I usually shop in misses clothing departments, but Friday I wandered into the Nordstrom junior department to try on some cargo pants. I felt a little out of place in this obviously teen-targeted section of the store, and unintentionally found myself trying to play the part. When a sales clerk asked how I liked the pants, I heard myself say, “The pockets are, like, way too low.”

Where did that come from?

My top three books from this year’s reading:
(The first two were mostly for entertainment; the third was thought-provoking, with elements I continued to ponder months after finishing the book.)

Fifty Acres and a Poodle by Jeanne Marie Laskas
True story about a big-city career woman who takes up life on a farm

The Church Ladies by Lisa Samson
A surprisingly well-written novel in the Christian fiction genre

Soul Survivor by Philip Yancey
One of the most honest books I’ve ever read, about Yancey’s struggle to maintain his faith despite a series of disillusioning experiences. (The book is subtitled “How My Faith Survived the Church.”) The book profiles 13 believers who have had a profound impact on Yancey’s life and faith, including Leo Tolstoy, C. Everett Koop, G.K. Chesterton and Annie Dillard. Since I experienced my own disillusionment during years spent at a Christian college and then working for two Christian organizations, parts of Yancey’s book especially hit home for me.

As an English major and self-appointed member of the Grammar Police Force, I risk developing a facial tic each time I hear language transgressions such as “I literally laughed my head off” or “That’s very unique.” Though the modern-day use of “way” as a synonym for “much” hasn’t been recorded in official terms, I think a coworker’s comment that we would have “way enough” food at our office potluck would have to join my list of grammar infractions.

People seem to be more into political correctness this holiday season than ever before. My pastor called Directory Assistance a few days ago to ask for the number of a local Christian bookstore. The operator - who was apparently also a Christian - must have felt a little helpless when she ended the call by saying, “Legally, I can’t wish you a merry Christmas, so I’ll just say ‘Happy holidays.’” The day before Christmas, I kept hearing people carefully avoid any religious reference by wishing others “a great holiday.” So I thought it was interesting when I ran into a neighbor of a different faith this morning who came right out and asked, “Did you have a nice Christmas?”

My dad told us about a conversation he had with coworkers one holiday season in the 70s, when people took an anything-goes approach to Christmas trees. After they mentioned the different options available - artificial, flocked, aluminum - my dad said, “We’re thinking about getting a wooden tree.” One of the women looked surprised and said, “I’ve never heard of that kind” -- before she realized he was talking about the old-fashioned, run-of-the-mill variety.

I told someone yesterday that my favorite Christmas song (which tends to change from year to year) is “Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella.” It seems that few people know this one, though I think the tune would be familiar to most. Reactions of people I mention it to are interesting. One friend, apparently hearing only “torch” and “Isabella,” gave a look of mock alarm and said, “I feel sorry for Isabella.” Another laughed uncontrollably for at least half a minute. I still have no idea why.

Here are the words to the first verse, for those wishing to broaden their musical horizons:

Bring a torch, Jeanette, Isabella
Bring a torch, come swiftly and run
Christ is born, tell the folk of the village,
Jesus is sleeping in His cradle
Ah, ah, beautiful is the Mother;
Ah, ah, beautiful is her Son.

One of my coworkers has a cold, and updates me on that day’s symptoms each morning. Since I’ve just recovered from my own illness (along with half the Phoenix population), she ends each update by saying, “This is your fault.” What should I do? Send flowers? Tylenol? An amnesiac drug?

I’ve been reading Garrison Keilor’s Lake Wobegon Days, and ran across this description of lutefisk, a traditional food endured by Norwegians during the Christmas season: “dried cod soaked in lye solution for weeks to make a pale gelatinous substance beloved by all Norwegians, who nonetheless eat it only once a year.” Mmmmmmmmm. Makes fruitcake sound downright appetizing.

My office suite has had holiday snacks in one form or another - candy, cake, caramel popcorn - delivered almost daily for the past week and a half. Yesterday a 10-pound block of Ghirardelli chocolate turned up, courtesy of a printing company I work with it. We're trying to figure out what to do with it. Someone suggested using it for weightlifting. I thought we could try melting the surface just enough to create a collage of our handprints. One coworker volunteered to carry it nonchalantly through various work areas, nibbling on a corner as though it were his all-day snack. But in this age of supersizing, would anybody really be all that shocked at the sight?

I've been trying to find a copy of the ever-popular Seinfeld "Soup Nazi" episode for someone on my Christmas gift list. After learning that there are no Seinfeld collections available on video or DVD, I sent an e-mail to a few friends asking if anyone happened to have the episode on tape. One of the responses was appropriately abrupt: No tape for you.

Mountain Dew's Davey and Goliath commercial is too funny.

I signed up to help serve a holiday dinner to our night shift employees next Friday, from 11 pm until midnight. This may not have been the wisest decision, since I am not a night person. (Friends say they can see the color drain out of my face at precisely 9 pm.) But the dinner organizers were having trouble finding volunteers for the late shift, and I figured a half-asleep person at the egg nog station was probably better than nobody at all.

I have a cold, and haven't had a normal voice since last Friday. Last night I stopped by The Home Depot and almost ran into a woman on my way to the store entrance. I tried to say, “Excuse me,” but it came out in barely intelligible rasps, as though I’d been chain-smoking since infancy.

Now I’m in the last stages of the illness - the point where you no longer feel miserable, but an unexpected coughing fit could hit at any time. This happened several years ago when I was on a date with a man I didn’t know very well. It hit as we were on our way to a movie: the sort of cough that leaves you unable to speak and certainly unable to stop - even if your life (or, in this case, your dignity) depends on it. I assumed he would sense my desperate need of water and pull into a fast-food drive-through. Instead, he went right on talking as though I were sitting in my seat nodding and smiling pleasantly, instead of hacking and gasping for air. It was as though he were unaware of anything except his own conversation. I wonder if he realized that our date finally ended and I left the car and went inside. For all I know, he may still be sitting in his car, chattering away....

I had to work Saturday, so I lost a valuable Christmas shopping day. This is a problem, because it takes me forever to shop for gifts. Maybe I should consider doing away with my current pattern of gift-buying, which consists of: Buy a gift for someone, buy something for myself, buy another gift, buy something for myself....

My checking and savings account are at a credit union. Is it correct to say that I “bank” at a credit union? Or do I “credit union” there?

For a man's point of view on weddings, check out Russ's site.

I’ve been staying with a family friend while my kitchen is being remodeled. She’s a warm, generous, motherly type who worries about things like how much sleep I’m getting and whether I’m eating enough. But I discovered a dark side when we were cleaning up the kitchen a few nights ago. She was washing a large knife, and began imitating the screachy sounds from the shower scene in “Psycho.” This was even creepier when I remembered that her maiden name is Bates.

When I was in grade school, I had a sort-of crush on Eric Shea, the actor who did the voice of Linus for A Charlie Brown Christmas. He also starred in a made-for-TV Disney movie called Alvin Fernald, Mayor for a Day. (Apparently, I was the only kid in the country who watched it, because I always get a blank look when I mention it to people.) I don’t think I liked anything specific about the actor - most of the appeal was that he was a kid, like me, and in movies. And though the reason for the attraction escapes me now, I still think his Linus voice was cool.

More than once I’ve dialed a phone number and then started reading e-mail, only to momentarily forget who I’m calling by the time the person picks up the phone. I think multitasking is overrated.

I had to come to work at 6:30 this morning for a photo shoot, and was famished by the time we finished at 9:00. I headed to the cafeteria and ordered a pancake from the grill. That may sound like a meager breakfast, but the thing was easily 10 inches in diameter. When my coworker John saw The Pancake That Ate Manhattan sitting on my desk a few minutes later, he said he’d consider betting a dollar that I couldn’t finish it. I’m glad I didn’t take him up on it, because I had to give up even before I reached the halfway point. I’m convinced there’s a Pancake Wall - once you hit it, you can’t possibly eat one more bite of the thing.

I had lunch with a former coworker over the weekend, and got an e-mail on Monday that said I'm "just as sweet as ever." A nice enough note, except that I dislike being described as "sweet." It always seems like a description people use when they don't know much about you (as evidenced by the classmates-but-not-really-friends who used the word when they signed my high school yearbook). In my thinking, "You're sweet" is simply a euphemism for "You have no personality at all, as far as I've been able to detect."

This week's heartwarming sports story, courtesy of Sports Illustrated's Rick Reilly

You know that you’ve gone to a party out in the middle of nowhere when one of the guests walks in and says, “Hey, come out here and look at the herd of wild havelina!”

From a card I received last week –

Diary of a Golfish:
Swam. Ate some flakes. Tasty. Swam again. Didn’t wait long enough after eating and got cramps. Cramps went away. Swam.

It always surprises me to see poor writing in publications targeting professional communicators. I mean, this is writing for writers - shouldn’t the articles be especially well-crafted? I was glancing through a magazine from a national association of business communicators. Here are the leads from a few of the articles:

If you’re like most communication professionals, you’ve run your share of e-mail communication campaigns.

