometimes it is hard to sound professional. Would you like me to send it to you via e-mail or snail mail? (I regularly wish more people understood the British "send it by post.") And what is your zip? (Everywhere else, it is called the "postal code"… ever so much more dignified sounding than a word that reminds us of a moped weaving through traffic or the sound a pair of trousers makes.) Perhaps you would like to read about it on the organization's blog . (How come "blog" must rhyme with frog, bog, log, dog, hog, and grog? How can anything respectable be described by a word that sounds like a rotten log giving one last gurgle before sinking into oblivion to the bottom of a bog?) It is available for purchase on the webstore . (Perhaps the place where spiders go when remodeling?) Would you like to leave a voice mail? (Does that even make sense?) You could subscribe to the eZine . (Right after you subscribe to the dZine , but before you sign up for t

In between dog sitting assignments, I've been transformed into a princess. Friends from church have opened their home to me, letting the "guest room" become mine, and I feel like a princess. Why? The reasons are many, but let me tell you just a few: I have a full length mirror! My room is beautiful and welcoming And… best of all, I get my very own bathroom. What more could a princess want? But sadly, since 1776, this country hasn't been overly kind to princesses. And since I've heard that guests are only welcome guests for three days, I began to think that I should put aside my princess identity and take out the trash or scrub toilets or something. But I've been told I'm not allowed to do those things. The only time I've ever stayed somewhere for more than three days where it was not my responsibility to clean, I had to worry about eating too much from the minibar and accruing a nightmarish charge. So I ate a cupcake from the fridge and fished out my c

The other day a letter arrived from a woman with the last name of Potter. As I glanced over it I said aloud "I wonder if she is any relation to Harry." My co-worker started laughing. " I was wondering if she was related to Beatrix."

On the first day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me A yellow puddle on the kitchen floor. On the second day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me Two dumpsters full of strewn trash And a yellow puddle on the kitchen floor. On the third day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me Three shredded couch cushions Two dumpsters full of strewn trash And a yellow puddle on the kitchen floor. On the fourth day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me Four paw prints on my work clothes Three shredded couch cushions Two dumpsters full of strewn trash And a yellow puddle on the kitchen floor. On the fifth day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me Five great big howls Four paw prints on my work clothes Three shredded couch cushions Two dumpsters full of strewn trash And a yellow puddle on the kitchen floor. On the sixth day of dog sitting my two dogs gave to me Six hours of whining Five great big howls Four paw prints on my work clothes Three shredded couch cushions Two dumpsters full of strewn trash

Of all of the times to choose to get passport photos taken, immediately after a very long day at work on the day following a long night trying to sleep as the cushion for slobbery dogs, is not the best time. I didn't even manage to get my eyes mostly open. Fortunately, these pictures are not actually going to go on my passport. We can be thankful for even the small things.

Today, in a letter thanking me for responding, I received an explanation for why Isaac only had one wife when his father and his son both had more than one. The answer, it seems, is in his choice of wife... Rebekah was perfect. And then in the flowery, flattering way that is so foreign to American English, the writer proceeded to draw comparisons between me and that virtuous woman of old. I am thankful the writer stopped before the part of the story where Rebekah favors one son over the other and deceives her husband. But I am even more thankful that I am nearly positive the writer is a woman. Because frankly, with all of the moving I'm doing, I don't have room for another bed spread .

Another interesting part of my life this week is the care and feeding of a small tank of predator fish. In the morning and evening I am to feed them a "pinch of blood worms." It sounds like the secret ingredient in a wizardly stew. And I have pinched many things in my life... salt, bubble wrap, brothers... but I have decided that I will find some other way to measure out dried blood worms than with a pinch.

