Life in the Slow Lane

I'm not sure I buy it. I don't have any proof either way, and I know Facebook is running an experiment to prove that everyone is connected to Kevin Bacon or something, but have you ever considered the obnoxious email forwards that are supposed to replicate signing a petition? I get more than my fair share, since many people I have responded to at work add my email address to their list of contacts. And more than once, I have received an impassioned plea for my signature at the end of a list of several hundred. I sometimes, because I have an over-developed sense of curiosity, will read through the list looking for names I recognize. I have never found one. Wouldn't you think that with only six degrees of separation, once the petition had been passed around to several hundred people, I would know at least one or two? And while we are on the topic of statistics, I would like someone well experienced in such matters to give me the probability of a handful of co-workers all s...

I have never been an avid reader of news. In high school, I'd read a few articles in the front page as I waited for the comics section. For a time in college I felt obliged to stop and read the headlines through the glass of the newspaper stand on my way to class. As a responsible adult, I read the news feed from BBC, but that was before I began suspecting that someday I would see a name I recognized in the news. But recently my boss signed me up for an international news service where everything pertains to people with disabilities. Except for the headlines I may glance at as I sign in to my web-based email account, this is the only news I see. I've only been on this disability-news-only diet for maybe as long as two months, but it has greatly affected my perception. I would not have guessed this beforehand; my job has revolved around this theme for more than two and a half years. But I've been given a different set of lenses to view the world, and it is almost enough to ...

Everywhere there is talk of economic hardship. I keep getting letters, both in my personal mailbox and the piles at work, mentioning the harder times individuals and organizations are facing. My alma mater mentions students who won't be able to return next semester... a mother with five young children asks if I can send a box of used clothes and old toys for Christmas. And the red-aproned red kettle keeps ding, ding, dinging the bell. "No" is painful to say, yet avoiding the eyes of the woman collecting donations for the homeless shelter downtown hurts even more... and pictures prove the shelves at the food pantry are bare. Another family writes in that they will be losing their house unless we can help with their payments, but we can't. And that is just the plain, hard truth. And the gift catalog for goats and bicycles sits next to the magazine advertising the T-shirt that supports the end of world hunger. No. No, I'm sorry. It is just not possible. That...

Yesterday I spoke with a woman who told me she's been receiving advice to divorce her husband. He's a great guy, works hard to pay the bills, loves his family... but he makes too much money. "Too much money" in the "we can't pay our medical bills" kind-of way. I've known for a long time about "marriage penalties" and people losing health care benefits when they get married, but this is the first time I actually heard first-hand from someone who had been told to divorce her husband so she could get help... "Everybody's doing it." Where are the protests, the mass campaigns, the well-funded advertisements and societies fighting for the rights of this woman, and thousands of others like her, to be married? Oh, that we could protect the rights of people to keep the vows they said before God and man "in sickness and in health... until death do us part." Instead it is even worse. Not only does this woman have the right to...

My fingers are happy today. This week a year ago I was given the task of training up a department around me, and my personal productivity plummeted. But this week I was back within range of my previous records of letter writing, and oo-wow. Does it feel good. In honor of this occasion, I thought I would share a few random facts: I have corresponded with people in over 100 countries. I have won accolades from my co-workers for my ability to tell people "no" (Folks, unlike the anti-people-pleasers might tell you, it isn't just a matter of saying "n" and "o"). I started a collection of foreign stamps because there must be something good to do with them. I have 494 business cards out of a box of 500. And certainly last, but not least, SOS and his violin playing has made it onto the "unofficial optional stories to tell" tour script.

This week marks three years since the first of my siblings got married. I am one of five, and the only one not yet "hitched". As anyone knows, coming at the end always creates a great deal of expectation to maintain traditions, but I always was the really rebellious one (just ask my sister about the only time she thinks I ever got into trouble). So speaking of traditions, let me share with those of you who are not aware, some of the numbers involved with the four marriages that have already occurred among my siblings: #1) Two wedding ceremonies, two receptions, two languages #2) Three ceremonies, four receptions/after parties, two languages #3) One ceremony, three receptions, two languages #4) Two ceremonies, two receptions, two languages Folks, I plan to do what has never been done before. Yes, dear readers after a total of 8 ceremonies and 11 receptions with significant usage of multiple languages, I plan to break the mold! Who knows whether it is actually possible?!? But ...

Early on someone gave me this tip to narrowing down a "much too large" wedding guest list: Only invite people you have talked to in the last six months. I think if I were to do this, I might end up with only ten friends at my wedding... and that would be a very lonely feeling indeed. Well, I suppose I could invite the man who informed me that all of a certain central African country was mad at me (I heard from him the other day, he says that this is no reason why we cannot still be friends.) or maybe even the woman who braved the wire tap on her phone line to tell me that the mafia, the catholics, and the military were all thick together "if you get my meaning". But friends I actually know who I have talked to in the last six months? Certainly not enough to justify getting much more than a wedding cupcake. That is until in one moment of wedding planning procrastination I started a Facebook profile. And in four days I found 46 friends. Yes, of course, it would be ...

I am not a fan of floating words. Hope Family Blessings Love Laughter I've seen all of these floating in decorator space, and it seems almost painful. Perhaps it has to do with a Compulsive Reading Disorder which causes me to read and re-read a word no matter how many times I see it and have read it. For instance, you don't want to know how many times I've read the same cereal box or the really lame comic posted next to the computer I sometimes borrow. (The irony is that the lame comic is this guy at a race track and every time the race car flies past he says, "Woah. déjà vu .") But Compulsive Reading Disorder aside, I think it has more to do with a sense that you have lost everything but one magnet from the set of magnetic poetry on your fridge. Or maybe it is because it is like one solitary little wisp of a cloud on a day that was meant for a soul-stirring sunset. Floating words are like a single note confidently played and then left hanging, naked of the co...

Dear [My one name here], Thank you for your letter… You said you would be willing to assist me, so I am going to take you up on your offer. Please write to the Queen of England and tell her to read… [Seriously.]

I may not have the slightest idea what color scheme will tie together "my" special day but I've been planning the important things: how I will write thank you notes. When the course of the day typically includes writing between five and 25 letters, you have to plan for writing any additional correspondence, (Can we use this excuse to pardon the delay in my response to personal emails?) and thank you notes following a wedding certainly qualifies as additional correspondence. So I've been planning. First and foremost is the need for appropriate stationery. I hope this will justify the acquisition of some way snazzy cool note cards. Kindly forget the fact that I already have well over two hundred blank thank you note cards in my possession. I suppose one of these days I will have to find a Stationery-ics Anonymous. Of course, I don't have a problem with it yet. I could quit whenever I wanted to. Secondly is the question of keeping the text of the message alive...