Professional communicators’ tools of the trade have remained relatively unchanged through the years.

The practice of communication has changed since Sept. 11, 2001, and there may be more challenges still ahead.
Yawn. No wonder I never have an interest in attending writers’ workshops sponsored by these organizations. I’m afraid my writing might get worse instead of better.

I'm trying to stay ahead of the holiday frenzy this year. Yesterday I placed an order with Amazon that marked the official beginning of my Christmas shopping. But it would be just like me to still be running around with the masses on December 24....

I watched “The Joy Luck Club” for the first time this week. When a friend found out I’d rented it, she said, “I watched that a few years ago. It’s a cute movie.”

Cute? Infanticide, spouse abuse, rape, child abandonment, suicide.... I haven’t seen so much tragedy in one piece of so-called entertainment since “Little House on the Prairie” went off the air. I watched it in three segments, and felt relieved when I finally made it to the end.

My friends Mark and Brenda had an unofficial contest between the two of them to see who could draw the biggest laughs at the polls today. When Mark placed his completed ballot inside the box and heard the clicking sounds that assured him the card had been "accepted," he exclaimed, "Did I win?!" When Brenda's turn came, she held her completed sample ballot in the air and asked, "Does anyone want to use this? It has all the right answers." (I think she won.)

I voted by mail this year, though it's not my favorite way to exercise my voting privilege. The mail-in ballot came with a sticker that says, "I voted early." I wore it today, since it looks enough like the official Election Day sticker to pass as the real thing. But I almost feel like I cheated....

Our office Coke machine has a button reserved for selections that rotate to provide a variety beyond the typical choices. Usually, it’s something like orange soda or root beer. But today I noticed that the button was marked “Caffeine-Free Coke - mixture of diet and non-diet.” Like people don’t care which one they get? I guess the calorie-counters in our midst are supposed to put in their coins and play a game of Caffeine-Free Coke Roulette.

My favorite classic TV show is "The Bob Newhart Show," so I was thrilled to learn that the accountant-turned-comedian received the Mark Twain Prize for American Humor last week.

I took last week off for my Second Annual Autumn Home Improvement Vacation. I finished painting the back of my house (a work-in-progress started last year) and did some gardening, but mostly just enjoyed the excuse to be outside during my favorite time of the year.

I read that author John Grisham uses the names of his college buddies for the villains in his books. So now that I’ve started writing a novel of my own (if you count one page as a start), I asked my friend Natalie what sort of villain she’d like to be. Here’s the note I received in response:

I’d like to be the intelligent, deceitful, calculating woman, beautiful of course, that turns everyone’s head but is out of reach except to the handsome lead man who is able to turn me around from a life of deceit and crime to a life of law and order. We ride off into the sunset to perform good works. Will it sell? Do what you can.

I think she’s trying to take over the main character's role. I just might have to make her a gum-smacking ne'er-do-well instead.

Happy 40th birthday, Russ!

A family friend called Information last week in an attempt to locate her periodontist. The operator couldn't find a listing under the doctor's name, so my friend tried to offer more detail. But the only area of specialty that came to mind at the time was "podiatrist." Finally, she said, "He's a gum guy!" The operator cracked up and said, "This one's going on the wall!"

So now I have a new goal in life: to say something that will make the Information "wall."

Does anyone know where I can find an article or photo of Brad Pitt or Jennifer Aniston? I'm having a really hard time finding material about them these days (unless you count the last 112 magazine covers I've spotted....)

A coworker seemed impressed with my healthy eating habits when he caught me eating raisins at my desk this morning. Then I had to confess that I'd had leftover birthday cake for breakfast. (But only because I'd planned to have some last night, but forgot, and it's becoming staler by the hour.) Tomorrow, it's back to my usual yogurt and whole-wheat toast....

I think the Post Office should make a set of really ugly stamps that people could use when they mail in their bills.

My Saturday afternoon realization: the odds of running into someone you know at the mall are directly proportionate to how bad you look on that particular day.

Why do so many Christian speakers sum up the attitude of today’s society by quoting the once-popular expression, “If it feels good, do it” - even though nobody’s seen the bumper sticker, or heard the saying (by anyone but Christian speakers) since circa 1980?

I just spent 54 minutes on the phone - mostly on hold - trying to resolve a computer problem. The phone system plays a catchy little instrumental tune for callers while they're on hold. You know what I discovered? No tune is catchy after 54 minutes.

Karen's self-serving blog entry:
Today is my birthday.
Let the well-wishing begin.

I found a punctuation error on my renewal form for Copy Editor newsletter. I am bitterly disillusioned.

I've had a cold since Thursday (or at least something with symptoms in the cold/flu/West Nile virus category). One of my odder symptoms: I went almost deaf in one ear for a couple of days. I went shopping with my friend Kim on Saturday, and warned her ahead of time that she might have to repeat herself a lot. Actually, we had the opposite problem. Since I couldn't judge the volume of my own voice, I ended up talking more softly than usual, and she kept having to ask me to repeat myself. About half of our conversation was made up of the word "Huh?" She was a good sport to spend the day wandering the mall with a lackluster, half-deaf, muttering friend.

Jamba Juice is my latest food fad. Orange-A-Peel and Peach Pleasure are my standbys, though I think Mango-A-Go-Go is more fun to say.

The trouble with being a writer is that I overanalyze everything I put into words. I need a rough draft to write a simple message on a Post-It Note. (You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you?) When I compose a work-related e-mail, the topic at hand often calls for an expression of appreciation. Usually, I'll start with a simple “Thanks.” But the word looks cold, sitting there at the end of the message with a simple period at the end. So I’ll change it to “Thanks!” - which seems to have too much of a perky-cheerleader tone for the workplace. So I’ll go back and forth between “Thanks” and “Thanks!” before I finally rework the last sentence, or just pick one and send it.

No wonder I haven’t managed to write a book yet.

I read an article quoting a telemarketer who said half of her calls ended with cursing or hang-ups. I don’t think I’ve ever been rude to a telemarketer (I figure it’s pretty close to the bottom of the list of desirable jobs), but the calls do try my patience. My friends Mark and Brenda decided to turn the annoying calls into a source of entertainment. Before the telemarketer could jump into his/her spiel, they would ask, “If you could have anyone struck mute for a day, who would it be?” The question caught the callers off guard, but most came up with an answer. The funniest response came from a guy who said, without skipping a beat, “My girlfriend.”

Some coworkers and I were discussing the fact that a person can’t get AIDS from ingesting blood. (I’ll spare you the details of the news story that prompted the conversation.) Our college intern, not completely convinced, asked, “What if you ate, like, a bag of blood?” Somehow that doesn’t make my list of Things I’m Worried About.

I never watch “Will and Grace,” but Kevin Bacon’s guest appearance on last night’s show was hilarious. I’m not sure which was better - the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon reference, or the “Footloose” dance reenactment.

I was going through my checkbook the other night and had one of those “Where does all the money go?” moments. My spending over the summer was fairly lean, and it seemed my checkbook balance should have been much larger as a result. This morning I happily discovered the real problem: I’d forgotten to record one of my paycheck deposits. It looks like I’ll be able to buy groceries this week after all. Maybe I’ll go on a mall spending spree to celebrate.

I have piano-playing phases. I won’t touch my piano for months, then I’ll suddenly develop renewed interest and start playing every day. I tend to lose track of time when I'm at the keyboard, especially when I put something on the stove and then head for the piano - supposedly to kill just a few minutes until my dinner is ready. I’ve burned more food that way....

When I first started attending my old church, I sat in a different area each Sunday, not sure I wanted to adopt my “own” section. It gave me a chance to meet different people, but I began to feel self-conscious when I realized most members sat in the same area Sunday after Sunday. I wondered if people were starting to wonder about my nomadic ways -- then realized my ego had kicked into high gear to think that anyone had noticed me among the 600 who packed the sanctuary each week. A few weeks later, during the weekly greeting time, a man sitting near me shook my hand and seemed to recognize me. “You’re the girl who sits all over the church,” he said. So much for being invisible.

I've been watching my car's odometer over the past several months as the miles crept toward 150,000. On Monday I realized that it would probably hit the mark sometime the next day. It seemed a noteworthy event, as cars go - especially since I've managed to get this far with no major repairs needed. Imagine my disappointment when I got home from work yesterday evening, looked down, and read 150,008. I missed it! But what did I really think I was going to do when The Moment arrived? Honk the horn and throw confetti out the window?

I brought a Texas Sheet Cake in to the office today (I’m going for Miss Congeniality). I overheard two coworkers - apparently contemplating the calories involved - saying I was “evil.” But I’m sure they meant that in a good way.

Sometimes I wish I had a job that involved talking on a two-way radio and ending conversations by saying, "Copy that." That would make me feel SO cool.