So apparently my perspective has been wrong. I am not yet ready to agree with the person who said "Oh, it's just like you are on vacation... only you have to come to work every day!" but I do feel a little better about the situation. Maybe. Reason #1: I took the two tykes on a walk yesterday and a neighbor greeted them "Oh, the two amazing escape artists." No escapes from the back yard yet on my watch, I guess the battering rams have experienced more success than failure in the past. Reason #2: A friend of the owners commented "The puppy always sleeps with the daughter." No wonder Gracie thought she owned my bed. Reason #3: The same friend mentioned that she doesn't think the dogs are ever left alone for more than a couple of hours at a time, and rarely. That might explain the horrible whining and angry floor-wetting. All this to say, I guess I should be telling you all how amazing it is that I managed to get three hours of sleep last night wi

I have to admit that sometimes I am very hesitant to talk about my life on the move. Sitting at my desk, smiling to the tour groups passing by, I don't want them to even suspect that I have not ironed my clothes in a month because I made the logistical error of packing my iron. Or, in the kitchen at work I don't want people to realize that my bagged "lunch" actually is all of my perishable food hanging out between house sitting assignments. And yes, I am embarrassed about the motley assortment of items filling my back seat. I expressed this to one of my co-workers and she asked me why. "It's not like you are a hobo." No, I am not a hobo, but there isn't very much difference between an adventurer and a hobo. I thought of this again this morning, as I tried to figure out how to make the shower work. I adjusted the water coming out of the bathtub spigot to the perfect temperature and then began my search for the nob that would direct the water out the

At 2:30 in the morning, I am curled up on the couch, thinking that nine days, in this case, is a life time. I've been given the option of sleeping in any one of four different beds in the house, not including the fold out bed in the office, but instead, I am scrunched in the space of half a couch, as one of the large dogs is taking up the other half. And I guess the fact that she is on my feet means she is taking more than her half. In the light of the day I met them last week, Gracie and Lily seemed to be practically boring. Lily's life was described to be all that is typical of an old dog who wakes up to turn around and then go back to sleep. Gracie, I was told, could be "walked" without a leash... I would just need to spray the hose around the yard and Gracie would chase after it. But then maybe there were hints that I should have picked up on, before 2:30 in the morning. Like "Lily scratches at the door when she needs to go out. We are still working on Gra

One good thing about having every square inch of my car crammed with my many earthly possessions (that apparently I cannot do without) is that when I must stop abruptly in traffic, I don't have to worry about anything sliding forward. And I have come to decide that although I am greeted with "So how is my favorite gypsy?" I'm not sure I have nearly as cool theme music as gypsies typically do.

Check out the new poll feature in the side bar! This makes one more way that you can carve your initials in the cement. Of course, the cement will change periodically, but that just makes it more fun! Happy opining!

One of the best ways to feel productive is to check items off of a to do list as you complete them. Wonderful thing it is, to plan to accomplish something and to follow through on that plan. That is why I made sure to include "Take nap in hammock" on my list. There is nothing like waking up, refreshed, and finding that you have been productive while you slept.

One advantage of being in a building that was designed to hold conferences is the blow these conferences give to the TINSTAAFL (There Is No Such Thing As A Free Lunch) theorem. All of our meeting rooms at work have huge panes of glass rather than walls. Not only does this allow us to anticipate leftovers from a business lunch meeting, but it allows us to guess how many leftovers there might be... You know, estimate the ratio of big eaters to little eaters, guessing at how many are on Weight Watchers, South Beach, Atkins, NutriSystem , and every other diet known to mankind (When did diets become the best small talk topic? What fun is it to sit around to enjoy each other's company over food, when everyone shares their own reasons for why the stuff you are eating will give you a slow painful death? Isn't the phrase "No, thank you, I don't care for any right now" much more conducive to friendly chit chat?). But I digress. TINSTAAFL . Oh, yeah, and business lunch