The last day that I was house sitting, the neighbor came over to introduce herself and gush about me getting married. Frankly, I was surprised she knew and even more surprised that whoever had told her had been excited enough to gush enough that she could gush. But I did my level headed best to answer all the questions. "And when is the date?" "April." "Oh, the daffodils will be lovely!" I wasn't sure where there had been any daffodils involved at all, but she flipped open her date book she was carrying, and there, the week of my wedding, was a news clipping about daffodils. She continued to share with me how perfect this particular flower was for my purposes and then excused herself, commenting over her shoulder about the need for me to start gathering addresses. Right. Note to self. In the lunch room at work, idle conversation about the weather turned to "So have you picked your colors yet?" While the sheer number of people asking this q...

And I quote: "She has no empire and has kissed no frogs. She is not royalty and holds no court. And yet, on this, the most memorable of days, she lives in a palace, where ladies in waiting carry out her every wish and attend to her makeup and hair while chefs of world-renown prepare a celebratory feast, fit for a king and queen, but made just for her. So it's easy to see why she cannot shake the feeling that today, she is a princess." And that, my friends, is the secret to the $7,000 dresses and the $3,000 cake ("It makes me believe that the cake really is a window into the soul of a wedding"). However, there is no way that I am about to part with that kind of money (even if I had it) in order to feel like a princess for a day. No, I've found a man who plans to treat me like a princess for a life-time, and friends, that's priceless.

Maybe engagement is like a rollercoaster. You wait for a really long time for a ride that whips you up and down and in and out and maybe even upside down and before you can catch your breath, it is over, and you hope that maybe someone thought to take a picture so you can at least pretend to remember what it was like.

I wander into the kitchen to check what time it is. The microwave reads five minutes faster than the stove, so I peak at the clock in the living room. It reads 10 minutes to 8, but I have a vague recollection that it was that time on that clock when I started my laundry three hours ago. The digital clock next to my borrowed bed has to be at least 10 minutes fast, maybe 15, but certainly not more than 20. I know this because it is about ten minutes slower than the alarm clock on the right side of the bed in the master bedroom. The alarm clock on the left side of the head board is half an hour slower than it's twin glaring from the other side of the room. I lean on the door frame in the office, trying to decide whether the clock there is more likely to be on time or not. It's analog, and one of those that have pictures instead of numbers. If it is a canary past a cardinal o'clock, will my laundry be done in the garage where the clock read fifteen minutes after six when ...

That was the entire content of the email. For some of you, perhaps that reminds you of the emails you get from your college-aged children, although perhaps with better orthography. But no, someone in a central African country took all of the trouble to write this lovely message and press "send". It might interest you further to know that I have received similar requests from that same African country, that same city, and yes, even that same PO box before. Different names, of course (or not). I can understand that a number of people might share the same post office box to cut costs, and I can appreciate that since I sent one person a lovely letter and little booklet, all of their friends and relatives and strangers in the street would also want to benefit from the magic "give-me" link in the internet sky. But really. And yet I can't quite just ignore the requests. Because the booklet I've chosen to send is one that emphasizes the worth and value of all m...

In July (or was it June ?) I was given an orchid. I have now managed to keep this plant alive longer than any plant I've tended since my sophomore year of high school. Conventional wisdom says that orchids like the humidity of a bathroom and the gentle sunlight of a window sill. You might remember that I rent a room and borrow a bathroom. The bathroom does not come with natural light, and I am very grateful that my room does not come with humidity. But my solution to the problem was to take my orchid on a walk with me to the shower each morning and then back to my room to play in the gentle sunlight of my room during the day. That is until I began my marathon of house-sitting. But like all good mothers of living things, I had planned in advance for the proper care of my plant and saved the plastic sleeve all orchids are sold in. It is very rare for a plant to come in it's own suitcase, but orchid growers are smart that way, I suppose. And after making my back seat into a c...

Yesterday SOS came an hour before I got off work to play his violin in the chapel. I usually try to stay extra alert when he is there just in case there is someone who is not happy about the surround sound. But no sooner had I gotten back to my desk than the receptionist called and asked if I could talk to a lady who was crying. So I took the call. And with the sounds of magnificent hymns seeping into the arid hallways and walkways, I listened to the heart of a woman whose husband is dying. I made my way to the end of the conversation and hung up, once again becoming aware of my environment. My cubicle mate commented "I am so amazed at your ability to concentrate. The two of us were..." I interrupted, "Oh, no! Are you having trouble concentrating with the music?" "No, no... the music is wonderful... it is just the romantic bonds we can see and feel between you up here and your fiance down in the chapel... it's hard to concentrate!" The other gushed...

I spent $200 at Amazon.com for a flower press. That wasn't my intention, of course. I planned to read the books, base discussions on the books, maybe even dare myself to write in the books. But there is that old, annoying song it never felt right to sing in my family because of the number of teachers: "No more school, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks." No more school. No more school. It doesn't get any easier to say. But sometimes learning important things in school drastically changes your life. And Tuesday's homework assignment was particularly instructive and so I withdrew from classes on Wednesday. And now I have a $200 flower press. Yes, I will try to return as much of it as I can. And maybe, after I whittle down the pile of books faithfully preserving the petals that escaped a life of potpourri , I will be reminded that Life in the Slowlane is really the best sort of life to be living.

The day SOS asked me to marry him, he was very careful to get permission from my supervisor for me not to return to work after my lunch break. Because SOS knew that after the emotion and excitement of the events surrounding "the question" I would not be up for returning to work and the military style drilling I would endure. And so after the romantic picnic that was only interrupted a handful of times by the docents who had first applauded us when we stepped out from the rose arbor where we had tried to gain some semblance of privacy from the doting senior citizens who had shadowed both our moves in the minutes leading up to the proposal, SOS promised all the surprises were over and I could return home, change out of my work clothes and heels and we would go find a park not populated by nosy docents. But then, as I unlocked the front door, SOS squeaked "Um... so I forgot about the last 'big' thing." I dutifully promised that I would not be overwhelmed by w...