My TV doesn't have a remote-control, which wouldn't be a big deal if I had a normal air conditioner. But my system happens to be abnormally loud (I've dubbed it "The Iron Lung"), which leaves me with three choices: make TV viewing an aerobic activity by jumping up to adjust the volume every time the AC comes on, learn to lip-read dialog, or just deal with the fact that the characters will be shouting at me during those otherwise blissful moments when The Iron Lung shuts off.

Archaic though it may be, my TV is much easier to deal with than some of the more advanced systems I've encountered. I was at a friend's house a few nights ago, waiting for her to finish a phone call. Since the only reading material at hand were parenting magazines or books for preschoolers, I decided to catch a few minutes of television while I waited. I found the "Power" switch to turn on the TV ... which ended my technological achievements for the evening. I located four different remote-control devices -- none of which controlled the television channels (despite the clearly marked "Channel" buttons on two of the devices). I finally gave up and turned the TV off.

I may not have a large-screen TV, Surround Sound or an impressive DVD/CD/VCR/Everything Else You Could Possibly Need For Entertainment system at my house. But at least I can figure out how to watch David Letterman.

People tease me about my tendency to date guys with unusual names: Chaney. Dwight. Galen. Raoul. My friends were never able to say Raoul's name normally, but always pronounced it to make him sound like an exotic foreigner: "So, Karen, how's Raouuuuuuuuul?" (Actually, he was as all-American as any Mike or Paul.) I never quite got used to the name myself. I knew our relationship could never become serious, since I couldn't picture keeping a straight face while saying, "I take you, Raoul, to be my lawfully wedded...." (And the fact that most of his conversation revolved around his car didn’t help much.)

So I've been used to winning all the weird-name contests, until talking with a co-worker who claims to have dated men named Parker, Gannon and Rebel. I think I've been beat ... though it's highly possible she’s pulled her names out of Soap Opera Digest.

I walked into Circuit City on Saturday and spent a total of four minutes deciding on and purchasing a new TV/VCR unit for my bedroom. Later, I spent half an hour - in two different grocery stores - deliberating over snacks to take to my Sunday school class the next morning. There is definitely something wrong with me.

I’ve had insomnia all summer long, and have watched a lot of middle-of-the-night TV as a result. You name it, I’ve probably seen it: Infomercials for Pilates videos and the Amazing Revo Styler. Reruns of various 70s and 80s sitcoms. A locally produced film called “The Cowboy and the Ballerina.” Commercials for every mattress store and car dealer in Arizona. (After midnight, the program-to-advertisement ratio reverses. You get two minutes of program sandwiched between 10-minute commercial segments.) I’ve also made this discovery: “Just Shoot Me” is on pretty much around-the-clock.

Aren't there enough troubled people in the world of dating without this?

My seven weeks of housesitting in a gated community that I’ve dubbed “The Resort” ended yesterday. It will take a few days to stop missing the view of city lights, walk-in closet, microwave and dishwasher. (My own kitchen was built in 1950 and hasn't been updated much since then. Retro definitely has its drawbacks.) But I have a home computer again, and I've cut my commute time by 5 or 10 minutes. I’ll console myself with those thoughts.

Karen's Music Trivia
Song that runs through my head for hours at a time, much to my chagrin:
Copa Cabana by Barry Manilow

Song that played on my parents’ easy listening station, that I liked despite its hokiness:
Cherish by The Association

Song that gets me kind of choked up, though I don’t know why:
Promised Land from Veggie Tales’ “Josh and the Big Wall”

Song that I want played at my funeral:
Sometimes by Step by Rich Mullins

Song that must be included in the music soundtrack if I ever write a novel that’s adapted into a film:
Fields of Gold by Sting

Favorite 70s song:
More Than a Feeling by Boston

Favorite 80s song:
Mandolin Rain by Bruce Hornsby & the Range

Favorite Christmas Carol:
Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella

Most beautiful worship song I have ever heard:
Passacagalia of Praise

Song I wish I could play on the piano:
Linus and Lucy from “A Charlie Brown Christmas”

Song I can play on the piano, that sounds pretty good, if I do say so myself:
Think of Me from “Phantom of the Opera”

A department I work with is putting together a cookbook that will be sold as a fund-raiser, and came to me for ideas on a book title. Since they're seeking philanthropic support, I developed a title that cleverly referenced both charitable giving and cuisine. For some reason, though, "Fork It Over" wasn't quite what they had in mind. Now they want other ideas.

My talent is definitely going to waste here.

Today’s discovery: Chewing spearmint gum while drinking diet Coke creates a flavor strongly resembling that of a cleaning product. (Or what I would imagine cleaning products to taste like if I were in the habit of consuming them.)

When I accused my friend Matt of never reading my weblog, he defended himself by saying he has looked at it — twice. That just so happens to be the exact number of times he has been mentioned in my scintillating entries. (His wife, Sandy — a much more loyal friend and regular reader— alerts him whenever his name appears.) I’m going to start throwing his name in at random, just to force him to take a look now and then.

A friend and her teen-age daughter were having trouble finding their cordless phone. The daughter said, “They should come up with some device to attach it to the other part of the phone.” Science should get its top people working on that.

Being a grammar junkie, I look forward to each issue of Copy Editor newsletter, which covers the picayune matters of language for those of us in the publishing profession. It may sound dull, but it’s an invaluable resource for those of us who grapple with life-or-death matters such as determining whether website is one or two words, or how to pluralize words that come from Latin and Greek (data and media, for instance). The staff even manage to have some fun putting the newsletter together, as evidenced by this headline from the June-July issue: “Possessive’s (just kidding!)”

I would bond with these people.

I'm usually impressed by witty guys. But invariably, after I've award the "witty" label to someone who seems deserving of the honor, I recognize one of his comical remarks as a line from a movie. And then I realize all of his comical remarks have simply been lifted from film dialogue (which was probably written by a very clever woman). I'm told the favorites sources of borrowed one-liners are "Fletch," "Caddyshack" and "So I Married an Ax Murderer." Isn't the supply starting to run low by now?

I once knew a Chinese guy named Ho. I couldn't figure out how to greet him at first. "Hi, Ho" sounded ridiculous. "Hey, Ho" and "Hello, Ho" weren't much better. Realizing my only other option was something stodgy like "Greetings, Ho" (which probably would have made me sound like an alien), I finally settled on "Hi, Ho." I was surprised to find it sounded almost normal, once I got used to it.

It's funny when kids are familiar with certain phrases from the Bible, but aren't quite sure where they come from. During my vacation, I helped Natalie out with a kindergarten class that meets at her church on Wednesday evenings. (Our dynamic duo handled crafts and snacks.) The teacher was reviewing the Bible passage about Jesus calming the storm, and asked the class what He said to stop the wind and rain. "Peace," one child answered. "Be still," another offered. The third response was my favorite: "Let there be stop."

I don't usually like to do the typical touristy things when I visit a new city. But during my trip to St. Louis last week (with my college friend and former roommate, Natalie), I visited the Gateway Arch and accompanying museum. (Want to know anything about Lewis & Clark? Ask me!) I got the impression that a visit to the Arch wasn't merely recommended, but in fact required, lest you be booted out by the locals. Later, when our plans to visit the Missouri Botanical Garden were rained out, we ended up at the historic Union Station, where Natalie and I decided that probably the only St. Louisians (is that a word?) who ever paid a visit were probably entertaining out-of-town guests.

I was disappointed to miss the garden - which I'd heard was spectacular - but kind of enjoyed the rain. When you're from The Valley of the Sun, precipitation in any form is a novelty.

One of the more surreal experiences of my life: sitting in a Sunday School class with Alice Cooper, discussing the topic of carnal Christians.

(Alice Cooper is, by the way, a committed Christian and an all-around nice guy.)

My office voice mail message used to open with what I considered to be a simple, straightforward greeting: “You’ve reached the desk of Karen....” This brought out the smart-aleck in some of my friends, who couldn’t resist leaving messages that began, “Hello, desk. When you see Karen....” So I changed the greeting, reasoning that nobody could give me grief for saying, “You’ve reached my voice mail.”

But this time it was my promise to return calls “shortly” that brought harrassment. “Who are you calling short?” one of my height-challenged friends demanded. “I don’t care how tall you are,” another caller began, barely concealing the mirth he felt at his own cleverness. I recorded a yet another greeting, carefully crafting phrases that would surely put an end to my string of mockery-laden messages. The result was a voice mail masterpiece - professional and friendly, with no fodder for the literal nit-pickers in my midst.

For five blissful weeks, I’ve received messages completely free of ridicule. But now a glitch in our phone system has erased everyone’s greetings, and I’m forced to re-record again. Since I can’t remember any of the masterpiece I created, I’m thinking of throwing the old phrases back in. I’m starting to miss the heckling.

Maybe I complain too much about my hair. When I told a friend that my hair was going through "a difficult stage," he asked, "What - between birth and death?"

