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...