I experienced a bit of culture shock last weekend when I was driving and saw a billboard with the admonition to call a seven digit phone number. The number looked so short, naked almost. Where was the area code? At work I've begun to see whether I can remember which part of the country a particular area code belongs to. Zip codes are easy, they go mostly numerically from the East Coast to the West, but area codes? No rhyme or reason, that I've yet discovered. Someday I might even be able to recognize immediately what the area code is for Jamaica or London, Ontario. But then again, perhaps I never will get to the more difficult aspects of zip code braggery because I keep getting stuck on the numbers that come before the area code. Yes, I do mean the "1". And the "9" I have to dial before that when I am at work. It's that whole "at work" thing that gets me confused. Several times now, when I am about to make a phone call on my cell phone, I d...

Last week I was invited to high tea. The tea room we went to had scores of hats and feather boas and we were all encouraged to play dress up. There were a few with me who were highly doubtful that they wanted to wear such outlandish hats, and so I took it upon myself to convince them. However, the most outlandish, spectacular hat somehow made it to my head instead. Do you think there is any chance of these hats coming back in for normal wear?

Dear faithful readers, I have started school. Someday, perhaps, I will be able to answer your questions and even provide fun pictures. Until then, Slowlane

When I answered the call of the doorbell on my birthday, I met a man who within the first minute of conversation confessed he was a mortician. I've never had a conversation start out that way and I am glad he rambled on, as it gave me time to realize he wasn't kidding. He went on to say he had a recent career change which required him to come door to door seeking donations. I sincerely hope he finds his way to a career which has happier endings. We ended up having a rather nice conversation, once I confessed that I don't give spur of the moment donations. And before he left he gave me a compliment I choose to count as a blessing. And I consider it all the more meaningful as it was the musings of a mortician on the subject of life.

Eight months ago a cousin of mine scooted next to me at a family party and scolded "Don't you know it's a bad idea to let the family know your boyfriend plays an instrument before you've decided this thing is for real ?" I probably should have known better. Relationships come and go, but music... Three months ago, SOS found time to come play in the itty-bitty chapel at work, where the acoustics make even the worst vocal rendition of "Amazing Grace" sound amazing and the best musician can transport people in every corner of the building into the finest of concert halls. My boss came striding towards my desk and informed me "I'm sorry, you no longer have any say in the matter. You must marry that man just so he will come play here more often." This sentiment was repeated by various others of my co-workers, as they frequently asked when our next date night was so that he could drop by and give a concert, "tell him we miss him" o...

Back at the beginning of this month, I thought it would be fun to try and have one post per day, as some people are of the mind that August isn't special, and I wanted to do my little part to make others see more worth in August. But then a few things happened. I think I have gotten more attention this month than I have in a very long time. My image was emailed around the globe and then again it made the printed newsletter which goes into thousands of homes around the country. And people started joking with me about needing to insure my now-famous hands. And yes, I had a birthday (apparently, I turned eight years old) (also, notice my hands are not showing in this picture... maybe it would have violated the conditions of my hand insurance?) And I also spent some time considering how a change in appearance can go unnoticed. Only two or three people noticed the change in eye wear, and no one noticed my change in hair length, but one little change in appearance seems to have been ...

Sometime in the last month or two a writer from a central African country began writing. He alone contributed more emails to my inbox than spammers did. From the very first he assumed that all he had to do was ask for visas and partnership and we would roll out the red carpet and purchase six international plane tickets for him and his entire family. On Monday he wrote from a new email address which included the name of my organization as his ID. I crafted a firm response denying any and all future contact and demanded he stop using the new email account. And today he replied. Apparently, he, along with his entire country (which shall rename nameless for the purposes of this post) are upset and he demands further encouragement. It's a good thing I am only known by my one name. At least this way if I ever happen to have opportunity to travel to this country, I will not be barred from entering.

As everybody knows, the best way to get over an embarrassing incident is to announce it to the world. And so I will tell you all the story of the Raisin Bran Incident. In everybody's life there are those days were the easiest thing to fix for dinner is the same thing you manage to fix when your greatest accomplishment of the day has been to get out of bed. And so it happened that a few short weeks ago, after a day and a half's worth of work in the preceding 9 hours, I walked into the kitchen and poured myself a half a bowl of Raisin Bran cereal. I say only a half a bowl because that is all I had left. And I say Raisin Bran because I was too tired to reach further back into my pantry space for Honey Bunches of Oats. And isn't Raisin Bran a more likely dinner food than Honey Bunches of Oats? (Stay with me.) And then, into my step-by-step plodding, intruded my landlady, "You are eating Raisin Bran for dinner? You are welcome to share the pot-roast I made." But by t...

Wisdom is supposed to come with age. And since you will all be a little older when you are done reading this than when you began, let me share with you two pieces of wisdom: 1. Grocery shopping when you are hungry is a bad idea. 2. Costco grocery shopping when you are hungry and only are buying for yourself and only have a vegetable drawer and half a shelf in the fridge is a really, really bad idea. I confessed my bad choices to my landlady and she kindly pointed out: That is why Costco has samples.

My co-workers marvel at my memory, but I am horribly forgetful. Yes, I may recognize the hand-writing of a woman who I haven't heard from in seven months, but I'd forgotten to what extent I'd been saved from the terrors that are at the front desk. Of course I remember in general, but I confess, as time passed I've found myself wondering "It really wasn't that bad, was it? I'm a big girl, I've matured a lot. Surely, it wasn't such a big deal." And then I had ten minutes to reacquaint myself with the many pressures that come with sitting at the reception desk. And then a new surge of gratitude floods me as a person great in compassion takes over and lets me go back to the safety of my desk. It's true... sometimes a taste of what you have been saved from is all you need to appreciate anew your liberation.

This morning I had opportunity to think about how while there is little difference between the questions "Are you going inside?" and "Are you coming inside?" there is a great deal of difference between "Everything's going my way" and "Everything's coming my way." A large tub of yogurt jumping out of the fridge and splattering across floor, shoes, window, and carpet tends to make people get philosophical like that.

Last night my granny car was used by the police. As I sat on the curb half a block away and watched four policemen, in full armor (even a few in those funny space-ship hats) crouch in front of my burgundy car, I kept thinking "At least it's clean." I have my SOS (Remember? Significant Other, Sweetheart) to thank for that. Otherwise the windshield probably would have been more of a hindrance than a help. A split second decision as to whether to park my car on one side of the driveway rather than the other determined whether it would provide good coverage for the police or not. And at least I had cleaned out most of the junk a very short hour before the police informed us we needed to evacuate the house. Sitting on the curb as a police helicopter circles above and police cars creep closer and closer to the suspect... but no closer than the burgundy granny car... as a party of curious passersby slow and stop to ask questions and speculate... amidst all of this I find many ...