My mechanic is one of those rare finds - dependable, honest, and reasonably priced. He was recommended by a co-worker who reasoned, “He’s missing some fingers - that’s a sure sign of a good mechanic.” I was prepared for the slight disfigurement, but not for the volume of his voice. For some reason, he shouts everything he explains to you, even when you’re standing only a foot away. YOUR BRAKES LOOK OKAY (I look around to make sure he’s talking to me, and not someone in the next room), BUT YOU HAVE A TORN CV BOOT THAT’S GONNA NEED TO BE REPLACED. I agree quickly to his recommendations without asking for much explanation, lest I go deaf in the process. He’s either spent too much time around loud car engines, or he has a background in helicopter traffic reporting.

Dating pet peeve: Guys who invite you out to dinner, then expect you to come up with the restaurant. Maybe it's an attempt at thoughtfulness, but it sends the message that "You're not important enough for me to spend any time planning the evening." Usually I have no clue what the man has in mind, which leaves me in an awkward position. I don't want to look like a prima donna by choosing a place that's too expensive, but at the same time don't want to select a spot that's too inexpensive as if to say, "I'm sure this is all someone like you can afford."

Don't they cover this stuff in Guy School?

I may be trying the patience of the friend who helps with my myriad computer problems. When he showed up yesterday for Round 2 with an uncooperative laser printer, he greeted me with, "Karen. Mein Kampf."

A woman from my church mentioned that some people from the congregation were wondering how they could “minister” to single women in the church. Part of me bristled at that. Does my lack of a spouse make me part of a special needs group?

I don’t feel a need to be on the receiving end of a “ministry.” Really, I just want to be included (recognizing there’s a difference between truly being accepted into a group and simply being allowed to attend). What’s odd about being an over-30 single is knowing that I’m often evaluated not in terms of what I have (individual interests or personality traits) but for what I don’t have (a spouse and children). Here’s an exchange I had with a woman during a visit to another church: (Notice my series of snappy comebacks.)
Her: “So are you married?”
Me: “No.”
Her: “Do you have any children?”
Me: “No.”
Her: “Have you ever been married?”
Me: “No.”
Her: “Oh. Then I guess you wouldn’t have children.”
Me: “No.”

The church I’m attending now is much better at integrating people of various ages and marital status than most I’ve been a part of. But even here, some people struggle. During a visit to one Sunday school class, a woman I’d met the week before called me “Diane.” As it turns out, Diane was another visitor who also happened to be single but looked nothing like me. My marital status was apparently the only thing that stood out to the woman.

I visited another class a few weeks later, and felt much more “normal” there. People had ordinary conversations with me. One woman groaned as she told me about how her four boys had misbehaved during the church service just before our class. A couple talked about their son who had wandered from his faith. Another woman invited me to lunch, because she thought I seemed interesting.

Guess which class I decided to become a part of?

Arizonans like to joke about how they drive with two fingers in the summertime. (I actually use my fingernails whenever possible.) Yesterday I neglected to put the sunshade in my windshield when I got back from lunch - which I deeply regretted when I returned to my oven - er, car - to run to a late-afternoon appointment. Driving straight was easy enough, but I realized that turning the steering wheel was going to result in a trip to the local burn unit. Then I remembered the sweater that was tied around my shoulders. I discovered if I leaned forward far enough, I could wrap the sleeves around the steering wheel, and thus avoid searing my flesh. (Genius that I am, eventually I realized I could untie the sleeves and drive with normal posture.) It's all part of desert survival.

I lost my taste for pop music years ago. I wish I could say the same for the co-worker in the office next to mine. A few minutes ago I was subjected to an angst-ridden selection by a female vocalist that sounded more like wailing than singing. Now I’m hearing strains of Kenny G, which I consider to be the musical equivalent of food prepared completely without spices.

I started housesitting for a family friend this past weekend. It’s not something I normally like to do, but this happens to be a townhouse in a gated community, with a balcony overlooking the city. How could I refuse a chance for free resort living?

As storm clouds were gathering yesterday evening, I went out on the balcony for a better view. I’d only been outside for a minute when a bat appeared overhead, swooping erratically (as bats do), bringing to mind all the horrifying bat stories I’d ever heard. The rabid one that found its way into a home and bit a toddler in her sleep. The one that got caught in a girl’s hair, according to Kristy, my best friend in the third grade (who was probably just spreading a neighborhood urban legend). The stories (and the bat itself) were creepy enough to send me scurrying inside, shutting the sliding-glass door quickly behind me. I then locked the door just as quickly, which struck me as funny when I thought about it later. Did I really think this little winged creature was capable of breaking and entering?

I'm rather pleased with myself for recognizing a typo when I ran across the word Otorhinolarynoglogy in a physician newsletter today. I'm thinking of renaming my site brainiac.com. Or maybe I'll just enroll in med school instead.

I was supposed to have lunch today with a woman I worked with several years ago. I wasn't really looking forward to getting together with her, since her conversations are usually permeated with career talk, making my lunch hour feel like a business meeting. But it's always nice to get out of the office at noon, so I forced a good attitude about the whole thing. I beat her to the restaurant, put in my name, and waited ... and waited ... and waited. I finally gave up and went back to my office, in kind of a foul mood at that point. Few things make you feel like a loser faster than being stood up at a restaurant.

My heater broke today. Now this may not sound like an emergency to those who know I live in the land of 115-degree summer, but my new office happens to be freezing. Survival depends on the operation of a space heater at my feet. I considered huddling over the magnolia-scented candle on my bookshelf, but decided to borrow a heater from a vacationing co-worker's office instead. I'm beginning to thaw again.


I know I'm more cold-natured than the average Phoenician, but I also know I'm not alone in my shivering. When we first moved into our new suite a week and a half ago, a group of us walked outside together on the way to lunch. As soon as the Sahara-like blast of air hit us, we erupted in a chorus of relief, exclaiming, "It feels so good out here!" Anyone within earshot probably thought we were just delirious from the heat.

I don't like country music, but I don't mean to denigrate those who do. And for the people who like country music, denigrate means "put down."
--Bob Newhart

Married people are often full of advice, solicited or not, on how singles should go about looking for a mate. Someone once suggested that I spend Saturdays in a seminary library, waiting for a nice theologically minded man to approach. But male friends have told me that a man with class is not likely to pursue a woman who is a complete stranger to him. Of course, there are always those bold ones who dare to take the risk, but generally they're not the type you want to spend any amount of time with. Once I was approached at the Motor Vehicle Division by a down-and-out sort who said, unsmiling, "You sure look pretty. I hope someone better than me tells you that today." I wasn't sure if I felt complimented by that or not.

Children are introduced to reading with simple, pleasant stories - books with sunny titles like Rain Makes Applesauce and Goodnight Moon. It's a trick. Once you've mastered reading skills and are well into your school years, they replace the feel-good stories with bleak tales of death and despair. Jack London's "To Build a Fire." Herman Melville's "Bartleby the Scrivener." Shirley Jackson's "The Lottery."

"The Lottery" tops my list of grim literature from my school days. (If you're not familiar with it, it's the story of a New England village engaged in an annual public lottery in which the "winner" is stoned to death by the rest of the villagers.) I never actually read the story, but was subjected to the film instead - three times, during the years spanning junior and senior high school.

I was well into adulthood when I discovered another Jackson work, "About Two Nice People," a sweet love story first published in Ladies Home Journal. Now why couldn't they have picked that story as a repeated curriculum offering? All that money I now spend on psychiatric treatment could have gone toward a nice Dr. Seuss collection instead.

A few years ago, a group of geneticists moved into my office suite. The jokes started as soon as my coworkers and I found out they were coming. We pictured a bunch of social misfits with out-of-date clothing and intense stares, with secret cloning experiments going on behind closed doors. Someone wrote an ominous warning on a dry-erase board in the hallway: "The geneticists are coming! The geneticists are coming!" Someone else scrawled, "Stop cloning around!" But they turned out to be completely normal, and some of the nicest people I've ever worked with. The only time I wondered about them was when I ran across a box in our storage area marked Genetics. Do not open.

I still wonder what was in that box.

It was 111 degrees today, even though technically it's still spring. It helps to repeat, "It's a dry heat...it's a dry heat...it's a dry heat...." Not that it makes you feel any cooler. It just passes the time, bringing you a few seconds closer to fall (which, of course, won't really be here until December).

Life Lesson Du Juor: The interval of time between accidentally dropping your keys into the trunk of your car, and when your brain recognizes that the dropping of keys has occurred, is just long enough to allow you to shut the trunk lid. (The interval of time between this unfortunate occurrence and the arrival of roadside assistance is a bit longer.)

I don't have any impressive accident or injury stories. No broken bones. No impalements. Not so much as a simple sprain. And the only real scar I have is a barely visible one on the back of my wrist, from a vicious game of "Spoons."

I lead a sheltered life.

