PLEASE DISREGARD; UNINTENDED RECIPIENTS

I'm a bit of a lookyloo, so it shouldn't be a surprise that my curiosity is uncontrollably piqued when someone tries to recall an email. I thought this blog post title would help you determine if you suffer from the same curiosity. :)

In any event, today at work, I felt rewarded for that curiosity.  I'm on a few local professional listserves where members can post questions to the collective for discussion. Depending on the day and how busy I am, I don't monitor the listserve posts too closely. And, today was no different, I hadn't paid any attention to the posts until I received the email titled "FW: PLEASE DISREGARD EARLIER MESSAGE NEED TO RECALL MY MESSAGE, UNINTENDED RECIPIENTS."

The text of the email read: "PLEASE DELETE EARLIER MESSAGE AS THIS MESSAGE WAS SENT SOLELY FOR MR **** TO READ. THIS MESSAGE WAS NOT INTENDED TO BE READ BY ANY OTHER MEMBERS OF THE LISTSERV. I REALLY APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE THIS MAY HAVE CAUSED ANYONE."

So, of course, I had to investigate further to figure out what had been said that warranted such an email. The first portion of the email chain was meaningless drivel about some topic of marginal interest to the group. Then, Mister "Please Disregard" responded to a message sent by an apparent acquaintance and instead of simply replying to the message, hit "reply all." My favorite parts of his "reply all" email was his admission that his career is "not a pleasurable experience at times" with the specifics being that it "feels like you are putting parts of your anatomy in a vice grip and if it is not your own client pulling down its your colleagues." Whoopsy!

Woman vs. Vending Machine

I make no bones about the fact that I'm a cheapskate frugal.  I don't leave pennies in the "leave a penny/take a penny" cup at the convenience store.  I pick up nickels off the street, and I prefer to shop at stores like Ross, Kohl's, and TJ Maxx.  So, it shouldn't come as a surprise that I would fight with a high-tech vending machine to the bitter end to make sure it didn't cheat me out of my hard-earned cash.

As part of my company's initiative to be more healthy, it shipped out our typical vending machines packed with chips, candy bars, and soda pop, and contracted with a high class snack food vending machine company to provide food in our break room.  This meant we got a freezer full of frozen burritos and other frozen meals, a refrigerator full of packaged salads and sandwiches, milk, and yogurt, and a shelf full of instant oatmeal, fresh fruit, dried fruit, and beef jerky.

To entice us to use the new vending system, each member of my company was given a vending card with a $5 credit on it to use at the "market."  I easily used up $4.95 on the card but was dismayed to learn that the remaining $0.05 couldn't be used towards a partial payment, but if the $0.05 remaining on the card was to be used, I needed to add more money to the card (which could only be done in whole dollar increments) and try to strategically purchase items to zero out the card.  This is where my war with the machine began, to ensure the $0.05 didn't go to waste.

I plotted.  I schemed.  I added money to the card.  I purchased food.  Yet I could never win.  After about six months of effort and $100 later, our company told us that the "market" would be discontinued due to lack of use.  The "market" would not be restocked and we had two months to use the remaining balances on our cards.

Panic set in.  And the earnest scheming began.  I immediately rushed to the "market," sure that if I was to win this little game, I needed to get to the "market" before the supplies were depleted.  I scanned my card.  $0.44 left.  I picked up item after item, scanning each to determine the price.  $0.99.  $0.99.  $1.69. $1.59. $0.99.  $0.99.  How as this going to work?  Then, Eureka!  An ice cream bar cost $1.49.  If I used cash to add $1 to my card (rather than using a credit card), I would get a 5 cent bonus.  This would make the total balance on my card $1.49.  I hurriedly added my cash to the card, got the bonus and purchased the ice cream bar.  My card balance then read $0.00.  Sweet victory was mine!  Mwuhahahahaha!

I headed back to my office, closed the door, and ate my Blue Bonnet vanilla ice cream bar.  A generic-brand ice cream at 9:30 a.m. never tasted so good as did this one, washing down my morning coffee.  Mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm!

Am I ashamed to admit I wasted so much time and money to ensure that initial $0.05 did not go to waste?  A little.  And, although I could have asked for a refund of my $0.44 in connection with the closing of the "market," I couldn't really stomach the idea of tracking down the right person to say (in my best Office Space voice) , "Yeah, I'm gonna have to ask you to cut me a check for the balance on my card."  So, in the end, I claim victory!

mmmm......PIE!!!

I was at a business social this week.  In addition to the regular too-fancy-to eat typical hor d' oeuvres, there was a pie station!  A pie station!  And, not any pie station, but a pie station with little tiny homemade handpies.  Not only was there to-die-for triple berry pie but there was also a savory little tomato herb number, with the flakiest of crusts.

The only problem was that the table was way off to the side of the main thoroughfare and there wasn't much traffic or people standing around the table (for reasons I don't understand), plus the pie lady was standing behind the table all night long...as though she was keeping track of how many pies each person consumed.  Now, this set-up isn't so bad if you're a person with a little self control and can limit yourself to one or two little pies, but if you're a pie addict with limited impulse control, this creates a little bit of an awkward situation.  Especially, if every time you go to grab pie you feel compelled to justify why you've come back to get more pie, certain that the pie lady recognizes you and is judging you for being so greedy.