Have you ever noticed how everything a girl is likely to keep in the bathroom cupboards and on her vanity (should she actually have access to such marvels of organizational space) tends to multiply? One summer I found myself sharing a small bedroom with three other girls. As we began to unpack, we began to laugh at our collection of lotions, hair products, nail polish, facial cleansers, and all that contributes to the beautification of the female visage. There was one flat space in the bedroom, and we covered it entirely in the miscellaneous assortment of bottles and tubes. I am not sure how it has happened, but I'm inclined to believe that my supply of such things has surpassed even that eclectic mound of items. Of course most of it is not my fault. In the world of feminine gift giving, it is perfectly natural to acquire lotions and soaps which will require planning and dedication to use before they sour. And then again, a new gift must be at least sampled immediately, leavi

The telephone is not my natural friend. I think of this in my debrief session following my time covering the reception desk. When a telephone rings, it is naturally urgent, because you have the space of four rings to answer. But when three lines on the same telephone all ring at once... A co-worker stopped by my desk on his lunch break to talk about his telephone usage. He spoke about how many minutes of day time and weekend he spent talking, how many thousands of text messages he sent a month, all the while fiddling with his insanely expensive phone and saying how he really didn't like it. But, he said, with a phone practically glued to his ear, he needed to have a super nice phone. I wonder what it would be like to have that sort of attraction to phone dependence. As he walked away, merrily reading a text message, it occurred to me that the person I speak with most frequently on the phone is not my mother, nor any of my siblings, nor even best friends from college... it is a c

When it comes to packing, how come there is so much that must wait until the last minute? I can't pack all of the food, because I will want to eat up until the last minute (and refrigerated food can't sit out much longer than the last minute). I can't pack my various hygiene products, because I would very much like to remain hygienic . I can't pack my bed linens, because I still need something to pull over my head when the alarm goes off. I suspect, and this may surprise you, the last minute is not going to be long enough to accomplish all that is waiting until then.

Sometimes I think the hardest part of this human life is being finite. If I had more time... if I had more energy... if I had more knowledge. And yet to come to the end of myself, as frustrating and maddening as it usually is, means that I have found a boundary. And within the boundaries of my finiteness, I can be secure. What trouble breeds in insecurity! Oh, that I may know the truth of me, and may the Truth of He set me free.

Los Angeles has a lot of cars. Cars that can all be intending to go somewhere and yet spending hours and hours not going very far at all. But I have arrived at a partial solution to this problem. For most of my conscious life, I have been aware that frequently my eyes tell me there are two when there is really only one. When this happens, I know that if I close one eye, one image will go away and then my head won't hurt so much. Of course when there are many cars, the statistical truth is that there will be some cars that are doubles of another. When this happens, if I close one eye, maybe one will go away and then there will be more room on the road for actual movement.

If Slowlane leaves the house at 7:25 it takes 40 minutes to get to work, if she leaves at 7:15, it takes 35 minutes, if she leaves at 7:10 it takes 30 minutes. How early must she leave for it to take no time at all?

This week I am the proud parent of a huge salt-water fish tank filled with tropical fish, coral, crabs, and a snail or two. The set up on this tank is amazing... It has no fewer than three timer-controlled surge protectors with electrical cords running hither and yon. It has another tank which has the sole purpose of mixing water to the right balance to maximize the happiness of the little fish. And then there is another tank just for keeping extra water for when the high intensity lamps evaporate the perfectly mixed water. Feeding these fish does not mean sprinkling fish flakes across the top. No, it requires the use of a dropper, a set of tweezers, a syringe, a chip-clip and five fishy products. And surely you now understand how thankful I am for the flowchart organized by day of the week and time of day. Because unlike that time long ago when I had to call in help to provide the equivalent of fishy mouth-to-mouth and still had to explain to the little girls why two of their priz

After writing 499 posts, I should be able to come up with something delightfully amazing to mark 500. But isn't it just like Life in the Slow Lane to not have fireworks and parades and formal speeches to accompany what calendars and record books would draw attention to? So to celebrate 500 posts, I'm not going to write about it. I will just arrange six pages of pictures in a masterfully cute scrapbook in commemoration.