Why are orphans always described as “plucky” when they’re the subject of a novel or film? Is there something about being orphaned that causes one to develop pluck? And why does it seem that only orphans seem to have this particular quality?

These are the things that keep me up at night.

A description I ran across for a soon-to-be-released Christian romance novel:

Anne Gardiner struggles living as a gentleman's daughter on a pauper's means. When wealthy Robert Weston comes visiting, Anne accidentally topples from a ladder into his arms. Her eccentric father, the "Colonel," demands honor and a hasty "marriage" for Anne. Her reputation tarnished by rumors and the Colonel's accounts of events, Anne and Robert search for solutions. Is a real marriage the answer?"

Let me guess - they all live happily ever after?

I really want to see “The Sum of All Fears,” but wonder if that’s such a good idea, since I already have a recurring dream about nuclear war. (I have another recurring dream where I wake up and my hair is suddenly long. My dream life alternates between horrific and shallow.)

When I was working for a small newspaper years ago, my boss approached me with what seemed to be a simple grammar question:
“Is there an apostrophe before the s in don'ts?”

I looked up from my desk, visualized the word in my mind, and said, “No.” I pulled a book titled Do’s and Don’ts of Writers and Speakers from a shelf in my office and offered it as proof. I was satisfied, but my boss was puzzled, noticing the inconsistency between the two words.

“If do’s has an apostrophe, doesn’t don’ts?” she asked, and I tried to offer clarification.

“Do’s does, but don’ts doesn’t,” I said, smiling at my unintentional tongue-twister. “If do’s does, why doesn’t don’ts?” she asked. The conversation sounded more ridiculous with each new sentence, but I made one final attempt to explain the discrepancy.

“Do’s does, because it doesn’t ....”

By then we were laughing too hard to continue exploring the mysteries of the English language, but I think she finally took my word for it.

At article about this evening's partial solar eclipse reminded me of the confusion I had about eclipses when I was in grade school. I reasoned that since a full solar eclipse would bring darkness during daytime, a lunar eclipse would cause just the opposite: daylight in the middle of the night. It seemed perfectly logical at the time.

My friend Mark was lamenting the fact that his wife wouldn’t let him name his dog Tweedy after Jeff Tweedy of the band Wilco. Here was the conversation that followed:

Me: You can’t name a dog Tweedy. That sounds like a bird’s name.
Mark: You know who had a dog named Tweed, don’t you?
Me: Oswald Chambers.
Mark: I thought it was C.S. Lewis.
Me: No, it was Oswald Chambers. I can’t picture C.S. Lewis with a dog.
Mark: I can - with a tweed coat and patches on the sleeve.
Me: The dog?
Mark: Yeah. And a pipe.

My friend Matt likes to offer advice (usually related to romance or computers), so I jokingly told him I looked up to him as a father figure. He flinched at that, and for some reason didn’t like “older brother” much better. He offered a third option: “Think of me as an older neighbor.”

The sort of thing you don’t want to read when you’re leaning against your car at the gas station, waiting for your gas tank to fill: “Warning: Static Electricity Spark Hazard. Do not back into your car during the fueling process.”

I received an e-mail this afternoon from a graphic designer I’ve worked with on several projects. He wrote, “I’ll get the postcards to the printer today. Mike signed off on the proof.”

I drew a blank. Postcards? What printer? And who was Mike?

I wrote back, finding a polite way of letting him know I had no idea what he was talking about.

Now if he were a woman, his response would probably have been a longer-than-necessary note, explaining what had happened, how he’d manged to confuse my e-mail address with someone else’s, and how sorry he was for the confusion. And maybe the word “duh” thrown in for a charmingly self-deprecating effect.

But he simply wrote back, “Sorry. Wrong address. I hate e-mail.”

I don't find Scripture memorization terribly difficult, but I can't seem to retain the correct references. So, when I directed my friend and co-worker Chris to a beautiful verse that I thought was Hosea 3:3, he looked it up and started laughing. Apparently he wasn't especially moved by this particular passage, which reads, "Then I said to her, 'You shall stay with me for many days. You shall not play the harlot, nor shall you have a man; so will I also be toward you.'"

(The verse I really had in mind was Hosea 6:3: "So let us know, let us press on to know the Lord. His going forth is as certain as the dawn; and He will come to us like rain, like the spring rain watering the earth.")

I was helping a neurosurgeon edit an article for a medical journal, and he asked if a particular sentence was punctuated correctly. Since it was a fairly simple grammatical matter, I wanted soooooooo badly to say, "Well, it's not brain surgery." I held back, though. I figure he gets that a lot.

John Bloom has written an amusing article for National Review Online about the snobbish tendencies of book reviews. Here's one part I liked in particular:
Over time I've learned the secret code of book reviewers who don't really want you to know what they're talking about. "Coming of age," for example, means "self-involved young person agonizes over sophomoric minutiae." "Internal odyssey" means nothing happens. "Introspective" means psychobabble...." "Echoes of history" means you should run screaming out of Starbucks because somebody's going to tell you about his ancestors.

Something I heard once, in a speech: "If you're like me, and I know I am...."

I used to think "erstwhile" meant the same as "meanwhile" (as in "Erstwhile, back at the ranch....") Worse (let me stress that this was a long time ago), I thought "taxidermy" was a financial term. Good thing I decided against that business major.

Last week I was putting the finishing touches on a 12-page, four-color newsletter, juggling my various duties as editor: writing, copy editing, selecting photos, designing pages. Yesterday my creative abilities were devoted to a 5-inch sign that reads "Stairs."

I think I've been demoted, and nobody's told me yet.

I’m wearing new shoes today - they’re black, professional, but trendy enough to enable me to hold my head high as a graphic designer. I know women are supposed to be into shoes, but I don’t like shopping for them, and I hate wearing them for the first time. I’m always afraid they won’t be comfortable (something that’s not always evident during the brief try-on period), and I’ll realize I wasted my money. It’s happened at least twice - once in college, when my minimum-wage earnings didn’t allow for shoes that would do nothing more than decorate my closet. But the new ones I’m wearing today are great. I could practically play basketball in these things. But I’ll save that for the athletic shoes I’ll buy a year or so from now, when I get in the mood to go shoe-shopping again.

I told a friend that one of my pet peeves is the public relations trend of shortening “publications” to “pubs.” Later he caught me referring to “Les Mis,” and took a swipe at my inconsistency. But I had good reason. I’m never quite sure what to do with the “l” in “Miserables.”

I went to a paper store yesterday afternoon and ran into a co-worker who works in the office next to mine. We rarely speak at the office, except for the obligatory greeting one gives to passersby in the hallway. But when he spotted me at Kelly Paper, he gave me an enthusiastic greeting, shook my hand, and told me about the project he was working on. Funny, because I’d just been talking with a friend about the phenomenon that makes acquaintances feel obligated to hold a conversation when they meet outside their usual shared environment.

Why is that?

I was pondering the menu in Chipotle the other day when my co-worker Lori announced that she’d found my “soulmate” at the front of the line. Wondering how she’d identified this kindred spirit within minutes of entering the restaurant, I glanced at the register and spotted an albino paying for his lunch. Har-dee-har.

I’ve gotten used to the voice messaging a lot of people have on their phones now - the kind that allows you to erase your message and re-record if you realize you’ve droned on and on in a nonsensical manner, leaving the listener to conclude that you have the approximate intelligence of a fly.

So while I used to practically write a script and hold a dress rehearsal before leaving a message, now I usually just plunge in, taking comfort in the fact that I can always erase and start over. This afternoon I left a message for my neighbor that ended up being the world’s longest run-on sentence. Rolling my eyes at my own barely comrehensible wordiness, I pressed the pound key and waited for the kind voice telling me to press 3 to erase and re-record. But I got nothing but silence. Which is precisely what my neighbor will be longing for after listening to my ramblings.

My friend Dawna was complaining about her "white" skin while we were working out together Monday night. When I gave her a close-up look at my own glow-in-the-dark epidermis, she changed her description: "I'm Navajo white."

Since today happens to be a Good Hair Day, I'm planning to drop by our Security Office this afternoon to have a new photo taken for my namebadge. The old one is so bad I usually wear the badge backwards, with name and photo hidden from view ... which kind of defeats the purpose of the namebadge. (I should explain that everyone in my organization has to get a new badge within the next few weeks. I'm not simply demanding a new picture. You know, just in case I come across as vain or anything....)

I came home Friday night to a flower on my doorstep - a half-wilted lavender bloom I recognized from a yard down the street that had fairly erupted with them last week. Puzzled because I couldn't think of any potential suitors in the neighborhood (and a limp wildflower seemed a half-hearted romantic gesture at best), I thought perhaps the blossom had arrived with the strong winds that had blown through the city that afternoon. I went inside and didn't think any more about it.