My compulsion to talk with the pie lady stems from this philosophy I have that if the stinky kid in class self declares himself to be stinky, no one can tease him about.  Similarly, if the pie piggy calls herself out, no one else will think anything of it.  I admit, it might be a flawed philosophy. 

So, all evening, not only did I pig out on handpies, I also made a bigger deal of the situation than was needed.  As a greedily snatched another pie off the platter, I asked rhetorical questions like, "whose the little piggy back for more pie?" and "what do you put in these things to make them so addictive?"  On other visits to the pie counter, I'd say things like "You'd think I hadn't eaten for a week the way I'm downing this little guys" or "Mmmm...pie."  All the while knowing that my presence at the table would be far less noticeable (and embarrassing) if I could just shut up, grab a pie, and go.

It ended up that I was one of the last few people at the event (not just because of the pies, mind you).  At this point, the pie lady left her stand unmanned for a few minutes (so I took my opportunity to grab a few more pies without being judged.  Score!) and as she was walking back to her table to start packing up, one of my friends engaged her on the topic of her delicious pies.  That brought the pie lady into our group and we talked a little bit about her shop and her pies.  Then, I felt compelled to make one final comment about the sheer number of pies I consumed that evening.  Instead of responding, "Oh I didn't notice," she said, "Oh, it wasn't that many."  Ah ha!  She had been counting! 

The Art of Not Botching an Interview

For a few years, I've been involved in interviewing college students for positions at our company.  So, each spring I trudge off to a local college and spend a day conducting interviews.  Most of the interviews are quite routine, but there are the occasional odd balls (such as, a student who spent the entire interview ragging on her fellow classmate or the student who asked at the end of the interview, "is this a paid position?"  Really!?!  You know so much about this position that you have to ask whether it's a paid position? ).

Last school year, I interviewed  a student who knew so much about me, I was incredibly uncomfortable.  By the end of the interview, I halfway expected her to say, "By the way, I like the new paint color you chose for your kitchen" or mention something about my upcoming menstrual cycle.  Needless to say, she didn't get a job offer.

A week or two after the interview, I was at the college for an evening event and caught a glimpse of the student lurking across the courtyard as I attempted to enter the gymnasium.  I tried to stay out of her line of sight until I could safely navigate my way inside the building.  I was not successful.  All of a sudden, all 200 pounds of her 5-foot 3-inch frame came hurdling towards me with her arms outstretched for a bear hug.  I panicked.  Uhhhh.  I'm not even a person who likes exchanging hugs with my close friends, let alone creepy stalkers who only know because I interviewed them.  Plus, I had no idea whether she had received her rejection letter yet or if she thought she was still in the running for a position.

Not wanting to be rude, I begrudgingly hugged her back.  After exchanging "hello"s and "how are you?"s she got right to the heart of the matter and started badgering me about where the company was at on making a hiring decision.  I didn't have the heart to tell her that she would not be receiving a job offer and would, instead, receive her rejection notice soon.  So I made excuses about still having more candidates to interview and tried to break free from the conversation as quickly as I could.

Yesterday, I was at the school again.  It never crossed my mind that I'd run into stalker chick on my visit (hadn't she graduated?).  Imagine my surprise when out of the corner of my eye, here she comes sprinting towards me.  My cat-like reflexes kicked in and I quickly extended by hand as far as possible.  Fortunately, stalker chick took the hint and shook my hand rather than trying to go in for a hug (although perhaps the rejection letter was a bit of an indication that we weren't best friends).  After rushing through a few pleasantries, she told me that she had an interview at another company later that week, and then she went straight for the jugular.  "I still don't know why I didn't get a job with your company?  I mean, did I do something wrong?  Well, I guess you interviewed a lot of qualified candidates and I guess some of them might be better than me.  I just don't get it."

"Oh boy," I thought to myself, and gave some flat answers about it being a competitive market and us only have two available spots for the large number of applicants we received.  I left it at that and tried to gracefully excuse myself from the conversation as soon as possible, but not before she said, "Well, I guess I got to know you guys for nothing!" (apparently referring to others in my office she had met throughout the interview process).  "Not for nothing," I thought.  "You'll know go down in history as one of my craziest interviewees.  And, I thank you for that!"

So, the take away messages?  If you don't want to botch your interview, don't be a creeper.

Just Another Typical Three-Day Weekend...in Alaska

My husband and I have a bit of a travel itch, but limited vacation days.  This means we have to be a little creative to fit in as much travelling as possible.  We usually use the majority of our vacation time each year on an international trip and take weekend trips to closer destinations.  This year, we decided to use the Labor Day weekend to take our first trip to Alaska.  We spent a good portion of the weekend flying, hanging out in airports, and driving, but had an amazing, totally worth it, weekend.

On Friday after work, we caught a flight to Anchorage.  We arrived in the wee hours of the morning on Saturday, picked up our rental car, and headed for our hotel.  After a great (if not a bit too short) night's sleep, we hit the road for the four-ish-hour drive to Denali National Park.  It was an overcast and rainy day, and I'm typically one who instantly falls asleep on any car ride of 30 minutes or more, but even then, the scenery and colors were too amazing to catch any shut-eye on the drive.  They stay a picture is worth a thousand words, so consider this me saving 1,000 words.