Of course the easiest solution to the address question for the "in-between" times of a move is a PO Box. Only you can't get a PO Box without two official proofs of address. I can get a library card for less than that. But they need to see a utility bill or a bank statement or tax return. I hadn't the courage to remark on how subletting, online banking, and other such modern innovations have affected my ability to produce those. Someone once remarked that we are a generation that writes our address in pencil. I hope I will have that opportunity .

I now begin a series of posts on the topic of my nomadic life. I am not sure how long the series will last, nor how many posts it will consist of, but I find that appropriate for the theme at hand. When I happen to make mention of my plan to be without a residence of my own for a period of several months, I get two responses: the first is "If you need a place to stay, don't sleep in your car, we can find you something better than that;" the second is "That sounds like so much fun! You are so lucky to be young and single and able to do that." I have to laugh when I hear this last comment. I don't think I would have chosen to be without even a 9x10 room if circumstances hadn't grown to be what they are. But it is an adventure that more than one person has idly wished for. The first comment makes me think of life in the Old West, when young single teachers would routinely move from house to house throughout the year as each student's family provided

I typically do not wear a suit into the office. Perhaps it is because I do not want to have to dry clean more frequently than every six months, but it is also because I don't like who I am in a suit. The minute that suit jacket goes on, I feel like I am trying to rise in the ranks of "Intimidating Women at Work". Which is not a particular goal of mine. And neither is it a goal of mine to be unrecognised, while wearing my suit, and mistaken for an auditor... which I'm not sure is a compliment. (Auditor's are intimidating, aren't they?) But it takes less work to figure out how to match a suit jacket with it's other half than it does to match two other items, and some mornings, I need an easy answer when I face the closet. And maybe it is those same mornings when I really could stand to look a bit more intimidating. You know, to make my yawns look more business-like.

This year I seem to be hearing and reading lots of tirades about what a wedding consists of. I've read reasons why engagement rings are bad, why food at weddings is horrible, how a bad case of Bridezilla - itis might mean the groom should run, why conspicuous consumption has ruined a sacred institution. I've heard reasons why no guest should be invited unless they are likely to bring a gift worth $50 or more, 60 billion reasons (give or take a few) that elopement is the way to go, and parents console each other through the most stressful year of their life... planning a wedding. Dare I mention the other frequent complaints? Single women who are guilted into half- heartedly fetching a bouquet... family members who stand up to give a toast and cause the entire guest list to squirm... and waiting forever for the party to start when you really wanted to leave half an hour ago. I know you've collected your own version of this list, but I would, in the face of this colos

Since I first started thinking about moving out of my little 9x10 room, there has been a topic of conversation that I refuse to bring up with myself. Of course, Me, Myself, and I all know that it needs to be talked about, but I guess you could say that it's been like an elephant in the middle of the room. And an elephant in a 9x10 room makes it nearly impossible to do anything at all. But knowing this group as I do, I dare not bring up the elephant problem with Me and Myself, because one of them is likely to start in with elephant jokes, and frankly, I don't think our problem will be solved by throwing a peanut into a cardboard box and waiting for the elephant to climb in after it. Although... I might have just the perfect toenail polish to help the elephant hide.

This is the Random Yellow Card Question that makes me wonder what sort of net I have beneath my trapeze .

I wonder how the trapeze artist feels the first time she lets go of the trapeze. How long do those seconds seem when she has not yet caught herself on another swing? Has she memorized the distance down to the net, or does she ignore it altogether? Does she begin to worry about the sweat forming on her palms? Does she begin to think that it would have been thrill enough to fly back and forth, never letting go of one swing to claim another? I've never attempted any daring moves on a trapeze, but as I pack my belongings for a move to who-knows-where, I begin to suspect that the trapeze artist would scoff at the phrase "with the greatest of ease."