Until I left for the gym Saturday morning, and found a second, identical flower at my door. Feeling more creepy than flattered, I took them inside and tossed them in my kitchen garbage. When I came back from the gym an hour and a half later, a small bouquet lay on my doormat. Now I was starting to feel a little freaked out. Not only was I receiving unwanted flowers from a stranger, but it was clear that I was being watched. But what could I do? Call the police and tell them someone was giving me flowers? My case was hardly material for "Rescue 911."

My friend Jonathan, who works in the film and video industry, started plotting a way to set up a video camera to capture images of the culprit. As he spelled out his ideas over the telephone, I surveyed the street from my living room window. Two young girls began walking toward my neighbor's front door - probably selling something for school, I guessed. The pair disappeared out of my view, then scurried back toward the street and crouched behind a bush at the end of the driveway. As I watched them peeking over the top of the shrub, eyeing my neighbor's house and giggling, I realized I must not have been the only one receiving mystery flowers that day. My "stalkers" turned out to be a couple of grade-school-age girls.

I became interested in G.K. Chesterton's Orthodoxy when I learned that it was the favorite book of Christian singer/songwriter Rich Mullins. I've skimmed parts of the book, but have lacked the discipline (and quite possibly the intelligence) to find my way to the end. But it's been interesting to find sections that obviously inspired Rich's writing. His song "Growing Young," about the Prodigal Son, includes the line, "We are children no more, we have sinned and grown old." It comes from this passage of Chesterton's book:

Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.

My co-worker Chris was in a talkative mood this afternoon, randomly jumping from one thought-provoking question ("Why is real estate called that? Why not 'fake estate'?") to another ("If you could be any horse in a classic western movie, which one would you be?"). When I commented on his chattiness, he said he was trying to make me feel better about Russ's exhaustive treatise on my late-night conversational skills.

(If anyone cares, my horse of choice would be "Thunderhead, Son of Flicka." But only because I like saying the name of the movie.)

A few years ago, one of my friends bought a home in the suburbs that meant a lengthy commute to her downtown Phoenix office. This didn't seem to bother her, though. When I told her I'd have a hard time driving an hour to and from work, she shrugged and said, "I figure you have to drive an hour to get somewhere."

I had no idea how to argue with that kind of logic.

My dad is forever extolling the virtues of Spam, so my mom bought him a Spam calendar for Christmas. He proudly hung it in the kitchen, where it spurred conversation about the versatility of this mystery meat during a recent family gathering. My parents admitted that they once cooked Spam-kebabs on their barbecue grill.

Surely I am adopted.

A manager at work gave me a box of thank-you notes to thank me for helping out with a project. So now should I get her a box of thank-you notes to thank her for the thank-you notes?

My friend Natalie never manages to get a cliche right. Some of her more choice attempts:
“I have a beef to pick with you.”
“Welcome to my humble commode.”
“You’re really in the dog dish now.”
“Were you raised in the broad side of a barn?”

For a while I toyed with her, trying to imbed maligned cliches into her brain. I started using the phrase “It’s no skin off my teeth,” just to see if she’d adopt it into her collection of slaughtered sayings. It worked. The touble is, I did it so often that I had trouble remembering the correct version myself. (Which is probably just as well, since I suppose English majors should work at obliterating cliches from their vocabulary altogether.) Then, after a particularly exhausting day, I caught myself saying, “I feel like death in a handbasket.” You know what they say - if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. Or did I mess that one up, too?

The singles Sunday School class I attended years ago started the church year with a new teacher -- a middle-aged businessman who seem determined to lead our group to spiritual maturity. But apparently we didn’t meet his expectations.

One Sunday he told the story of a college group he’d led years before that wasn’t very committed (his words) -- until one member of the class was killed in a car accident. The tragedy served as a wake-up call to the group, who suddenly began attending faithfully and studying in earnest. As our normally soft-spoken teacher told the story, he looked over our lackluster group, paused, then bellowed, “DOES SOMEBODY HAVE TO DIE?!” Fortunately, I was a safe distance away -- far to the side of the large room, where some 50 singles sat in stunned silence.

He didn’t last long after that. Go figure.

My co-worker, Lori, was looking through her mail, and suddenly burst out with, "It's 'Buckle Up, America Week' already? It seems like it was just yesterday!"

This struck me as funny, since she sounded like someone who's suddenly realized that Christmas is only a few weeks away. I asked, "What - do you have a lot of shopping to do?"

I always thought I’d be kind of sophisticated in my adult years. But it’s just not happening, at least when it comes to cuisine. I prefer “kid food” to gourmet selections like pate or caviar, though I do try to limit my indulgences in the not-so-healthy selections. Pizza. Hot dogs. Ice cream. Tater tots. I draw the line at bubble gum ice cream, though. (I do have standards.)

I was in my element yesterday at the community preview event for the new Phoenix Children’s Hospital, where lunch came in the form of hot dogs, PB & J, mini-Oreos and Dreyer’s ice cream. Between my important tasks (helping with hospital tours, covering the dedication ceremony, and helping a little girl find Clifford the Big Red Dog), I downed hot dogs and ice cream. Forget haute cuisine, I thought - this is party food!

I suppose it’s fitting that I work in a child-related field, since my tastes have never completely grown up. (Although - ahem - I’m sure my personality is completely sophisticated by now.)

We were laughing so hard during my department's staff meeting today that the CEO appeared, smiling tolerantly, and closed the door to our meeting room. I felt like we'd just gotten in trouble with the principal.

I have a keen dislike for romance novels. A friend once lamented, “Life isn’t like that!” My response: “Who would want it to be?” Settings are dreamy, passion intense, but the dialogue is rarely interesting or funny. How many times can two people utter things like “Darling, our love will outlast the sun and the sea” without boring each other to death?” (I wouldn’t be able to keep a straight face, personally.)

I read a novel years ago in which a man and woman -- both attractive and single, of course -- were being held hostage by terrorists. The woman, increasingly drawn to her fellow captive, could barely contain her smoldering passion when she watched him reach for a pencil and saw the writing implement disappear into his hand.

A pencil disappearing into someone’s hand? A pencil is some eight inches long! What kind of mitts does this guy have? I’d be begging the terrorists, “Can’t I hang out with you guys? Lurch here is scaring me!” I think I gave up on the story. It's pretty hard to read when you can’t stop rolling your eyes.

I get frustrated when I try to hold conversations with people whose minds are obviously elsewhere. (If I know the person well, sometimes I’ll throw in something about a made-up personal tragedy — using words such as “slaughtered” or “incurable”— just to see if the person is paying any attention at all.)

Even people whose entire jobs involve listening aren’t necessarily very good at it. I called the Clairol consultation line this morning to ask about one of the company's products. When I reached a representative, I named the product I was interested in, told her the results I was hoping for, and described my hair color. She asked me a few questions, including what color my hair was. I repeated the information, then answered a few more questions. Then she asked for my hair color again. Evil Sarcastic Karen wanted to say, “Uh - it’s pretty much the same as when we first started talking.” But I swallowed the sarcasm, politely answered the question, and got a coupon for a free product out of the deal.

I’ve had trouble thinking of my younger brother as completely grown up. But now that he has a serious girlfriend, I suppose I’m going to have to accept that he is a full-fledged member of the adult world. Can this be the same kid who used to hide in my closet and yell “Fungi!” (don’t ask) when I opened the door?

But there are still glimmers of my little brother hiding beneath the grown-man exterior. When my family got together at my parents’ house for Easter dinner, he threw a roll to me from across the table instead of passing the basket in civilized-human-being fashion. During another get-together, we found out that his girlfriend sometimes confuses words when she’s talking. She was trying to say something about changing her morning regimen, but it came out “morning regime.” Darrell made some wisecrack about the ruling government of a morning regime, and she somehow resisted slugging him.

Now that’s the brother I remember.

Don't ask me why, but I really like the word "hooliganism." Unfortunately, it doesn't work itself into conversation very often...

My church doesn’t have a Good Friday service, but a church I belonged to a few years ago had an annual “Service of Darkness” — aptly named, since its sole focus was the death of Christ. Some people complained that the service was “too depressing,” preferring to avoid the fact that the joy of Easter came at a terrible price. But I remember feeling that I wouldn’t really “earn” Easter if I didn’t attend the Service of Darkness, which seems sort of ironic now that I think about it.

Nobody earns Easter. We never did, and never will, deserve the forgiveness that God offers in Christ. But sometimes the magnificent story of our redemption becomes so familiar, the enormity of it almost escapes us. Hopefully at Easter we will pause, and ponder, and become amazed all over again that God would go to such great lengths for our salvation.

Surely our griefs He Himself bore,
And our sorrows He carried;
Yet we ourselves esteemed Him stricken,
Smitten of God, and afflicted.
But He was pierced through for our transgressions,
He was crushed for our iniquities;
The chastening for our well-being fell upon Him,
And by His scourging we are healed.