We arrived at Denali National Park mid-afternoon, in time to tour the visitor center and then visit the sled dogs (because the park has portions designated as Federal Wilderness, in the winter, motorized machinery is not allowed in the park and the park rangers patrol the park by sled dog).  The dogs were adorable, if not a bit preoccupied by the squirrel hanging out in a nearby tree.

Our time with the sled dogs culminated with a demonstration of the dogs being harnessed and pulling a park ranger around a gravel circular road.

On Sunday, we got up at 5 a.m., grabbed a sack lunch at Subway, and boarded a shuttle bus for a 12-hour ride into and back out of the the park (personal vehicles are not allowed farther than 15 miles into the park except by special permit).  The day started out a little bit overcast and deary, but turned out to be a beautiful day complete with views of Mt McKinley, sightings of 10 grizzly bears, and five moose (now I just need to get myself a telephoto lens for my camera).

On Monday, we drove back to Anchorage to catch our flight home.  On the way, we happened across three moose crossing the road (I only got my camera out in time to catch the last one).

We had such a fantastic time.  We highly recommend Denali National Park, especially in the fall.  It was one of the most beautiful places I've ever been.  Now we just need to find time to visit the rest of Alaska!

Elevator Serenade

It is fairly common for me to be the last person in the office in the evenings.  Our floor is locked after business hours and only people with passkeys can get off on our floor so it's really not creepy being alone on the floor at night (except for as a result of certain creeper janitors, but that's a story for another day).  I do have to walk outside to a deserted parking garage to get to my car when I leave work, but even that isn't usually creepy and I do remain alert to my surroundings and try to avoid potentially dangerous situations when I walk to my car.

One evening when I was leaving work I summoned the elevator in our office.  The elevator arrived and as I stepped inside, I was surprised to see someone already in the elevator.  Because our office is at the top of the building, it is unusual for someone to already be in the elevator.  But, there is a restaurant and bar in the building and it's not uncommon to find a tipsy restaurant patron riding up and down the elevator having  trouble getting out of the building after an evening "out on the town."  So I didn't think too much of the situation.

As soon as I stepped on the elevator, the man craned his neck to read the company sign on the office wall before the elevator doors closed.  While he was doing this, I noticed that the elevator was permeated with the smell of body odor and that he looked quite unkempt and homeless. Then he proclaimed, "Oh, so this is where the ABC, LLC offices are located!" As though he had just discovered the location of the buried treasure.  I thought to myself "Oh sure, like he's ever heard of us before."  Then he turned to me and said, "Do you know Matt Paul."  I was dumbfounded.  Matt is one of the owners of ABC, apparently this guy was somewhat legit.

We chatted for a few seconds about Matt, and then the man  informed me that Kenny Rogers was his dad.  The fact that he wasn't bluffing about knowing of ABC made me think he might be credible on this count as well, especially since he had white hair and a white fluffy beard, a la Kenny Rogers.  I commented to him that I could see the family resemblance.

Then he said, "What's your favorite Kenny Rogers song."   I froze with a deer-in-the-headlights expression on my face, and said to myself, "think, think, think, can't you come up with at least one Kenny Rogers song?"  Apparently, the answer was "no."  The only reason I even know who Kenny Rogers is (he's a little before my time) is because I remember my grandmother watching the Kenny Rogers/Dolly Parton specials on TV (borrrrring!).  So I responded to him, "Oh boy, that's a tough one," trying to imply that I like all the Kenny Rogers songs so well it's hard to pick just one.  At this point, the elevator doors opened.  There was no way I was going to let those elevator doors shut with me and this guy still on the elevator (despite the fact the he appeared to know Matt, I still got a creeper vibe from him).  So I hopped off the elevator and he followed me. 

I wasn't sure what to do next, but was certain that I wasn't going to head over to the deserted parking garage with this guy following me.  So I decided to stop in the  middle of the elevator banks to complete my conversation with Son-of-Kenny in a well-lit, fairly populated area. 

Him:  Okay then, just name one Kenny Rogers song.

Me:  Oh boy, let's see.  (awkward pause)

Him:  How about "Buy Me a Rose?"

Me:  Ohhhh, yes.  That's a very good song. (I lie.  If I've ever heard that song, I certainly don't remember it).

And then, standing in the elevator lobby, he begins belting out at the top of his lungs (even though I'm only standing three fee away) "He works hard to give her all he thinks she wants, three car garage, her own credit cards" as people heading to the restaurant pour in and out of the elevators.  He's not phased, eyes fixated on me, singing, singing, singing.  And, I stand there, awkwardly suffling my feet, trying not to make too much eye contact, as my gets hotter and hotter and redder and redder.  When is this going to end??  Why is this the longest song in all of earth's history.

When he got to the end of the chorus after the first verse, he paused for a breath, so I took the opportunity to try to short circuit the performance.  I clap as loud and as fast as I could and exclaimed "Wow, that was really great.  You are a wonder--" but that's as far as I got as he began again with " He pulls in late to wake her up with a kiss good night, if he could only read her mind, she'd say..." and he continues on and on.  After what seems like 30 minutes and 100 awkward stares from passersby, he finishes with "'Cause, I'm gonna make things right, for the rest of your life, and I'm gonna hold you tonight, do all those little things, for the rest of your life."  I repeat my proclamations of praise and thanks and awe of his singing talents (he really was quite good), and quickly head away, making sure he wasn't following me.  I arrived home without incident.  The next morning I was excited to tell my coworkers about the experience because I knew I had just firmly and irrevocably established myself as the winner of the "weird elevator story contest." (For more about this contest, see here.)