If you haven't noticed, it is the first day of August. For many of you, perhaps you are dreading the need to turn your calendar page to reflect the current month. You may not even realize it, but out of all of the pictures to grace a calendar, August is nearly always the ugliest, least inspiring picture. I should know. I check. It happens to be a requirement of mine, before I buy a calendar, to check the image for August, as for me the year begins and ends in August. I've never understood why this eighth month so regularly fails to inspire people in the calendar making business. Perhaps the reasons stated in this article explain some of it, but if there is such disdain for this month, surely a great way to spruce it up would be to give it a half-way decent picture for all 31 days. Maybe when I am rich and famous I will commission calendar pages that are achingly beautiful and I will make them all for the month of August. Everyone will wish it were August year round.

So my brother found this cool place . The word cloud of my blog comes remarkably close to explaining the general orderliness of my thoughts these days.

Company mugs at my place of work are made of uncolored glass. You know the discoloration that happens when a mug is used repeatedly for coffee or tea? You know the abysmal feeling when you peak into your mug and realize you left something in it over the weekend? I tell you, a little bit of obscurity can go a long way.

Over the years I have heard some murmurings abut how natural peanut butter is so much healthier than the popular Jif, Skippy, or other brand names that sound like you are having way too much fun to be healthy. Well, I have stumbled upon an even healthier peanut butter. And stumbled is a pretty accurate term. It turns out that the reason your mother always taught you to store natural peanut butter upside down is not just so that it is easier to stir all the oils once you open it, but also so that the oils aren't all waiting on top to be spilled all across the counter and down the cabinets when you accidentally tip the jar over in the process of stirring it all together. However, with all of the oils now missing, the peanut butter has got to be just that much healthier for you. Of course, you can't spread it on anything, but that is another issue.

My chiropractor now sees me more regularly than friends and family. (Maybe I need to change the heading on the sidebar here to "Family, Friends and Chiropractors.) I walk into the office, she pokes around, gushes about how out of place my neck is and, after what sounds like a 21 gun salute, she sends me back to work. All this to say, I have become very aware of the strange feeling of things not being quite right. Something, somewhere is out and things cannot be normal. Today was like that, only I'm not just talking about my spine. Today was the sort of Monday that gives Mondays a bad name. It wasn't just the irate caller who called half a dozen times and gave bad days to half a dozen people, all the while hoping to reach me. And it wasn't just the project I waved good-bye to a year and a half ago that suddenly showed up on my desk with urgent flags. Nor was it the summer morning that required me to pull my sweater tight as I walked into work or the chance walk-i...

In honor of the recent poll results, I thought I would eulogize one of the contenders for "oldest piece of regularly worn clothing" in my closet. One of the low-lights of my eighth grade year (we are talking so low it could be considered subterranean), was PE. The first week of class we were all obliged to shell out $15 or so for a T-shirt and draw-string shorts in eggplant purple and school bus yellow. Then a TA, far too sadistically, printed everybody's first initial and last name so that at no point could you claim the ugly items to not be your own. And we were instructed to wear these items every day, implored to wash them every week, and everyone... boy, girl, prep, loser, or wannabe... could look almost identical in the gray freezing fog of a day not created for running a mile. I frequently suspect that the eggplant and school bus combination was not only a pitiful attempt to approximate the school colors, but a planned strategy to bring similar results as do ora...

Last night I finally sat down to speak with the person who appointed me to form a committee. Turns out he also appointed himself to the committee. I was kind of afraid of that.

My job frequently brings me the underside of news. I feel I could do a journalistic spread on the effect of the current economic downturn on people who are medically fragile using only the stories of people who I have talked with and written to in the last couple weeks that would make people line up at food banks and deacon's funds to donate. Me? I haven't even stopped to check where the nearest food bank is.

One of my co-workers found a little "Panic Button" which she brought into work. When you push the image, two animated voices, in increasing frenzy shout "Stay calm... stay calm... PANIC!!!!!" So far, everybody who has seen it (and heard it) has loved it. Except for me. And so far, everybody who has seen it (and heard it) has wanted to push it again to better distinguish the words. Except for me. And so far, everybody who has seen it (and heard it) has wanted to push it again to show it to someone else. Except for me. Repeat observation two and three. In. An. Endless. Cycle. Any minute now, someone is going to push it and the animated voice in my head which I have tried to muffle will shout in ever increasing frenzy "Stay Calm, Stay Calm, PANIC!"

Only eight more days to vote in the current poll. Inquiring minds want to know!

Just a few recent samples from letters that crossed my desk: "I fell and broke the front two teeth in my mouse and now I must eat only soft foods." "I participate in discipling, teaching, and cancelling." "I was very sorry to hear about your accident and how now you are having general anesthesia." Um... that would be permanent paralysis?

Broaching Old Age There was a time when I thought only old women wore brooches (maybe it is because it is such an old fashioned sounding word?). But friends, not only did I buy myself a brooch, I actually wear it! I must be getting old. Too Close By default I was chosen to model for the upcoming newsletter that will feature my department. It is a good thing that typically pictures in the newsletter are only a couple inches big. I say this only because I don't want people the world over to be able to count how many mustache hairs I have. Young Lady In a call today someone referenced a young woman they are seeking to help. Throughout the call, I also called her such. Turns out she is older than I am. Maybe if I keep calling her the "young lady" it will combat the fact that I am wearing a brooch. "Honey, I need you" Sorry to disappoint, but those are not the words of my SOS (Significant Other, Sweetheart) but the words of a co-worker who misplaced her toolbar....

Earlier this week I went looking for a small bit of information I wrote down nearly ten years ago. I knew I had recorded it sometime in my journal, but now that I have been journaling for fifteen years, I wasn't quite sure where I might find it. As I skimmed through my drawer full of journals, it seemed strange that there were so many events I did not even vaguely recognize. If it were not for the fact that the incidence was sandwiched between events I did remember, and summarized in my less than model handwriting, I might have thought some other person's journal had gotten mixed in with mine. I always suspected that when I chronicled an event it was so a future me would be able to remember the details where only a shadow of a memory existed. Of course, for a time I thought I journaled so one hundred years later a distant relation would know what it had been like to be me, but that was before I realized that even a distant relation might be too close. But now, ten years later...