Isaiah 53: 4-5

It’s much harder to stick with a healthy eating plan at work than at home. So far this week, I’ve ignored a pile of chocolate cookies in a staff meeting, served ice cream at a special event without consuming any myself, and snubbed lemon pound cake and Girl Scout cookies in the breakroom. Now they tell me pizza’s coming this afternoon. I need to work in an office where people are into grilled chicken and carrot sticks.

I have fair skin. Not just fair in the sense of “lighter than average,” but the kind of skin tone that inspires clever poolside comments like, “Hey, do you use Liquid Paper for sunscreen?” When I was in college, I provided ego-boosting services for dormmates when tanning season began. Someone would whine, “I’m so whiiiiite,” and I’d display my own colorless forearm for comparison. After a quick side-by-side inspection, the girl would respond, “Wow, Karen, I’m really tan compared to you.” She’d walk away with a bounce in her step, while I slumped over in a deflated, light-reflecting heap.

Knowing that my survival depends on year-round use of sunscreen, my co-workers were kind enough to assign me an indoor job for an afternoon community event we’re planning for mid-April (which, in Phoenix, can approach equatorial conditions). When I heard about it, I was a little worried about the discussion that preceded that decision. But I was assured me that the phrase “freak of nature” was never used.

The 20th anniversary of “E.T.” brings back a painful memory. The school I was attending at the time decided to tie the movie’s hype into its homecoming theme that year, dubbing it “An E.T. Phone Homecoming.”

It’s not something we’re proud of.

I was checking out the Flavor Graveyard on the Ben & Jerry’s website, and found these on the list of discontinued flavors:
Ice Tea with Ginseng
Maple Grape Nut
Miz Jelena’s Sweet Potato Pie

Ugh. Even a die-hard ice cream fan like me couldn’t stomach any of these. (But Chunky Monkey is a completely different story....)

They recently changed our e-mail system at work, and I now have to enter one password, then another, then the first password again before I can get into the system. Did I suddenly start working for the CIA, and nobody told me? I feel like Maxwell Smart in the opening credits of “Get Smart.”

I was hanging out at my friend Patty's house Friday night, and realized I was too sleepy to endeavor the 30-minute drive home safely. (I typically don't make a gradual descent into drowsiness, but rather a sudden nosedive from Wide Awake to Nearly Comatose.) She invited me to stay in her guest room, and gathered a few supplies: a towel, soap, even a new toothbrush she'd picked up at a health fair. When she asked if I needed anything else, I fell into high-maintenance mode and suggested a chocolate for my pillow. I was surprised to see her head down the hall toward the kitchen, since Patty doesn't usually keep a supply of candy around. When I walked into the guest room a minute later, she was piling a handful of chocolate chips onto my pillow.

Finally, I can say I've stayed at a 5-star resort.

Our staff meeting was scheduled to begin at 11:30, but shortly after the supposed start time one of my co-workers stopped by my desk on her way out to get lunch. Since our meeting times are pretty sketchy, I thought I’d better see if the schedule had changed. Here’s how the conversation went:

Me: What time does our staff meeting start?
Her: 11:30
Me: It’s 11:33 now - what time does the meeting really start?
Her: 11:30
Me: But you guys are just now leaving to get lunch.
Her: (Shrug) It’s supposed to start at 11:30.

And they call us the Communications Department.

I don’t find celebrities particularly fascinating. I wonder why I’m supposed to be interested in what a particular actress wears off the set, how her home is decorated or what kind of bottled water she prefers. Brooke Shields came to Phoenix a few years ago, and the Arizona Republic ran a short article about her visit to the Cold Stone Creamery. An actress came to town and stopped for ice cream? This is news? But instead of just skipping over the article, I kept reading so I could find out what flavor she ordered. I loathed myself at that moment.

I bought a set of flexible chopping mats at Crate & Barrel over the weekend. There are four of them - color coded for different food categories: red for meat, green for vegetables, yellow for poultry and blue for seafood. It’s kind of like having Garanimals for the kitchen.

The following is a letter that was sent to the medical facility where I work. It's getting passed around through e-mail for laughs, and is so absurd we're wondering if it can possibly be for real....

Hi. My name is Greg Risher (not his real name) and i am mad! How come you have a place that only kids can go to? What if I get hit by a car and need to get my stomak pumped? I cant because I am 33? I pay taxes you no and you should take care of me if I get hit by a car, or a mac truck and it shouldn't matter if I'm 33 not 3. You guys are rasists and I think you should help me and others to if we are sick or get hit by a car. Let me no also if you guys are hiring people to work their. Not like a docter but to answer phones or something easy. Let me no.

Oh, for the day when someone works on my computer and it actually works better the next day....

Small-town Midwesterners tend to be a tad behind the times when it comes to cuisine. A friend told me about her visit to Riceville, Iowa, where a “Veggie Burger” on one restaurant’s menu turned out to be an all-beef burger accompanied by lettuce and tomato. (Pretty much everything else on the menu was fried.) Based on the culinary backwardness that seems to be common to that region, I think I'll just ignore the recipe for Thai Chicken I ran across in the Booster Club Cookbook from another small Iowa town. I’m definitely not making the “Chilighetti.”

I was reaching for a phone book from a high shelf in my pantry this morning, and watched what I thought was a White Pages directory plummet toward my head. It was actually a small board, which left its mark with a small gash and not-very-impressive bruise on my forehead. My co-worker Lori, eyeing my blue sweater and black skirt, commented this afternoon that I’d dressed to match my injury. My fashion-consciousness knows no bounds....

Have trouble remembering names? Observe the subtle approach to instant name recall:

I had an appointment yesterday morning at an office I’ve been to only a couple of times before. I checked in with the receptionist, then said hi to another employee I recognized from a previous visit. She returned my greeting, but disappeared into a hallway without stopping to talk. The receptionist followed her around the corner, and I heard someone whisper my name on the other side of the wall. Employee number 2 reappeared, this time stopping to ask, “How are you doing, Karen?”

I should have looked up with a blank expression and asked, “Who?”

I once confessed to my mom that I don’t always find time to make my bed before I make a dash for the office. She pointed out the very small amount of time required to complete this task. I thought of that this morning as I started to leave the house with my bedroom still in disarray. The morbid side of me wondered, “What if I’m in a terrible accident today? What will my mom think when she sees my room?!” So I took three minutes to straighten the room before I left. Mother guilt - it’s with us for life.

I'm part of an informal writer's group that meets every three months or so. The three of us went to college together, and we meet partly for creative inspiration and partly just as an excuse to get together. Lloyd is working on a book that borrows the writer’s group idea from our threesome. He assured us that the characters themselves aren’t modeled after us, but I couldn’t help scrutinizing my counterpart for similarities when I read his manuscript over the weekend. It turns out that Maggie, the lone female in his fictitious group, is a lively redhead who designs jewelry and turns heads whenever she enters a room. I had to squelch a bit of jealousy as I read. But if the outfit in her opening scene is any indication, I dress way better than her.

So there.

I find bumper stickers intriguing - the fact that some feel a need to display their life’s passions on the back of a car, and the interests they find worthy to “make the cut.”
Friends don’t let friends eat meat.
I’d rather be quilting.
The seventh day is the Sabbath, because God never changed it.
Those make some degree of sense to me (although I happen to be a non-needle-working carnivore who worships on the first day of the week). But a sticker I saw last week left me wondering if the message was worth the energy that had been expended to fasten it to the back bumper:
Proud user - Dunn Edwards Paints.

That poor guy needs to find himself a cause in life.

A co-worker begged me for a song - any song - that would get “Dancing Queen” out of his mind. I offered “Copa Cabana” (well, he did say any song) and got a shudder, “Rhinestone Cowbow” and got a shrug, but somehow hit the jackpot with “Walking on Broken Glass.” But now “Dancing Queen” is stuck in my head.

I’m gonna get him for this.

Some people assume that "single" automatically means "pathetically lonely." Every once in a while I encounter someone who apparently assumes I spend every evening slouched on my sofa, aimlessly switching television channels with my remote. In reality, my TV doesn't even have a remote -- I actually have to get up to switch channels. So, as you can see, there is plenty of activity in my life.

A few years ago, I met a couple through a Bible study I attended for a short time. When they learned I lived near them, they began inviting me over for dinner. It was pleasant enough at first, but we didn't have much in common, and conversation felt forced. I assumed their invitations would become less frequent, since most people mutually recognize when a relationship isn't clicking. But they kept calling, every few weeks, and would give me a good-natured scolding that they didn't see more of me. Once they even invited another single woman to join us, hoping the two of us would strike up a friendship. I found it amusing that they seemed to think I was desperate for social opportunities, when in fact I had many friends and an active life.

It was clear we were never going to form any sort of real bond. I wondered, How do you break up with a couple? But I continued to accept their invitations because I knew no way of declining without being dishonest or hurting their feelings. I was relieved when I finally moved to another side of town, and getting together became obviously impractical.

They probably think I’m sitting over here on long nights, reading dusty old novels and sighing a lot.

