Life in the Slow Lane

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."