Recently a writer from an African country has been providing a great deal of merriment at my desk. He has taken to writing quite frequently, and at great length, addressing emails to "Excellence [my name]" and requesting things like the entire staff directory, photographs of me sent by DHL Express, and letters so he and his several children can obtain visas to come and see Excellence Me. I have told him "no" in as many ways I can think of, without actually using the words "no" and he still writes to Excellence Me, assured beyond any reasonable doubt that I will promptly reply with the documentation needed for visas. "The door is steal open", he writes. How comforting.

Sometimes you blink and a month is gone. Of course there were a few things that happened in that month, but evidently not as many as I thought. The first week of June, coming off of a semester full of semester, I carefully sent out birthday cards to everyone on my list. It was a crazy week, and I knew of five celebrations, and I managed five birthday cards. A month later, I called one of the friends I had sent a card to, apologizing for never following up on inviting her out to lunch for her birthday. Not until I hung up after leaving a message did I have the great epiphany that her birthday wasn't the first week of June, but the first week of July. I do that frequently with anniversaries, birthdays, and planned-events-not-good-to-be-forgotten. June and July just sort of blend together. I'm sure you can understand it. After all, everyone has to get halfway through either of them before realizing which it is.

You know it's been a long time since you blogged when even your own computer doesn't remember your blog address.

I hereby welcome you to the first meeting of the new committee I find myself (on?). Chairwoman Me presiding: I motion that the first order of business be to do away with the suggested committee title "GO (Global Outreach) Team. Committee Member Me: I second the motion. Chairwoman Me: All in favor say "Yea". All of Me: Yea Chairwoman Me: All opposed say "Nay". *Silence* Chairwoman Me: Motion Passed!

Summer is a very dangerous thing. As it approaches, you are likely to think that you will soon have time to do the necessary things of organizing cupboards and closets or answering the emails that have been waiting unanswered in your inbox or finally getting together with the friend who may not even remember what you look like. And what is worse, you may even begin to think you have time to take on new projects. And that is why summer is a very dangerous thing. Not even one week into your summer vacation you may find yourself suddenly the sole member of a committee. Of course, if that should ever, ever happen to me, at least I have several personas to fill the committee seats.

Can you tell I've missed my blog? I've posted a new poll... come and help me celebrate my school vacation!

Six months ago I started with a new crew at work. I began what I have affectionately termed "Drive-by Training". Maybe the connotations would be better if I called it "Drive-thru Training," but the sense is pretty much the same... I fling instructions over the wall as I walk from my corner to the far corner with the printer and on my way back, I stop to check that no one is an inch away from pulling out all of their hair. I don't suspect that this method will receive any write-ups in "Top ten ways to build a powerhouse department", but that's okay. I'm making my own top ten lists. And I almost am surprised to say so, but that new crew makes the list.

On Saturday, a day late due to the arrival of a certain somebody and the need to entertain another certain somebody , I turned in my 30 page paper. The thing of it is, even though I titled the document "30 Page Paper" in My Documents, the page count was suspiciously lower... oh, let's say like approximately eleven. I will hasten to point out that it has been many years since I last took a math class, but I think that eleven is not all close to thirty. Perhaps if I had taken more classes in statistics, I could make a graph where eleven is nearly indiscernible from thirty, but I didn't. And this is where we learn another good thing about school: We have opportunity to learn about GRACE. Getting something wonderful, unexpected, and totally undeserved... because friends, I got an A. Grace for sure, because somehow I finished my first semester of grad school. The first week of class, as an exercise in learning how to work with the online format, we were given the exercis...

What of the good things about school is that it is like having a cold. I know many of you probably were unable to follow that logic. But if you may recall that one of the good things about having a cold is the ability to get instant sympathy from people (I would actually go fetch the link to that list if I had a wee bit more time, but you will have to suffice without it for reference), maybe this will clear up the small matter. School is like that. People always remember the rhythm of school, the procrastination and stresses, the huge fat papers that are unlikely to ever be as huge and fat and paper-like as they are intended to be. Yes, complaining about school is a great way to bond, and that, I think, is a good thing. =)

It is a great reason to guilt people into posting more on their blog! I should try this more often.

Today I discovered another good thing about going to school. It can get you on national (and international) TV! You see, if I had not gone to school, then I would not have known how to look like I was in a classroom when I was asked to pose as a student in a classroom. And I did such a good job acting (nodding my head and looking appropriately interested), that not only was I used in the publicity photos and recruitment footage, but I also get one or two whole seconds (not just me in the background walking to the printer or sitting at my desk or even the sound of me coughing, but a bigger-than-life face shot) in the most recent episode of the TV program that aired last week (and mostly likely will air again, but I don't know when). So stay in school, always dress ready to impress, and you may only shriek lightly when you are surprised by your face on widescreen TV.

When in school, you have an amazingly good reason to buy books. Even better than that, you have a perfectly legitimate excuse to carry a book around (and not a national best seller) without being labeled a nerd or anti-social. Of course, being in school is awfully nerd-like and regularly anti-social, but you can always make the excuse that you are a nerd because you are in school and if it weren't for the fact that you had a huge paper due, you really would be so open to watching the final inning (or whatever it is called) of American Idol with everyone else... too bad about that school thing.

Another good thing about going to school is that there is actually some variation between summer time and the rest of the year (in addition to the weather).

Going to school saves money. Of course there is the small detail of tuition, but here it is, a holiday weekend with LOTS of sales going on, and I am not out shopping. QED going to school saves you money.

How am I supposed to continue procrastinating when all of the blogs I check are lacking in new content? Back in my college days, I devised a simple plan of finding small entertaining things to read as breaks from studying and writing: I called it Mad Week and I tried to write one witty thing a day that I could later go back and read. Sometimes I think this blog was birthed because I no longer had any Mad Weeks to look forward to. I might be wrong, but I think this week classifies as such. You have been warned.

I'm writing my paper, don't you see? I have five pages, not four and two lines, I have five full pages. And I'm done, except for the minor detail that the paper is supposed to be ten pages. Maybe if I changed the format a little bit, you know, went with size 14 font and 2.5 line spacing, double spaced after a period. I could change the margins or add a header and footer with my name, the title of the paper, the semester and year, the page number (although if I don't make 10 pages, it is better to leave this filler out, no need to make it obvious). Then I could include full citations in the body of the paper instead of a footer or works cited page. Maybe I could use the technique of stopping every small subject change to add a subheading or I could do periodic summaries and small introductory paragraphs about what I will be talking about in the next four paragraphs. Maybe I could somehow squeeze in a cute kid story (those always slip in without any hard feelings, righ...