Good Earth Tea comes with a quotation attached to each tea bag: usually something profound from a historical figure or classic literature. The one I tacked to my bulletin board isn't quite as intellectual as most, but is nonetheless my favorite so far:
Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
-- Kids

I went to Bed, Bath & Beyond last night, and was surprised to see what looked like a linen store bouncer planted at the front entrance. He didn't interact with customers, but just stood with arms folded, unsmiling. I tend to do "aerobic shopping" - crossing back and forth multiple times between departments, instead of making a logical single loop through a store. Tough Guy never moved while I zig-zagged across the aisles, passing him a couple of times.

The Bouncer was obviously there to watch shoppers, so I felt a little self-conscious as I made my way back toward the entrance without having made a purchase. I was carrying a bag from another store -- the perfect hiding place for a candle holder or tablecloth neatly lifted from the store shelves. Would he think I was a shoplifter, making a clean get-away? I found myself trying to look nonchalant as I headed toward the door. Suddenly I began analyzing every move I made. Was I walking too fast? Did I look like I was avoiding eye contact? But if I did make eye contact, would I become intimidated, wind up looking at the floor, and really look guilty? I decided to slow my walk and force a casual look at a front display. I could only feign interest for a few seconds, so I ambled toward the door, swinging my bag at my side in an attempt to look innocent.

When I got to my car, I almost felt like I'd just gotten away with something.

My fingernails-on-the-blackboard trendy word du jour: webinar (meaning an interactive on-line seminar).

Eeeeeeew.

My friend Patty gave me "The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook" for Christmas. A handy resource, since one never knows when one will have to wrestle an alligator, dodge flying bullets, or suddenly land an airplane. I know I tend to be a worrier, a realization that was reinforced as I thumbed through the book and realized I'd already formed at least a preliminary plan for escaping several of the possible disasters.

Laugh if you will, but when the killer bees arrive, I'll be ready for them.

I'm not cool enough to have a website.

Real bloggers reference movies like Krzysztof Kieslowski's "Three Colors" trilogy films. Political views are well articulated. CD's are listed under a "Currently Spinning" headline, and the music is usually somewhat obscure.

Me? I just finished a somewhat snowy version of "An American President," which my parents taped when it aired on television. I'm still trying to figure out if Ford should have pardoned Nixon. And for some reason I haven't felt like listening to any music at all lately.

I'm a web dweeb.

One of these days, I'm going to take a pick-ax to my computer.

I suppose that would invalidate my warranty, though.

I moved every three years, on the average, during my childhood. With every change of address came the unrealistic optimism that everything would be different in the new place. I'd be at the top of the class, our house would be bigger, I'd finally be part of the popular crowd.... But though the scenery changed quite a bit between California, Virginia, New Mexico, Colorado and Nevada, life was much the same.

You'd think I would have learned the lesson by now. But still I catch myself thinking that the answer to all of life's boredom and disappointment might be solved by relocating. I dream of owning a house with a front porch and giant shade trees in the yard. The Midwest, maybe? Or a place where I don't feel so out of place as an over-30 single. What about Manhattan? I fear that I have just enough sense of adventure to move to a new city, but not enough to stay positive about it when the inevitable difficulties set in. I don't want to be one of those people who doesn't realize how good they have it until it's gone.

Doing publications can be a thankless job. I've conducted readership surveys, brought in a consultant for a series of focus group meetings, and quizzed co-workers in casual conversations about their likes and dislikes for our employee newsletter. I've responded to their requests -- cut the boring features, added helpful ones, threw in graphics to keep it interesting. So yesterday, in the middle of what was already a particularly hectic, stress-filled day, someone mentioned that people think the newsletter is a "fluff piece."

Of course, employees tend to be notorious whiners.

Why do the small Frito's taste better than the large ones? Aren't they made out of the same thing?

A guest speaker who delivered the sermon at my church yesterday told a great story: A century ago, a shabbily dressed couple walked into an office at Harvard University and asked to see the president. Unimpressed with their appearance, a secretary tried to turn the pair away by explaining that the president was a very busy man. But the couple waited patiently -- for four hours -- until the president finally agreed to see them.

The couple explained that their son had attended Harvard for one year, but had died before he could complete his education. He had loved the school, and his parents wanted to fund construction of a campus building in his memory. The president, eyeing the woman's faded gingam dress and the man's rumpled suit, explained in a condescending tone that buildings were very expensive, and that Harvard had $7.5 million worth of them. The woman looked at her husband and asked, "Is that all it costs to start a University?" So Leland and Jane Stanford took their money to Palo Alto, California, to begin a university there.

Great story. Even better if it were true. In fact, according to the Stanford University website, Leland Jr. died as a teenager, while the family was living in Italy. After the couple returned to the United States, they talked with Harvard's president about three ideas: a university at Palo Alto, a large institution in San Francisco combining a lecture hall and a museum, and a technical school. Asked which of these seemed most desirable, the president answered, a university. Apparently, the Stanfords founded the Palo Alto university with Harvard's full blessing.

Where do these Preachers' Urban Legends come from, anyway?

I just tried the new Diet Coke With Lemon for the first time. I felt like I was drinking a glass of Lemon Pledge.

Russ has created an Arizona Temperature Conversion chart, to which I respond, har-dee-har.

Okay, so I have a space heater that sits under my desk, and I'll admit I use it in the summertime. But only because most Phoenicians think that anytime it's 100-plus degrees outside, it shouldn't be more than 50 degrees inside. But this morning it was genuinely cold -- 30-some degrees -- outside when I left for work, and I shamelessly donned a heavy winter coat and gloves for the drive to the office.

But I know the chill won't last. People from other places remark that they wouldn't like living in Phoenix, because they'd miss the seasons. But I beg to differ. We have winter, spring and fall, as well as summer. Just don't blink, or you'll miss them.

This morning’s office discussions so far:
- The 122nd anniversary (today) of the battle of the Battle of Isandhlwana
- Last night’s Frasier rerun
- The abundance of music videos that feature a love-lorn woman singing at the end of a long, narrow hallway
- The fact that Buffy the Vampire Slayer videos are overpriced at $30 a set

We’re celebrating Low Productivity Day around here.

Friends tease me about my binge-and-purge shopping habits. I buy, return, buy, return, buy.... (Well, every once in a while, I do keep something.) The jacket doesn't go with anything, the skirt looks too much like something I already have, the shoes seemed more comfortable when I tried them on in the store. Once I even returned a house.

I'd been house-hunting for months, and felt discouraged by the high price of anything I really liked. At my realtor's repeated suggestion, I began exploring a historic district that was supposedly turning around, though sagging roofs and ragged lawns suggested a slow transformation. I found a charming 1940 home that fell within my price range, swallowed my nervousness, and bought it. It didn't take long for regret to set in.

My attempts to research the area beforehand had revealed nothing alarming. But right after I'd signed the forms committing myself to 30 years worth of mortgage payments, I ran across an article about the high number of break-ins in the neighborhood. A neighbor told me about the area's high drug use, advising me to check the outbuilding behind my house for used needles. And men who drove by while I worked in the yard whistled and honked without reservation as they passed.

I clearly owned a house in the 'hood. I never moved in, and thankfully was able to sell the house to my realtor a few months later.

I am the Return Queen.

Lake Superior State University has released its annual List of Words Banished from the Queen's English for Mis-Use, Over-Use and General Uselessness. Some of my favorites fell in the business/tech category:
- Brainstorm
- Synergy
- Ramp Up
- Edgy
- 'Bots

I'd add a few phrases of my own to the list:
- On the Same Page
- Time Frame
- Best Practice

Who decided we should all talk like mindless robots (excuse me, 'bots) when we settle into the business world?

One of my co-workers has several sets of magnetic poetry (promotional gifts from various vendors) stuck to the front of her file cabinet. One pieced-together sentence stands out among the rest: "Yes, we can cook DNA samples." That, combined with the fact that she considers frozen meat to be the perfect murder weapon (you can eat the weapon afterward), makes me reluctant to turn my back on her.

Death by leg of lamb? Not so appealing.

Post-Holiday Diet, Day 2:
Didn't I read somewhere that the average American gains eight pounds over the holidays? So I guess I don't feel too bad about having to shed a bit of weight now that my Christmas decorations are back in boxes.

I've decided that it's much easier to cut the calories when I'm cooking for myself than when I'm going out. I was thinking about heading to Baja Fresh for lunch today, with the "Mexican Grill" descriptor suggesting that I'd be able to eat a healthy meal there. Just to be sure, I checked the nutrition section of their website before heading out. Turns out my "usual," a bean burrito with chicken, has 1052 calories and 35 grams of fat. Granted, Baja Fresh burritos are the size of a small kitchen appliance, but 1000-plus calories?! Why not just go for a Big Mac? Or a deep-fried hot fudge sundae, for that matter? But, will power still strong, I headed instead to Subway for a roast chicken sandwich and baked Lay's.

Sigh.