The next morning, I called Matt to get the scoop on my elevator singer.

Me:  Hi Matt.  I met a guy on the elevator last night who said he knows you.  I can't recall his name, but he told me that he is a Capricorn just like you and that his dad is Kenny Rogers and he sang me a Kenny Rogers song.

Matt:  (nervous laugh) Oh yeah, he lived in Las Vegas for awhile and was a Kenny Rogers impersonator. 

Me:  So is Kenny Rogers really his dad?

Matt:  No. 

Me:  Oh, okay. (Pause)  Sooo, how do you know him?

Matt:  He was a client of mine for a little while.  Be careful of him though, he was convicted of a violent crime and only recently got out of jail.

Me:  Got it. Thanks.
Now, I not only one the "weird elevator story consent," I now won the "creepest elevator story contest" too.

Am I Passable?

I work in a high rise that has an upscale restaurant and bar a few floors below our office. This results in a number of directionally challenged and tipsy restaurant patrons getting lost on elevators in the building and the parking garage.  A few of my work friends and I have started an unofficial ongoing contest that we call the "weird elevator story contest."
Our typical stories are people overly interested in engaging in conversation with us on the elevator; people who insist that the restaurant is on the top floor of the building; and loud drunk people practically yelling to each other in the elevator.  Some of the more unusual stories are of people with poor elevator etiquette who face the wrong way in the elevator or don't move out of the way to let people on or off the elevator.

One evening, I went out to grab dinner before coming back to work for awhile longer.  After I got on the elevator to go back up to the office, another person got on the elevator.  I didn't pay much attention to the person.  About one second after the elevator doors closed, I hear a deep man's voice ask, "Am I Passable?"  I look over for the first time and see a manly look short stout woman wearing a fitted sparkly black tank top, capri khakis, and a long blond wig.  My mind started racing, "Is he actually asking if he's passable as a woman or does he mean something else?  He must mean something else!  But, what else could it be?  If I answer that he is passable, doesn't that mean I've admitted I know he is a man?  But, if I answer no, that's not good either.  I believe this is what you would call a catch 22." I then mustered my most cheerleaderish voice and say "Oh yeah, definitely!" 

Then the elevator doors opened at the restaurant.  As he stepped out of the elevator, he looked back and said "Oh good, I haven't done this in a long time."  Again, in my most cheerleader voice, "Oh, don't worry, you look great!"  The doors close and I continue on back to work.

I was elated the next morning to share the story with my friends and officially be granted the title of winner of the weird elevator story contest.

Sales Pitching

I admit it! I'm a people pleaser!  Supposedly, admitting the problem is the first step to recovery, but I haven't found that to be true.  No matter what, I want people to like me.  I want people to think I'm nice.  I want people to think I'm fun.  And, I agonize, for days, if I think someone thought I was rude or unfriendly.  This means that I walk around with a huge target on my back for all those aggressive sales pitchers (you know, the ones who rely on the niceness of people and try to make the pitchee feel like she is the rude one if she won't listen to the entire pitch and commitment to some further step).

Last week, I was sitting in my office getting some work done when my phone rang (see here to read more about my general dislike for unscheduled phone calls).  I sighed out loud and saw that it was someone calling from Northwestern Mutual*, thinking it may be a referral prospect or a client advisor needing assistance for a mutual client, I answered the phone. 

"Hello, this is Adam ******** from Northwestern Mutual.  I found you on your company's website.  I am new to the area and am trying to make professional contacts.  Based on the information on your website, I think we might be of potential benefit to each other through client referrals and I wonder if I can buy you a cup of coffee so that we can get acquainted."

Me:  "Ummmm.  Sure that would be fine."

Adam:  "Great!  I promise this won't be sales pitch, just a chance to get to know each other and how we might be able to help each other through referrals."

So we set up the appointment to meet.  I've been around the block a few times and expected the meeting would ultimately be for the purpose of him pitching me to refer clients to him or use him for my own personal needs, but I figure it'd only be a few minutes of my life and that at least I'd get a free Starbuck's drink out of the deal (I subscribe to the theory of the "latte factor," (you can read more about it here on David Bach's website finishrich.com) that you can get rich by making small daily choices to save money by cutting out something as small as a latte--I take this literally and very very rarely ever treat myself to a Starbuck's beverage).  Mr. Adam was supposed to email me a confirmation, which he never did, so I was not sure whether he would actually show up or not.  But because we were meeting at my office and then walking to Starbuck's, either outcome would have been okay with me.  If he didn't show up, I gained an extra 30 minutes in my life. If he showed up, I got a free Starbuck's drink.

The appointed day and hour arrived and I received a call from the receptionist.  "Your gentlemen are here to see you." 

"My gentlemen?" I thought.  "There is more than one of them?"  "Ohhhhhhh, that's just great...."

I walk to the lobby and there are in fact two suited men to see me.  "Hi, Looky.  I'm Adam, and this is Nathan.  I wasn't sure if Nathan would be in town to join us, but you're in luck he was able to join us."

