"Holiday letters are a lot like fruitcake: People either love them or hate them."
If you produce an annual Christmas letter for family and friends, this article provides some helpful hints. (This is a service I'm providing to reduce the number of bragsheets disguised as holiday greetings.)

I have to laugh whenever I see that Goodwill is running a 20 percent off sale. Do they really think it's the prices that keep us from shopping there?

When I tell people I work for a hospital, the first question most people ask is, “Are you a nurse?” Thankfully, public relations is far removed from the aspects of patient care that make some of us squeamish. Well…usually.

A few days ago, my boss called to let me know that our Intensive Care Unit needed a photo taken “before they closed the wound.” Realizing that a condition requiring ICU treatment was probably more than a simple scrape, I tried to prepare myself as I grabbed my digital camera and headed for the unit. As it turns out, “wound” was quite the understatement. I managed not to faint, or even react, while I took a series of photos of the gruesome results of a flesh-eating bacteria. I won’t be volunteering for regular duties on the unit anytime soon, though. I prefer to stay a safe distance away, where the worst thing I see on a typical day is nothing more than a bad piece of clip art.

The frenzy surrounding today's opening of the Valley's first Ikea store makes me very glad I visited the San Diego location a couple of months ago to satisfy my curiosity. Judging from reports that the parking lot was two-thirds full at 6:00 this morning, it could be a while before it could be considered sane to shop there.

An article in today's Arizona Republic poses the question I ponder every time this sort of hype erupts:

What is it about that mystical opening day - whether you're after the first Krispy Kreme doughnut, the latest Harry Potter, or the middle seat in the middle row of the first screening of the latest Star Wars film - that takes human rationale and tosses it out the window?

The older I get, the more I marvel at the fact that the whole realm of dating is still so much like it was in high school.

I requested a mail-in ballot for today’s election, then chided myself later for procrastinating on completing the ballot. I realized on Friday that I’d put it off to the point that it was risky to depend on the mail to deliver my vote on time. I ended up turning in the ballot at my nearest polling place this morning, and realized I’d ended up with the best of both worlds: the convenience of filling out the ballot at home, and the privilege of going to a place where the democratic process can be observed, up-close.

Plus, I got one of those swell "I Voted Today" stickers to wear for the rest of the day.

It's one of Phoenix's rare rainy days, and for a change I was smart enough to grab an umbrella before dashing out the door this morning. The umbrella is a traditional full-size style with a wood handle, not the compact fold-up variety that everyone else carries these days. I feel like Mary Poppins.

In the past week, two people have told me that I walk like Meg Ryan. I've never heard this before in my life. Is this a new skill I've developed without even trying?

Four years after buying my house, I've finally saved enough money to remodel my bathroom and replace my worn living room and dining furniture. So my spare time in the last few weeks has been largely devoted to trips to Lowe's, The Home Depot, and just about every furniture store I can think of. The process may sound like fun, but it's a lot of work for those of us who are decision-making challenged. I have a list of 15 separate items I have to buy for the bathroom remodel alone. Sink. Wall tile. Floor tile. Faucet. Medicine cabinet. Lighting fixture. The list goes on....

I finally nailed down most of my decisions during a recent trip to The Home Depot, only to have an employee throw another complication my way with a seemingly simply question: "What color grout do you want?"

This is the sort of thing that can send me over the edge.

I've been listening to a lot of 70s and 80s music in recent months, and have come to this conclusion: I like nothing by Elton John or the Eagles.

Oh, to be back in junior high now that they've come out with Hostess-inspired lip balms with flavors that mimic Twinkies, Ding Dongs, SnoBalls, Cupcakes and Fruit Pies. If I were 12, I'd be, like, using these all the time.

Tips to spur creativity, from the Direct Marketing Association :

• Avoid isolation. Force yourself into situations where you interact with people of different races, ethnicities, religions, etc.
  
• Travel. Be it to Europe or a cattle ranch, break out of your element.
  
• Browse. Hit the Net regularly and log on to a new site every day.
  
• Channel surf. Sample every one of your 694 channels - and no skipping the infomercials!
  
• Read. Study anything with words from Edgar Allen Poe to a ketchup bottle.

Fall is my favorite season. So why do I always feel a tinge of sadness when summer comes to an end?

Today's puzzling phone call:

(Phone rings. Panel on phone displays co-worker's name.)
Me: Hi, Michael.
Co-worker: Can't talk right now.
Me: You called me.
Co-worker: I know. Can't talk right now. See ya.

An MVD employee actually made a joke while she assisted me this afternoon. I'm still recovering from the shock.

