Life in the Slow Lane

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