"Oh boy, am I ever in luck." I think.  "Get acquainted, my foot.  This is going to be a full-court press."  I started heading to the elevator to get the Starbuck's show on the road.  As I'm at the elevator waiting for it to arrive, Adam asks very perplexed, "Uhhhhhh, where are we going?"

Me:  "Oh, I thought we were going to get coffee."

Adam:  "Ummmm.....oh.  Or, we could just meet here instead?"

"In my office?!?  You jack***!" I think to myself.  What a pain.  I certainly wasn't going to take these jokers to my actual office because I wasn't sure I'd ever get them to leave, so I worked with the receptionist to find an open conference room for our little impromptu meeting.  After a few minutes we finally get situated in a conference room.  Without a Starbuck's beverage in my hand, I might add.

Adam:  "I thought I'd let Nathan run this meeting since he's done this more often than I have."

Me:  "Okay."

Nathan:  "So how much time do you have? Forty-five or..."

Me:  "I only have 20 minutes."

Nathan:  "Ohhhhh wow....20 minutes?"

Me:  "Yes, I typically have a more flexible schedule, but unfortunately my schedule is packed today and I only have 20 minutes."

Nathan:  "O..K...I guess we'll make this quick."

And then, he launches into to all the wonderful products Northwestern Mutual can provide and all the wonderful things it can do for me.  Then, he starts asking the typical, "What is your household income? How much life insurance do you have?  Do you have disability insurance? etc. etc."  Because we take our finances seriously, I'm able to answer all of the questions in a way that closes doors to further pitches.

Nathan (looking at his watch):  "Well, we want to be respectful of your time and we're just now at 20 minutes.  I wonder if..."

Me (while pushing my chair back from the table and thinking "respectful of my time, ohhhhhh pulease"):  "Great! Well, thanks for your time, I appreciate it."

Nathan:  "Well, it seems like you're pretty squared away for now, but I wonder if we could keep you on our list to check in with periodically to see if things change?"

Me:  "Sure.  I guess that would be fine."

We say our official goodbyes and I go back to my office fuming!  Everything about the interaction was calculated to make me feel awkward enough to acquiesce to these jokers' demands.  I'm offered coffee, but then I feel like I've committed a social faux pas by expecting I'll actually get coffee.  I've agreed to give up a portion of my life and then I feel uncomfortable or rude because I only allocated 20 minutes to the endeavor. I'm told there would not be a sales pitch, that the meeting was only for the purpose of getting to know another professional, and then I'm forced to listen to a sales pitch and disclose personal financial information, and to do otherwise would have made me feel very uncomfortable and rude.  I can't stand the typical pushy salesmen, but at least I've never had one of them take me away from my work with offers of time spent in a potentially mutually beneficial way, and over a free Starbuck's beverage, only to renege on the whole deal, except, of course, the part where I have to waste my time pulled away from work for some useless purpose.

I have one thing to say to you, Adam from Northwestern Mutual.  You better believe I'll be ready for your next phone call.  Yes, sir, I will!  I sure bet you'll be sorry when....when....when....I most likely, politely decline any further invitation to coffee or to engage in further discussions but give you permission to keep me on your list to check up on periodically.  So there!

*The names of the guilty have not been changed

Paradoxial View of Phones

I have a love-hate relationship with telephones.  On the one hand, it is an invaluable tool to allow person-to person instantaneous communication to catch up or to really allow explanation or deep communication and understanding about an issue or a happening, especially when email is too clunky or time consuming.  On the other hand, phone are a way for others to demand immediate attention, regardless of my schedule. 

I start each work day with my "to-do" list and mentally map out when and how I'm going to accomplish the tasks before me.  Once I get started on a task it might be an hour before I look up again to check my email and see how my day is being reshaped by client and co-worker demands.  But, when I do look up to check my email, it's on my own time, at a natural break point when I'm not in the middle of a train of thought, about to make a breakthrough on an issue, or frantically working to meet a deadline.  If I receive an urgent email, I can assess it and address it without interrupting my other project mid-thought, and for less-urgent emails, I can take five seconds to respond to the email with my anticipating time for tackling the issue.  This allows me to be the master of my own schedule and to access, prioritize my tasks based on my understanding of everything that needs to be done and the competing deadlines, and communicate my timeline to those affected, rather than letting one person jump the line in front of tasks that have a higher priority or for which someone had the foresight to reserve time on my calendar.

There are times when a 45 minute or longer telephone conversation legitimately needs to occur "RIGHT NOW" and there is no time to schedule it or plan for it.  But, if someone needs 45 minutes of my time, most of the time, it wouldn't be too difficult to schedule a time to talk about it (even if it is just later than day), rather than just call me and expect that I have time to drop everything and squeeze an extra 45 minutes into my day.  People don't expect that they can just walk into their dentist or doctor's office, or even their pedicurists office without notice and be served immediately so I'm not sure why they think other professionals should be different.  I also think that people often miss that the beauty of scheduling a time for a phone call is that I can be mentally prepared and in a mental state to devote the appropriate thought to the call instead of a mental frenzy worried about how the call is interfering with other demands and deadlines. 