I'm supposed to be writing. I have a ten page paper due next week, a thirty page paper the week after that, and somehow, I was supposed to have managed ten minutes of journal writing every day for the last month and a half. The problem of ten minutes of journal writing every day is that frequently in ten minutes of journal writing my greatest efforts net me "Friday, May 16, 2008." Of course, in the following ten minutes I may just be able to pull off two or three pages, but those first ten minutes usually leave very little to show. So yes, I have quite a bit of writing to do. And that isn't even taking into account the letters sitting on my desk at work. This week was not nearly as productive as some weeks, I think I only managed maybe 25 letters. And all week long, as I peaked into my file drawers to take stock of the piles tucked away or I made up another reason as to why I should go check the level of paper in the printer, I heard the sound of many excuses march...

There is an organization by the name of National Odd Shoe Exchange (or NOSE), where people who end up only having need of one shoe can exchange shoes with people who happen to need the other half of the pair. I have my eyes open for an organization by the name of National Odd Plasticware Exchange. For most of you, I am sure this is completely self-explanatory. For those of you who are not quite as kitchen-conscious, I had the misfortune of taking my lunch to work in a mis-matching plastic container on Friday. I noticed too late that the lid didn't quite fit the base, but I didn't think it would matter in the long run. And then I forgot that I had brought leftovers for lunch. And Fridays our work refrigerators are cleaned out by the anti-leftover elves. And Monday morning I realized that the borrowed plastic container and unmatching lid had made their way to the great landfill. (Don't get mad, get Glad!) Forget trading for baseball cards, marbles, and Chocolatina Jet B...

A free tip to all of my dear readers: Your email address should not be longer than this sentence.

On Friday I copied out a page from a writer's magazine about picky editors and passed it around my department. I wanted them all to see that they should be thankful that it is only I who edit their work and not Mr. Whoever-it-was. I'm hoping this creates a change for the better. In other words, I am hoping it will make me feel less guilty about all of the red ink I spill sometimes. My co-workers all claim that it is only because I am half their age that I can see so much that needs changing. They grumble about the times when I circle a period that is a bit too bold. But when all of the words are in normal font, yet the period at the end of the sentence is in bold, it really is worth marking . See? Can't you tell? I almost feel bad that they all now keep magnifying glasses on their desk. (I would feel bad except that now when I am feeling particularly sleuth-like in solving a mystery, I can borrow one to pose with.) Red ink scrawling across staid Times New Roman dishear...

In the three quarters of a semester that I have been back in school, I have many times thought "I am insane for having signed up. I am going to fail. There is no possible way for me to do all that is named in the course syllabus." I have been right about everything except for that second sentence. I am insane for having signed up, and there is no possible way for me to do all that is required, yet somehow, so far, my grades have stayed in that range that even a straight-A-student (except for trying to fail math to spite the teacher) can live with. Well, except for the grade I just got back on my reflection essay. If I remember how to do percentages in my head (I only tried to fail one math class) the grade comes out to be 85%, but it is the principle of the thing that makes me begin to doubt. Any displeasure with a grade less than an "A" is always about the principle of the thing. I considered arguing this very important issue with the teacher (I haven't qu...

My desk is the first in a bank of desks pushed up against a wall. Every morning I come in, drop my purse in my file drawer and begin on my pile. Invariably, I hear buzzing, and I roll over to my file drawer, open my purse, and check my phone to see if it was the culprit. Nope. More buzzing. Am I hearing things? Is my computer buzzing? Has another construction crew moved in? Maybe I need to ask if the buzzing in my ear is bothering anyone else. Nope. They didn't hear anything, but they check their phones just in case. Four desks away "Oh! I have a text message!" For some strange reason, I cannot hear my phone vibrate in my drawer, but I can hear any of the other four phones every time they buzz. So if any of you ever need to reach me while I'm at work, let me give you the number for one of my co-worker's.

"Do you happen to know anyone who house-sits?" "Um... well, um... I guess technically, um... I do... ButItrynottoletpeopleknow." "Oh, well, would you consider house-sitting for me? I paid two hundred dollars to put my dogs in a kennel over the weekend and they came back dirty and sick." "Um..." "The little puppy was sick." Folks, how can you say no when saying no means a puppy might get sick? I keep telling myself I am not going to say yes as many times as I did last summer. Last summer I needed a place to live, this summer I don't. Yet already I have eight assignments I couldn't say "no" to. Those big, sad, puppy dog eyes... and I haven't even seen the puppy yet.

School is in session and that means that the post graveyard is getting larger and larger. For those of you who don't know, the post graveyard is the place that half-finished and barely-started posts go to die. There they linger in drafts, perhaps funny at one point, perhaps of some interest once upon a time, but now they wilt. But do not mourn too deeply, Dear Readers, I have a sinking suspicion that come time for me to work on my two final papers, those posts will walk like the zombie of that bad movie I never watched. And they may fall just as flat.

This week someone wrote to tell me of a person who made it a goal to write a letter of encouragement to someone every day. For quite some time I sat there thinking "That would be so cool to do. But where would I find the time to do it? How horrible is it that I don't have the time to encourage people?" And then I realized that I already do write letters of encouragement to someone every day. As a matter of fact, last week I wrote 63 letters of encouragement. I feel better now.

I'm beginning to think that I need to schedule "Big Girl Days" on my calendar... days when I will be grown up enough to schedule appointments and fill out reams of paperwork, days when I will not procrastinate for months about making a phone call. Maybe I didn't do enough of this sort of thing in my "pretend play" as a kid. And now my make-believe pretending is that if I put off being a big girl, it will somehow be easier.

I once thought it would be an interesting experiment to connect the number of name tags acquired and required to the energy level of extroverts and introverts. For instance, the week I was given four separate name tags I began to contemplate the fashion value of a paper bag head covering. I have not yet finished the thorough testing required for any conclusive decision, but I thought of this again this past weekend when the name tag made for me proclaimed "Roxanne." Now it might surprise you, but in all of the names I have ever taken for myself or have ever been given to me, Roxanne has never made that list. Nor, as my camp-mates so lovingly nicknamed me, has "Roxie." Nor should it.