When I was young, I was terribly confused by all of the things that were translated as gancho in Colombian Spanish. If I remember correctly, gancho included clothes pins, hair clips, hangers, safety pins, paper clips, and what might now be called "chip clips". I learned a great deal of my early Spanish vocabulary while tagging along grocery shopping. I distinctly remember standing in the laundry detergent aisle, seeing the word gancho on clothes pins and wondering why the same word was used for items several rows over. But this morning I couldn't find my hair claw, and as I searched on my night stand which also serves as desk, laundry counter, pantry space, and book shelf, it occurred to me that perhaps there isn't as much difference among what can be translated gancho as I thought. But so you know, clothes pins work better for holding up hair than do paper clips, binder clips, and safety pins.

It has taken me nearly a year, but I finally noticed something fun about covering the reception desk. It is our habit to ask for the first name of each caller so that a) we can allow the person being called a little advance notice and b) so that if the person being called is not available we can come back and say "I'm sorry, Sherry, she's away from her desk right now," and c) so we can keep a log of our calls. And this last part is where the fun begins. Because maybe it was Sherry that called or maybe it was Sheri or Cherie or Sharie. And when Carol called it could have really been Carole or Karel or Caroll or Caryl or Carroll or maybe I missheard her and her name is really Care Uhl. Yeah, it's great fun... until you need to find her in the data base and none of the options you can think of work.

A little unnerving. That's what it is when you walk by someone you don't know and they warn you beneath their breath "Just keep walking, and don't look at the camera." We had already been asked to be extras for the film shoot, but the original time for the shooting conflicted with the staff birthday party, and we decided that eating a piece of birthday cake would add fewer pounds to our hips than being on camera. But it takes less time to eat a piece of cake than it does to coordinate all of the potentially distracting sounds in a building which echoes with every printed page, every unanswered phone, and every disjointed rendition of "Happy Birthday". And so we carefully walked as if it were completely natural, as if we always perform our routine tasks with spotlight and crew. I think it went well, but I doubt the impression I made on the filming crew was all that positive. They arrived at the reception desk moments after I bathed everything with a ful

For the last almost two weeks I have been residing at what I affectionately call my Vacation House. It comes with a dog, which I have not yet been able to call affectionately. No, no. That's not quite true. It is hard to not think fond thoughts of a dog that leaps in the air for carrots. But this dog, as dogs frequently do, exhibits many of the horrible habbits of a dog. Bad breath... eating Grossness (yes, it needs to be capitalized) and then licking the entire kitchen floor... yech. But I must say, a girl could get used to more space than a 9x10 room affords. Of course, when it comes time to clean tomorrow for the return of those who call this vacation house Home, I may wish I had only 90 square feet of space to clean.

Today the mothers-in-law moved in. Or at least their tongues did. Two, great big, towering mother-in-law's tongues now reside behind me, peering over my shoulder like flames shooting towards the ceiling, ready to devour. Sansevieria trifasciata . Also known as Snake Plant or Mother-in-law's Tongue. You might guess that these are not the friendliest looking plants. And placed as they are, their pointy tongues reach more than six feet into the air. Don't repeat this in their hearing, but I really hope they only stay for the weekend and don't manage to stretch their visit into a permanent arrangement.

After my experiences of the last week, I might just congratulate someone next time I hear their car had trouble. Sure, the pocket book situation isn't all that fun, and I wish I had moved my laundry from my trunk before the truck driver had to fish my spare tire out... and before I left it for other mechanics to fish the horribly mutilated tire back out, but when there is a red Ford Mustang convertible to drive me to work tomorrow, things aren't so bad. * And yes, Mom, I'm okay and you can call me to make sure of that.

Today, I was minding my own business when suddenly I realized that people say "Shipping and Handling" when the handling comes before the shipping. Doesn't the non-sequential naming of the fee bother you, too?