On the personal side, scheduling a chit-chat phone call isn't routinely done, and I get that.  But if I'm the caller, I typically start out the call with "I'm just calling to check in and catch up, do you have a few minutes to talk, or are you in the middle of something?"  I feel like this gives the other person the opportunity to gracefully decline a conversation instead of just jumping in and assuming that because the phone was answered, the answeree has all the time in the world.  The nice thing about personal calls is that I feel less compelled to rearrange my schedule to chat and will often ignore calls if the timing is inconvenient.  But, I have occasionally been caught answering an inconvenient non-urgent call from a family member if the call comes at an unusual time (like after 9 p.m. or during the middle of a work day) and I answered it concerned that an emergency might have occurred.

I guess until I can convince the world that a telephone is meant to be a convenient device for both the caller and the receiver, I'll be stuck sighing aloud when my phone rings and attempting to keep my phone from running my life, but, of course, not leaving home without it.

Crazy Toenail Phobias

In my life, I've known two beings with irrational toenail trimming phobias.  The first was my mom.  The second is our beagle Mr. C. 

When I was about 10 years old, my mom started asking me to trim her toenails for her.  Weird, right!?!  Well, that wasn't the weirdest part.  As I would trim her nails, she would grimace, grit her teeth, and suck in air, making a hissing noise as the air passed through her gritted teeth as I trimmed.  I would freak out, "Did I hurt you? Are you okay?" 

"Yes, I'm fine. I just hate having my toenails trimmed!"

What!?!  Seriously, someone who hates having their nails trimmed forces their young daughter into slave labor, trimming her nails.  Oh yes, now I see the logic it that.  Oh wait, no I don't.

Fast forward twenty years and I find myself with a beagle who freaks out whenever anyone touches his paws, especially his toenails.  We've tried differently things.  Sneaking up on him when he's sleeping and getting one or two nails trimmed before he starts flopping around, kicking, and nipping at us.  We've tried one of us pinning him down while the other trims.  But he's such a wiggly monster even that has only marginal success.  The most successful method (other than taking to the vet and letting them handle it) is cornering him in the bathroom, closing the door and sitting in front of him so he can't move too much.  But, then Mr. C won't step foot in the bathroom for about two months after that, although I guess that's not the worst thing since he does tend to be fairly nosey about people's activities in the bathroom.

Currently, his nails haven't been trimmed since early May and are really long.  His nails are so long, that he sits and chews on them, clearly wishing they were shorter, but even that  discomfort won't cause him to tolerate a little nail trim.

I think the next time my mom visits, I'll ask her to trim Mr. C's nails.  It will be sort of like payback for making me trim her nails as a kid.  I'm also thinking that two beings so freaked out about toenail trims might collectively be able to overcome their fears.  Sort of like toenail therapy.

Quashed Squash

Occasionally, I'll hear of a court "quashing" something or other.  I'm not really sure what this means or how it happens, but it makes me chuckle a little.  It makes me think that the court would have preferred to "squash" it, but that didn't sound sophisticated enough so instead they decided to "quash".  If I liked cooked squash better, I think I'd try to come up with a squashed squash recipe, I think I'd need to use some type of bitter squash, and call it "quashed squash" and then invite some lawyers over to eat it.

Tips for Avoiding Awkward Public Bathroom Behavior

I'm a person who typically uses public restrooms more often than the bathroom in my home, so I've complied a little list of tips of inappropriate or awkward public restroom behavior for those who may not frequent public restrooms as often as I.

Tip # 1.   Do Not Make Noises of Pleasure (or Displeasure, for that Matter)
My mom is raging extrovert and likes to bring everyone in on the fun occurrences of life (and pretty much any occurrence can be a fun occurrence), stranger or not.  On more than one occasion, I've been out and about with my mom and she has waited until the last minute to find a public bathroom and then needs to make an emergency potty stop.  After wincing and doing the potty dance until she makes  it to the stall, she'll plop onto the pot and immediately begin saying things like "Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh my goodness, that feels so good!!!!  Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!" in a loud pornographic-type whisper and continues the whispering for the duration of the potty stop. This is not appropriate public restroom behavior, nor would whispers of displeasure or pain be appropriate public restroom noises.

Tip #2  Once the Stall Door Closes, all Conversation Must Cease
This isn't so much of a problem at public restrooms outside of the work place (unless you're a raging extrovert) but people don't go to the bathroom to catch up on the latest happenings.  They go for one reason, and its selfish and personal.  The basic rule is that once the stall door closes, all communications should stop, with the exception of a request for toilet paper if one finds herself in a stall that is not adequately stalked.  Most people understand this rule, but there are a few outliers in my office.  Although I'm not a huge fan of the conversation between stalls when both people are on the potty, the most awkward is when one person has finished her business and is about to exit the restroom when another person walks in and starts up a conversation while marching herself into a stall and promptly closing the door.  When this happens, I find myself standing awkwardly talking to stall door and waiting impatiently for the opportunity to not-too-abruptly end the conversation and make a beeline out of the bathroom but being conflicted feeling that the chatty voice behind the stall door expects me to stay and chat (in the sometimes somewhat unpleasant smelling) bathroom while she finishes.  Um, no thank you!

Tip # 3. Do Not Bring Reading Material to a Public Restroom Unless it Fits in your Pocket
In my office, the mens' and womens' bathroom are next door to each other and in the middle of a hallway at least 100 feet long. The hallway is bounded on either end by high traffic routes which means the walk to and from the bathroom can feel like the walk of shame.