I have to visit the Motor Vehicle Division today to replace a lost driver's license. I'm dreading it. I suspect the MVD employement applications include a line at the top that reads, "If you're not surly, don't even think of applying to work here."

When people greet each other in the morning, it's not really a greeting as much as an identification of the time of day: "Morning." (The "Good" that used to precede it has apparently been dropped in the interest of efficiency). Strange, when you think about it. Nobody encounters someone at lunchtime and says, "Noon."

What is wrong with toymakers, that they came up with this?

Using the power windows in my new car brings back a childhood memory of shutting the window of our family car when my brother’s neck happened to be in the way. (It was an accident! Really!) This is a story that is retold again and again around my family’s dinner table, especially when we have a new guest among us.

Some people can hold serious grudges.

Sometimes you can't get past people's initial impression of you, no matter how much information you provide that you're not quite the person they perceive you to be. Someone mentioned a song title to me, with a smirk that suggested he was certain I wouldn't be familiar with music from that genre. I immediately began reciting some of the lyrics, which apparently didn't prove a thing. "You don't know that song," he insisted. Hmmm ... I wonder what more I needed to do to prove otherwise?

It actually does cool down at night around here. Granted, it's been unseasonably cool the past few days (for Phoenix, in August, that means anything under 100 degrees). But I was surprised to walk outside after my middle-of-the-night video shoot on Monday and discover something that resembled a chill in the air. I've lived in this city for more than 20 years, and can't remember August being anything other than hot, no matter what the time of day or night.

All in a night's work
A local news station featured our Emergency Department on its Monday morning show, and sent a crew to videotape the department in action the night before. I volunteered to coordinate the shoot, even though I'm not a night person and it meant working from 1-3 am. A few random observations from the experience:

• Where EDs are involved, expect the unexpected. I was told that the Sunday/Monday night shift would likely be slow, and we might be hard pressed to find a patient to interview. Contrary to predictions, I walked into a packed waiting room and was greeted by a charge nurse who immediately told me to cancel the shoot, which of course we couldn't do.
  
• I am forever out of synch with the hospital's cafeteria schedule. During my normal workday hours, I always seem to crave a fountain drink or a snack in the middle of the afternoon, just after the cafeteria closes. As we were getting close to wrapping up the videotaping on Monday, I felt hunger setting in. An employee told me the cafeteria closed at 2:30 am, and I looked at the clock - it was 2:35. At least I'm consistent.
  
• You can't become a night person if you're not one by nature. Just when I thought I was doing a good job of looking alert, a nurse suggested I put on a hospital gown and let the staff treat me for sleep deprivation.

I replaced my answering machine with Qwest voice messaging several years ago. For some reason, it was far more disappointing to come home to a steady red light - indicating no messages - on my answering machine,than it is to pick up my phone and discover a normal dial tone, which gives me the same "nobody called" information.

But now I have the occasionally empty e-mail in-box to deal with (particularly on Friday afternoons, when apparently nobody besides myself is anywhere near a computer). Mankind just keeps coming up with new ways to make us feel dejected.

Some people long to return to childhood, but I prefer being an adult. I get a particular enjoyment out of running the air conditioner and leaving a window open at the same time. Just because I can.

I should never go to lunch early. This afternoon seems like it's about 11 hours long.

Zoom, Zoom
I traded my tired Honda Civic for a Mazda 3 on Saturday. It's my first new car in almost a decade, and the first time I've had any of the extras that most of my friends have had for years - power windows, power door locks, CD player, cruise control. It's great fun to drive, except I have typical new-car jitters.

Yesterday I was stopped at a stoplight when an oversized truck in front of me began backing up. I sounded my horn, but the vehicle kept moving toward me. I pounded the horn more frantically - still with no response, and braced myself for the inevitable collision. Finally, the vehicle stopped, inches away from my bumper.

I just need to get my first scratch, and be done with it.

My boss hates the sound of what she calls "paper scraping" - the faint noise that occurs when you run a fingernail across the folded edge of a sheet of paper. Because I've never known another soul who's bothered by this, I find myself doing it absent-mindedly until her shuddering reminds me that it's a problem.

If she were a regular co-worker and not the one responsible for my continued employement, I could really have some fun with this.

Sign that you're really ready to buy a new vehicle: You have trouble finding your car in a parking lot, and actually feel excited rather than panicked at the thought that someone may have stolen it.

