Life in the Slow Lane

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.