Most of the time when people go to the restroom in our office, they arrive and leave (thankfully) empty handed. But this week I noticed an owner of the company taking the walk of shame and enter into the mens' room with a book in his hand. Now, it is possible, that someone could enter the bathroom, book in hand, and then plan to continue on to a meeting outside of the office or to a colleague's office and not want to backtrack after the potty stop to pick up the book. But I know a legitimate work-related book when I see one and this was not it. Now, I get it that many people read books or look at magazines when doing their business in the privacy of their own home, and that's okay. But at work when you have to take the walk of shame book in hand, please forego the book, like the rest of us.  The book-in-hand-potty stop really provides too much information for those around. 

Back in the Saddle Again

When I finished graduate school in 2005, I declared myself to be done, done, done with school forever.  There would be no further tuition payments, homework assignments, reports, quizzes, or exams.  That was it.  I was done.

But, exceptions must sometimes be made and my ban on further schooling is no exception.  Or I guess I should say is an exception.  This week, I got the husband's approval, bit the bullet, pulled out my wallet, and agreed to give up some evening and potentially weekend free time and enrolled in school again.  I forked over almost $100 and when I'm finished (in about six weeks), I'll have earned a certificate of completion in my first photography class. 

The Epitome of Selfishness

One of my favorite coworkers, Andi, has an office next to mine.  We have about three to five "closed door" meetings per day to catch up on the latest happenings around the office.  She's my go-to person for "you won't believe what just happened" stories (I suppose some would call that gossip...).  She also tolerates my proclivity to predict the ultimate outcome of coworker debacles and brainstorms with me about the likely thought processes (or lack thereof) leading up to any given debacle, such as a coworker asking the President of the company if the company would buy laptops for all the professionals (apparently, company-purchased laptops is the key to increasing productivity, who knew?).  In any event, Andi provides a much-needed outlet to talk through annoying situations and people, strategize solutions to "what do I do now" problems, make and add to a list titled "coworkers who don't wash their hands after using the bathroom", and audience for the rehearsal (and rehearsal) of the "okay, this is what I'm going to say to him" speech where I confront an out-of-line coworker or boss.

Whenever Andi goes on vacation (even for just a long weekend), I feel like I'm going to die…or….explode….or die from exploding.  My outlet for important news and strategizing world problems is gone. 

To my misfortune, Miss Andi got married last weekend and took three days of work off before the wedding and two weeks off for her honeymoon after the wedding.  So selfish, right!?!  I know!!! 

While she's on vacation, I've considered keeping a list of all the "happenings" around the office so I can fill her in when she returns.   You know, she’ll definitely want to know important things like…like….like….like....like... As it turns out, not that much interesting actually happens around here.  In any event, Andi, hurry back soon from your honeymoon so I won't be so bored.  And, for goodness sake, stop being so selfish!

Reagle Beagle

A few years ago my husband and I decided to adopt a six-month old beagle.  We found him online through a local dog rescue organization.  His pictures were irresistible.  Seriously, he was the cutest puppy I've ever seen.  But, the best part was that his biography said he was house broken and crate-trained and knew how to sit and shake hands.  What a deal!  The worst thing about puppies is the potty training.

After filling out a detailed questionnaire, we scheduled an appointment to meet Mr. Perfect and have our house checked out for suitability.  As we set up the appointment, the rescue organization mentioned that if the meeting went well, they'd just leave the puppy with us at the end of the appointment.  I was thrilled!

Early on a Sunday morning, at the appointed time, a woman from the rescue organization basically showed up at our house, shoved the beagle inside, wished us well, and took off.   In retrospect, I think perhaps she was a little bit too eager to get rid of the little guy.

The first 30 minutes with our new puppy, he raced in full-speed circles around the living room. Eventually he slowed down....for about one minute...just long enough to take a giant dump in the middle of the living room. And then he began running again. And continued running almost constantly for the next two years, with a few breaks here and there to destroy things, bark (a terribly loud beagley bark), or attempt escape.

Countless fights with my husband (him begging to send the puppy back and me heartbroken thinking of giving the poor little guy up) and many tears later (only a few from my husband), my husband has now accepted our beagle as a part of our family, even though either my husband or I still want to kill him at least once a day.  It only took two or so years to get to that point...one chewed up cell phone, one chewed up remote control, one shredded swimsuit, at least 10 shredded towels, three chewed books, 100 destroyed tennis balls,  five blankets with  chewed corners, one gnawed on Bible, one $2,500 tennis-ball removal surgery, 500 more accidents in our home (including a few that seemed more purposeful than accidental) and two years to get to that point.  Although, I will admit that if it weren't for his irresistible adorableness, he would have been on home number 3 (or 4 or 5, for all I know) a LONG time ago!

Sanctioned

I sanction the use of the word "sanction."  If you're wondering what I mean, then I've proved my point.  How is it possible that we have one word to me two entirely opposite things?

The freedictionary.com says that "sanction" "can be used to describe tacit or explicit approval" or that it "can describe disagreement and condemnation" or a "punishment for a criminal offense." Typically, when a word means two different things, the use of the word in a sentence clears up any ambiguity.  For instance, we usually know when someone means "orange" the fruit instead of "orange" the color and can usually tell the difference between the words here and hear or add and ad when used in a sentence even though they are pronounced the same way.