I never really understood why sticky-notes were such a hot-ticket item. Sure, it came in handy every once in a while, but certainly not enough to justify buying many little cutesy designs rather than sticking to the classic yellow. At my desk I had one little pad of the size post-it note that everyone thinks of when you think "post-it note". And it lasted me for more than a year, I think. And then I began receiving designed sticky-notes as gifts. At first I wasn't all that eager to use them because they didn't stick as well. But then I came to have more than what would fit in my specially dedicated "sticky-note drawer". The only solution to that problem is to begin to use them in a way that doesn' t require they stick for more than a few short minutes. And so in the midst of training on writing letters, I pulled out my collection and left one sticky-note on every letter. "Great job!" "Nice Work!" I thought I had been saying tha...

Addresses come in all shapes and sizes, and frequently I am driven to the internet to try and decipher where on earth I am sending a letter. While I am on the general topic of addresses, I want to point out that addresses from the United Kingdom nearly always confuse me. The times that I have taken someone's scrawl to Royal Mail to have them help me, the address that eventually turns up is only two lines where as the address I put in was six lines. If anyone can help me understand this phenomenon, please let me know. In the process of using White Pages and Google Maps and Zabasearch I typically come across the names of neighbors and near-by businesses and interstate routes and even "street views". This gives me ample opportunity to speculate on the names of streets and burgs and whether the weather is pleasant this time of year. Eventually I begin to wonder whether this person who wrote today knows the person who wrote three days ago since they live in the same ...

More than a decade ago, while a guest at someone's home, I was privileged to watch a TV interview with an expert in car fashion who showcased the new paint colors that would eventually grace car exteriors. At that time, I thought it a rather bold statement, as he said with utmost certainty "In ten years, our cars will be these colors." A year or two ago I first caught sight of a car in one of the hues I remembered and I was amazed. Since then I have seen a steady increase of others. I bring this up because I really want to rant about a different trend and it seems gauche to leap right into a rant without some sort of lead in. Why on earth must everyone assume that jokes about chocolate are the way to the attention of an audience of women? Now, I like chocolate just as much as the next person (I am drinking a cup of hot cocoa as I type), but I don't understand why chocolate is such a laughing matter. Okay, so that is the end of my rant for right now. Thanks for st...

For the first time in my life, I walked in the falling snow this morning. I can now affirm that falling snow is not a myth that only exists in Christmas specials and foreign, frigid lands. And I can tell you, the sight of falling snow in a mountain clearing or the boughs of branches beginning to sway with the weight of the snow... it brings out the poet in even the coldest of observers. That is, provided she is allowed to finish her sleep.

The exclamation point and I have had a tumultuous relationship. When I was young, it seemed that this particular punctuation mark spoke of immaturity and " i's " dotted with little hearts. So I never used them. Never. And when I read something that contained this avoided object, it would mess up the sound of the sentence because the whole point of the exclamation point is to emphasize the last word beyond all normal speech pattern. And then I started making my living by writing letters. And I built my letters on the bones of other letters that had exclamation point after exclamation point. I struggled so hard to leave those exclamation points without touching them. Time after time, I would try to reword the sentence so that I could get rid of the little mark above the period and just leave the much more demure looking period. But personal growth is a goal of mine, and I thought, after a time, that perhaps my revulsion of the exclamation point was overstated. And so I...

My homework this past week included interpreting this piece of artwork (by Lon Kauffman ) as if it were making a statement about social justice. Just for the record, I am much better at deciding what a piece of artwork says and then showing how it says it than to try and figure out the authorial intent. I mean, isn't it obvious that this is about social justice?

I have been tagged for a meme from Emily . I'm not sure that I've ever responded to a meme before, if I did, it was probably to this same prompt... except, that this one was tailored just for me! Of course I have to oblige. THE (Original) RULES: Look up from the computer, look around the room where you're sitting and pick up the closest book . Open the book, turn to page 123, count down to the fifth sentence on that page, and then post the next three sentences . The Tailored rules: SlowLane (who I hope will complete this at work - and for you - change the rules a bit and use the most interesting request letter you have lying around.) Probably the most interesting letter I handled today was a letter from Bill. Or Sandra. It is the same person, but he/she never could decide whether he was Bill or she was Sandra. I think he/she is generally genderly confused. He/She addressed his/her lengthy letter to “preacher man [name of female]”. I wonder how much shorter the l...

A little over a week ago, I had a brilliant idea to post about how people are always asking for an extra day to get more things done because they have way too much to do and this year we got an extra day! But I've been so busy, I am only just now getting around to post about it. And ironically, I found the time to do so on the day when we lose an hour. Sometimes time doesn't march on... I think it skips and jumps and drags its heels and then takes great big leaps.

Today I was reminded of the days when we first moved into our new building. Construction men were once again in our restrooms, and the drilling and cutting through tile had me humming "I've been working on the railroad ". It was so noisy, I had trouble hearing myself think. But thankfully, their assignment was accomplished by the time I left for lunch. And when I returned, everything was super quiet. Footsteps were heard across the cement floor and someone called out "Who is that walking? Take off your shoes!" and later "We can hear the sound of typing!" Yes, filming was in progress. If we weren't careful, television viewers of over 3,000 stations around the globe would be able to hear us think. But if I average the decibel level of the morning and afternoon, it turns out to be a normal day.

With my boots pulled high and my belt tied low, I eyed the beast and walked real slow. "I told you to print! I'm not backing down. You do as I say or I'll run you out of town!" Now I'm a cool cumcumber of a gal, and I've been known to hold my tongue, But when a printer doesn't print, I think it should be taken out and strung! But the beast just sat there, not flinching at my glare It hummed in its rebellion and blinked!... that little hellion. I gave a great swing and slapped its hardened hide But any hint of mercy must be hidden deep inside. "You just wait! You take some time to think! 'Cause tomorrow I'll be back, and I'll make you spill your ink!"

Packing is a strange beast. I suppose you may all be tired of hearing my musings on packing, seeing as it comes up every time I pack... and I pack a lot. But if I must endure the trials of packing, you must endure the trial of hearing me muse on packing. Take that in the nicest way possible for the circumstances... like maybe in a moving box. Yes, packing is quite torturous to the indecisive person... and the wish-she-were-organized person... and the oops-I-meant-to-mail-that-four-months-ago person... and the there-is-two-inches-of-space-in-that-box-I-can't-close-it-and-waste-that-space person. But on the other hand, now that I am packing, I am quite relieved that I didn't actually get around to dry cleaning all of my clothes because now I can pack them in a box and not worry about what wrinkles there will be when they come out. And I am happy for the opportunity to organize all of my miscellaneous important papers (Read: pull them out from the boxes and bags that were used t...

