A group from my church was supposed to get together for a dinner last night, so I bought a pie and made the half-hour drive to our group leader's home. I was surprised when I pulled in front of the house and spotted no other cars, and wondered for a minute if I had the right house. (The family lives in a sea of light-colored stucco homes so similar that one couple from our group walked into the wrong house by mistake one night.) Then I remembered the family is on vacation this week, and the dinner isn't until next week.

One of my friends refers to these things as "random acts of blondness."

So if you’re single in this age of electronic communication, you’ve probably tried Internet dating – or at least entertained the possibility. After a while, most of the written profiles start to sound alike: Above average in looks. Looks 10 years younger than he really is. Works out five times a week. Is comfortable in a suit or jeans. Works hard. Plays hard. Hates being indoors. And, of course, loves taking walks along the ocean.

Yawn. Who wants to date a clone?

When you think about it, isn't it odd when adults refer to their bedroom as "my room"? I'm sure it's a habit from childhood, when there was only one space you could claim as your own. But once you're an adult and have your own home, aren't all of them your rooms?

I came home Monday to a message from a human resources employee who had called to set up a job interview. When I returned the woman's call the next morning, I got the impression that she was either devoid of emotion, or not all that interested in her job. After we'd set an interview time, I asked if I needed to bring anything with me -- in my field, it's pretty common for the interviewer to request writing or design samples. The woman seemed surprised by my question and said, no, I didn't need to bring anything.

So this evening I came home to another message, confirming my interview time and "reminding" me to bring two writing samples and a publication I'd had a part in producing. I was irritated, since it was now 7:30 and I was nowhere near a printer or copy machine (I'd had access to both throughout the day). Fortunately, I was able to get my neighbor to print out what I needed. But, still, I wonder -- why are people like that employed, while some of us with a real interest in working are pounding the pavement?

This has me worried. (Retailers can breathe a sigh of relief that I don't have a sister.)

One of my friends had a rough weekend*, and confessed to going on an eating binge. When she told me about it, various junk foods immediately came to mind. But she's been on the Atkins diet, so her indulgences were more along the lines of nectarines, watermelon and strawberries. I had to laugh. Aren't those the things that would have gone on a diet plate 10 years ago?

* Of course there was a guy involved.

They're predicting 117 degrees on Thursday. Is it too late to book a flight to Anchorage?

I was saddened to learn that Moody Magazine is ceasing publication, after 103 years, with its July/August issue. I’m particularly sentimental about the magazine, since it published my first “real” article a few years ago. (I refer to it as my “one-hit wonder,” since I have yet to write another.) Aside from my personal tie to the magazine, I consider its demise to be a great loss in the world of Christian publishing. I share the sentiments of another reader, who wrote, “The articles are thought-provoking, intellectually enlightening, and encouraging. I understand the need to discontinue the magazine, but I shall mourn the passing of a dear friend.”

One of the things I miss about having a "real" job is paid holidays. I was determined not to spend the Fourth of July in front of my computer doing freelance work, so I worked last Saturday and put in an 11-hour day today to store up extra hours. It seems like a lot of work for one day off. I just hope I don't sleep through the fireworks tomorrow night.

There was apparently quite a stir when the manager at one of my workplaces announced a new dress code that did not allow capri pants -- a summer wardrobe staple for most women. Two weeks later he sent an office-wide e-mail rescinding the unfavorable ban, explaining that he had not understood the range of styles covered by the term "capri." He ended his message on a personal note: "I would like to thank my wife for pointing out to me that reading the 'Style Man' column in Bicycling magazine does not qualify me to be much of a critic in the fashion world."