For a word that means either "I approve" or "I disapprove."  It seems like we'd be a little more careful and not risk the potential that someone would be confused with what we meant.  Perhaps Iran isn't responding to the sanctions the United States is imposing because they think we're expressing explicit approval for their actions.  See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sanctions_against_Iran

All I know is that I wish I had known about the word sanction when I was a kid.  If only I had phrased my requests for parental permission as, "Hey Mom, will you sanction my request to....?"  Either way she answered, I could claim that I misunderstood her answer and proceeded with the requested activity.  Clearly, I missed opportunity.

Potty Problems

I work in the downtown core of a decent-sized city.  Like most cities of its size, there is a substantial homeless population living in and around the city.  I'm usually asked "do you have a dollar?" one or two times each day, usually when I'm on my way to or from lunch.  I've mastered the limited eye-contact, "I'm sorry" response because I don't want to lie and say that I don't have a dollar, but my heart still breaks every time I'm asked or walk past someone holding a sign asking for food or money. 

This week, as I was walking from my building to my parking garage after work, there was a woman on the sidewalk rearranging her belongings in a filled and overflowing shopping cart.  In a somewhat panicky voice she asked me, "Do you live here?"  I responded that I did not.  Then in an urgent and rushed voice she said through gritted teeth, "I have to go to the bathroom so bad."  Unfortunately, it was after 7 p.m. and all the nearby businesses were closed and the building I work in doesn't have any public restrooms.  I tried to help her figure out where she could go she decided to head to the service station a few blocks away.

This was the first time it occurred to me that homeless people have real potty problems (although I guess I should have figured that would be the case the few times I've walked into an elevator in the parking garage and the smell made it evident that someone had used it as a urinal).  There are very few public restrooms available in the city and even those that are available would require someone to leave his/her shopping cart and most of his/her worldly possessions behind to use the bathroom.

Ironically, the very next morning when I was driving to work, while I was waiting for a stoplight to turn green, I noticed out of the corner of  my eye what looked like a bare bottom flashing me.  I looked over to see what it was, and it was in fact a bare bottom.  I was an indigent man nestled bottom first against a (very) small tree relieving himself.  It was a disturbing way to start the morning, but reinforced in my mind the fact that the homeless have more problems than I knew about.  Not only do they have to figure out where to sleep where they won't be caught and where to get their next meal, they have to make sure they stay close enough to a bathroom at all times so as to not be caught in a lurch, bare bottom to the world.

Best and Easiest Homemade Baguette

Few things are better than fresh-from-the-oven baguette.  That's why I'm so pleased to have stumbled upon King Arthur Flour's almost-no-knead baguette receipe, thanks to a recommendation from a friend.  The recipe is available at
http://www.kingarthurflour.com/recipes/the-almost-no-knead-baguette-recipe

Other than making bread in a breadmaker, I'm not much of a bread maker, but I still thought this was a super easy recipe.   It only takes four ingredients (flour, water, yeast, and salt).  The dough can be stored in the refrigerator for up to one week and bakes up in 30-35 minutes.  One recipe makes 3 or 4 decent sized loaves.

The Christmas Stalking

Every so often, I come up with an idea or a title for the book I'm going to write someday.  One of the ideas that gives me a big kick is a book titled "The Christmas Stalking." Or would it be "The Christmas Stocking?"  I'm not sure.

In any event, the idea doesn't have any substance behind it and it's not actually a serious idea.  I don't even know what the book would be about.  Perhaps a horror story that occurs near Christmastime and culminates on Christmas Eve in front of the fireplace mantel where the Christmas stockings are hung waiting to be filled.  Not really my type of book at all, but it still gives me a chuckle (as long as I don't pursue the idea in too much detail), mostly because of the use of the homophone that creates such incongruous concepts.

Last week, my dreams were crushed.  I learned that not everyone pronounces "stalking" like I do.  In my vocabulary the words "stalking" and "stocking" are pronounced identically and rhyme with "flocking."  But, as it turns out, many people around the country pronounce the two words differently, my Midwestern-grown husband included.  It makes sense, really that the "l" in "stalk" should be pronounced, I've just never heard anyone do so (although really, how often does the word "stalking" come up in conversation).  So I guess it's back to the drawing board.

The Theory of Relativity...Sort of

I don't consider myself to be profound, but sometimes I'm surprised to learn that ideas that seem commonplace to me are new ideas for others. For example, recently I had a conversation with one of my colleagues (a seasoned professional who I regard highly as one of the most practical, knowledgeable, and intelligent people at my company) was intrigued and seemed impressed when I shared my theory of relativity with him.

The theory is that the reason one year seems like an eternity for a child but a short amount of time for an adult and a blink of an eye for a senior citizen is based on the relative length of the time each person has lived. For example, one year for a three-year old is 33 percent of her life lived to that point; one year for a 30-year old is 3 percent of her life lived to that point; and one year for a 80-year-old is 1.25 percent of her life lived to that point. This means that when a person says "it feels like time is flying by" to some extent, she's right. The longer she lives, the shorter one week or one month, or even one year for that matter, seems based on the total amount of time she has lived.