Today I was thinking that it was about time for another oil change. I checked the miles... sure enough over the 3,000 miles recommended.... and then I checked the little sticker which recommends what month to come back in. So much for being VIP : The mechanics gave me a very, very generous 3-4 months before they recommended I return.

Yesterday one of the people I spoke to on the phone kept yelling at her husband to come to the phone so that he could take over the conversation and give me the critical information. He aparently was on the other telephone line and yelled back that he couldn't come right then. This yelled interchange allowed me to pull the phone away from my ear and pay a little more attention to the sounds around me in the office... like the conversation my supervisor was having around the corner in her office. ...hm... funny thing. Both of us were talking to someone who had a son by the name of T___. What were the chances of two families with that name calling at the same time? Well, I don't know what the chances are of that particular event happening, because as I am sure you suspect, it was the same family who had a son by that name. I put Mrs. on hold and ran over to shove a post-it in my supervisor's face and she put Mr. on hold as she and I put together our two sides of the story...

Today when I got into work, I set about making a list. In great big letters at the top of the page I wrote: I Can't Do it List And then I proceded to write everything that might fill the 8 hours before me. After having admitted the obvious, things looked ever so much better. Especially since after it was written I walked in and handed it to my supervisor. Maybe I will try that again tomorrow.

As I've mentioned before , when your living space is small, things gain multiple uses. So it was, that one day my co-worker asked "That is a lovely collar. Is that part of this shirt or is it a necklace?" I admitted, "No, it's a belt. I just thought I would try it in a different place." The next day I was complemented again about my colorful hair-tie. Me: "Oh, this? Um... it's actually a belt, too." Poor dear. Now every time she remarks about something I am wearing she quickly adds "Or is that a belt?"

Apparently my course of study believes in the wisdom of the charge "Know Thyself". For this assignment, I am supposed to consider my Myer-Briggs profile and determine how it affects my spiritual formation. I've taken this test a number of times over the years, but the last time I took it my results were very different from the time before. So curious about how my results might change again, I found another version and deliberated over my answers. But as far as knowing myself, I'm not sure it is all that helpful. With the exception of the "I" over "E", which presented a percentage of 93 verses 7, all of the other combinations are of equal or nearly equal percentage. How can this be? Reading through the descriptions of the eight potential introverted personality types, it seems unlikely that all of these types could exist in one office with some sort of comraderie, much less in one person. I think the only way these eight introverted personalities ...

So I missed the premier showing, and I am not listed in the credits, and it has not been ranked the top viewed video on YouTube, and I don't have any speaking parts, but if any of you are interested in seeing me look deep in thought contemplating critical issues, you can visit this link here and scroll down to click on the 6 minute "Who will be their voice?" I'm in the last 45 seconds or so. The greatest irony in all of this is that the professor was one of my professors for my undergrad and the serious discussion we were having for the film crew was about how nerdy my friends and I were.

One of the first assignments of my new program was to take an inventory of my primary learning style. I received the folowing results: Your primary learning style is: Visual/Nonverbal 36 Visual/Verbal 36 Auditory 24 Kinesthetic 24 I'm not exactly sure how to interpret that. Primary learning style: I don't have one! The results continued on to say that I am balanced in learning styles, but I'm not sure that is a good thing. The tips for each of the learning styles for increasing your learning potential included using multi-colored highlighters to mark up notes and books and such. I don't like using highlighters. I find them distracting. Even worse, I am sure that I was supposed to report my findings of this inventory on some discussion board somewhere, but I can't figure out where that is supposed to be. I guess maybe it is because I haven't been taught where it is visually nor nonverbally nor verbally nor auditorily nor kinesthetically.

A week or so ago, I had one of those days where I was in my element, happily zoned writing letters. When this happens, I frequently pull out my footstool that is the envy of the entire workspace, lean back in my snazzy chair which moves in more directions than I thought there were dimensions, and pull my wireless keyboard out onto my lap. I suspect that there are not very many people who manage to pull off this level of comfort in the middle of their cubicle. Mostly I suspect this because of the number of people who stop to comment. And, as you know, I am envied for the footstool. But I was very eager to help one co-worker come close to the comfort available, and I urged her to consider asking IT (Information Technology) for a wireless keyboard. Just then Mr. IT himself walked by, commented on my keyboard in my lap... and it was the pefect oportunity to suggest a wireless keyboard for the co-worker standing by. "We don't give those out any more." "But I know you h...

I am one of those people who will read the same exact refrigerator magnet every time I open the fridge because it has words on it and words are for reading. I am one of those people who think that bumper stickers and billboards are a road hazard because I must read them and therefore I take my eyes off of the road in front of me so that I can read the words. Today I noticed a billboard with very hard to read print on the far left side of the freeway, tucked among some trees and I spent quite the effort trying to read it because I was sure it had some dumb thing to say about the car it was advertising and the car I was tailgaiting didn't have a bumper sticker. However, I wasn't able to make sense of the ad. It read: Actively Safe Tip: Don't read billboards. What does that have to do with selling cars?

Sometimes data entry is the bane of my existence. There is nothing exciting about copying names and addresses into a massive data base that may or may not decide to befriend you on any particular day. And the only thing that keeps me typing and tabbing and typing some more is the knowledge that I will need some of this information later. But there are other days when data entry is what keeps me upright at my desk, rather than crawling under it or hiding in the corner of the darkened bathroom and hoping no one realizes just how comforting the tiled darkness is (Really, if the toilets had lids, the bathroom would be quite the perfect place to escape to). But data entry is black and white, short and shorter... everything is made to fit into a box. All day long I can stuff letters and numbers in boxes... and they like it! Tomorrow I may grumble again at the necessary work of data entry, but today I find comfort in straight lines and black and white.

I don't get care to season my life with much news. I sometimes will catch 30 seconds on TV as I walk from my room to the kitchen for breakfast and maybe another four headlines when I sign on to check my email. But some time ago I stopped trying to read through my bloglines subscription to BBC news, and I kind of like it this way. I suspect, however, that something may be going on in the world. Especially since nearly all of the blogs I read are making political comments. I was worried I might have to form some sort of coherent opinion in time for the primaries, or even before then, since I vote by absentee ballot. But sadly, the issue which seemed most likely to push me to do research was the annoying bumper-sticker-covered car who chose to take my parking space out of all of the always-empty spots on the street. But I opened my absentee ballot, and I guess I am off the hook for another several months. You see, I have a problem with indecisiveness, and back when I registered...