I went on a moonlight hike with friends Saturday night. The two-mile excursion was really more of a nature walk, led by a park ranger who stopped frequently to point out distinctive plants, tell some of the region's Wild West tales, and offer desert survival tips. While it was good to learn ideas for locating water in the wilderness, my only real survival concern was avoiding any potential West Nile-bearing mosquitoes. Fortunately, I think my bottle of OFF! did the trick. I shared it with my hiking companions, and called it my good Deet for the day.

I'm still trying to get used to how people drive in the area where I'm working now. It's not the aggressive driving I'm used to in downtown Phoenix. This is just plain stupid driving. Either that, or they're giving driver's licenses to the blind out here.

This week's monsoon clouds have been a nice change of pace. But I'd have to say my hair prefers when it's a dry heat.

I joined a group of friends for night golfing a couple of weeks ago - a nice enough concept, since it allows people to enjoy the game without having to endure the oppressive heat of summer daylight hours. The course provided lighting at the pins and gave us glow-in-the-dark balls, but these gestures proved to be hardly sufficient to compensate for the darkness. I could barely see my clubs, and wound up completely missing the ball - repeatedly. I haven't played so poorly since junior high school.

So I had to laugh when I read a quote by Christian author John Ortberg a few days later, in response to a question about whether there would be golf in heaven: "We know in heaven that there will be no lying, no swearing, no cheating - so how can there be any golf? There will be no golf in heaven. Tennis yes, but no golf."

Looks like Joe Arpaio's Tent City is the place to be tonight.

A co-worker whose last name is Sanders rolled his eyes as he told me about countless people who crack themselves up by calling him Colonel Sanders, each one thinking they're being original. My friend Kelly frequently has to endure the "Kelly, Kelly, Kelly, Kelly" song from Cheers. Another friend, Marsha, charges people a dollar if they insist on addressing her as "Marcia, Marcia, Marcia."

So if you know anyone whose name calls to mind a pop-culture reference, you might as well spare them any jokes that come to mind. Without a doubt, the person's already heard them all. (I have to admit, though, sometimes it's hard to resist that catchy "Kelly" song.)

From the book of snappy comebacks:
Q: How are you getting to the airport?
A: I'm flying to one of them.

Some friends and I were talking about favorite cereals from childhood. The ultra-crunchy varieties – Count Chocula and Fruity Pebbles in particular - topped our collective list. One friend’s assessment: “If your gums weren’t bleeding by the time you finished, the cereal wasn’t very good.”

As of yesterday, I've completed the three-month probationary period of my job. Apparently they plan on keeping me.

Since I have over 180,000 miles on my car and repairs are becoming more and more frequent, I've started shopping for a replacement. Though I'm not very far in the process, I've already encountered a few frustrations:

• After having my eye on a dark-green VW Jetta for the past three years, I've learned that it's overpriced and underrated. I'll have to be content with simply continuing to admire my one-time dream car on the freeway.
  
  
• Hybrid vehicles come in a limited array of colors - usually varying shades of gray, not in my favorite "Look at me!" red.
  
  
• I keep having conversations with people who immediately plunge into, "You know what you should get ..." without knowing anything about my personal tastes.

Great. I'm already annoyed, and I haven't even set foot on a car lot.

When you’ve been single forever, people often suggest that you’re too picky. Maybe so. Consider my recent missed opportunity:

A man approached me at the gym the other night, using the junior-high approach to flirting. “Nice tan,” he said, making a mocking reference to the complete lack of pigmentation in my skin. Then he pointed out that Cleopatra had fair skin, and proceeded to smile at me periodically during the rest of my workout. I made a good-humored comment in response, but didn’t talk to him long enough to show interest. (The fact that he had the most out-of-control sideburns I’d ever seen in my life had something to do with my hurried escape.)

To my surprise, his face appeared briefly in the opening segment of the news last night, and I stayed with the program long enough to see his story. It seems his trailer caught fire earlier that day, and he used Dr. Pepper to try to douse the flames. (Judging from the footage showing the trailer engulfed in flames, I’m guessing his attempt was not very effective.)

Yes, I’m obviously way too picky.

I've been exploring the possibility of buying a new home, but my own little house has begun to look more and more appealing after looking at the drab options available in my price range. The appeal was reinforced when a friend who's in real estate told me, "You have the perfect house..."

I felt a bit deflated, though, when he finished his sentence: "...for remodeling."

I'm part of a group that's planning a weekend retreat for my church singles' group, and we've been brainstorming ideas for recreation. Dancing is out, since the retreat center we're using adheres to a somewhat archaic notion that dancing is a less-than-wholesome activity. But the center does offer paintball, for a small additional fee.

So let me get this straight: Dancing is wrong, but it's okay for us to simulate killing each other?