The most polarizing question I ask during a routine day is "Do you have internet access?" If I asked this question of many of you, it would be like asking "Do you breathe oxygen?" But surprisingly, there are still a large number of people who view the question as akin to "Do you fly to work?" Yes of course you know that there are some people in some places who do such a strange activity, but it isn't you, and it isn't likely to be you any time soon. The other day I got the response "Yes, but I have to drive about half an hour to get there." Where in the United States can you be an entire half hour from internet access? I guess when I am on the 5 at rush hour, I am half an hour from internet access. But my point is, that this one question has the power to make the person who hears it believe that either I am A) Condescending or B) Out of touch with the real world. But then of course, I live and work in California which is the same as

I have already mentioned that my new office space has tons of glass and how you can see a great deal of the insides without moving much at all. I recently realized a very dangerous aspect of this: I can see the snack counter every time I return from my trip to the printer. It is doubly dangerous in that I can see well enough to spy that there is some sort of snack, but not well enough to see what manner of snack it is. Have you ever tried walking by a potentially amazing treat time after time after time? Eventually, you just have to find out what it might be. And so I make all 175 steps it takes to reach the snack counter, just to see. But 175 steps is quite a hike. And once I find out the only choice is stale blueberry-peach muffins, I figure I need some sustenance to get all 175 steps back to my desk. Or I find that the snack is some decadent dessert and because the trip will require 350 steps in total, of course I can take a slightly larger piece than I would otherwise. Proble

Hours in my work week: 40 Hours I was unofficially in charge of my department: 45 (Includes lunch breaks) Hours where I was my department: 10 Number of external phone calls received: 21 Number of letters written: 13 Number of walk-ins: 2 (To my recollection, we've never had even one of those before.) Number of tours by my desk: 9 Number of tours given by me: 1 Number of tours I received: 1 (The NPO that rents space from us.) Steps to the printer: 21 Steps to the kitchen: 60 Steps to the snack counter: 175 Times I was left in the dark: 7 Times I signed onto a co-worker's email account: 15 Times I want to do this again: 0

Sun set Originally uploaded by biukalee . I am sharing this photo with you because I am in just that much of a sharing mood. But I will only let you enjoy this picture if you ignore the large piece of red lint that was aparently on my lens at the time of the picture.

Tho the ocean billows roll Originally uploaded by biukalee . I took this on a visit to the beach a month or two ago, but I thought I would share it all with you now. Why? Because it looks ever so much more peaceful than my day at work.

In my walks, I walk within 100 yards of this tree, yet it was months before I noticed it. When I noticed it, my first thought was "That tree is going to fall on top of the house... someone isn't thinking clearly." And the next time I thought "This is amazing! An incredible tree! How come no one has noticed it before this?" And then I looked up and realized I was standing on the corner of Rock Tree and Rock Vista. So yeah, someone else noticed the tree before me.

There have been many times I doubted I would make it, but here I am, one year later. The first day on the job, I spent eight hours sitting at my desk without any light, squinting my way through a couple hundred pages, wondering how on earth I had gotten into a job which would require an estimated three months of training. I came home with a headache, shut myself in my room and napped until it was time to go to bed. Today I was the most equipped in my department, working in the place of four others over the course of the day, yet returning to my desk to wish for further training on what waited for me there. I ended the day squinting at my desk because I had no co-workers to trigger the light sensor. That first day, a year seemed a life-time, and a life-time seemed an eternity. Some things haven't changed... I still stutter when saying my job title, I still have trouble knowing when it is polite to hang up. But at least I now know that a year in a 40 hour-a-week desk job is not a

By the time four o'clock strikes during the average work day, the marvelous muscle called the brain has reached fatigue. Unfortunately, it is not proper etiquette to spend the last hour of the day staring at the clock on the computer nor rearranging the books on your desk according to size and then color and back again. As a matter of fact, the general expectation is that you will continue working right up until 5. So at 3:30 you begin looking at the mountain of work and deciding whether it would be wise to start this project or that project or whether this might actually be an appropriate time to change the labels on the recycled folders in your file system so they give helpful information like "Letters", "Reference Articles", and "International Records" instead of "California", "Ataxia", and "November 19-26". And beginning in on the pile most likely to fit into the remaining time, you keep one eye on the clock, and hope