After seeing his cartoons for Monday, Tuesday and today, I may decide that I like Steve Benson after all.

A co-worker and I were talking about favorite childhood TV shows. My top five, in no particular order:

• Leave it to Beaver
  
• Little House on the Prairie
  
• The Dick Van Dyke Show
  
• Get Smart
  
• Gilligan's Island
  

Just in case you were wondering.

Though my birthday, fittingly, occasionally falls on Sweetest Day, I didn't know about the holiday's origin until I read this.

I was on my way to hike Piestewa Peak after work yesterday evening, and got stuck in unmoving traffic at a freeway intersection near my house. Rush hour was over, so I figured I'd ended up behind a stalled car or fender-bender. Then I noticed a man and woman on foot, darting frantically between vehicles nearby. Two police cars flew off the freeway and screeched to a stop not far from my car, and one officer pulled a gun and ran toward a pickup at the front of our line of unmoving vehicles. Then I noticed news helicopters overhead, and I wondered what on earth I'd gotten into the middle of. Were shots going to be fired? Should I go ahead and duck now?

A minute later, the whole thing was over. One officer had captured the man, who'd tried to hide beneath the pickup, and another officer was leading the woman to his squad car. It turns out the pair had stolen a vehicle, wrecked it at the intersection, and started opening people's car doors in a carjacking attempt. Since I was only a few vehicles removed from the action, I was very glad I hadn't left my house two minutes earlier. After all the excitement, I didn't make the hike I'd planned. But I think my heart rate was up nonetheless.

I have an electronic day planner, a booklet-style day planner, and a calendar feature on my office computer. And yet I can't seem to get away from relying on Post-It Notes stuck to my computer to remind me of important meetings.

I'm feeling significant guilt over my recent weblog neglect. The new job has been busy, and this week has been particularly so. I worked 12 hours yesterday and 14 today, with the insanity promising to continue into week's end. So this plea for sympathy is about all I can manage for now.

My alma mater loves to give honorary doctorates, even though it can't award real ones. (The school has no doctoral programs.) This is the oddest one yet.

I'm not sure why, but I really detest voice mail greetings that close with, "Make it a great day."

I'm really curious about the incident(s) that caused my new employer to have to spell out, in the dress code, that "bedroom slippers are considered inappropriate business attire."

I decided to take part in National TV Turn-Off Week this week, since the number of mindless shows I watch seems to be steadily increasing. I did set my VCR this morning to record my top four weekly programs, just in case someone starts raving about how great one of my TV staples was the night before. I wonder if that's considered cheating?

Okay, I admit it. I'm one of those people who didn't mail my taxes until today. At least I've improved over the year I had to drive to one of those mall drop-off sites to get everything postmarked before midnight.

I'm starting to get past the newcomer stage of my new job, where everyone's so polite it's almost painful. I finally told a couple of coworkers I was open to a little good-natured sarcasm now and then. Yesterday one of them made fun of the "robotic" voice on my voice mail greeting, and I felt like I'd arrived.

People in the medical field don’t always realize that not everyone has the stomach for their line of work.

Recently I took on a freelance writing assignment for a neurological research center, and met with a department head* to gather background information for an article. The meeting was uneventful at the beginning. He described the steps taken for a typical research project, and I scribbled his words into my notebook.

Then the tour began. He opened a door where three researchers were working, and as he described the project at hand, I realized I was a foot away from a human cadaver brain. I was still adjusting to this as he led me down the hall and opened another door – this one containing rows of utility shelves lined with large, covered, industrial buckets. “And this is our library of heads,” he announced in a matter-of-fact tone that suggested I normally spent time in such places. He led me back into the hallway, and I silently begged, "Don’t open any more doors!" as he went on talking about brains and such.

Then he stopped, as though he suddenly realized that he was talking to a writer and not somebody who normally deals with things that are stored in formaldehyde.

“Is any of this revolting to you?” he asked.

Nah. Actually, the experience was more surreal than anything.

* This title will seem really amusing in a minute.

The area where I now work has a disappointing shortage of restaurants. I'm having to adjust to having no Chipotle or Einstein Bros within easy reach. Despite my aversion to misspelled business names, I've stooped to frequenting a spot called Steve's Krazy Subs.

Some friends and I were talking with visitors from Maryland after hiking Camelback Mountain. We were comparing Arizona's dry heat with the humid summertime misery of their home state. One of my friends offered a good analogy: "Here, it's like opening your oven. There, it's like opening your dishwasher."

Confessions of a closet carb fiend:
Dave Barry on Atkins

I used to help straighten pew racks at my church, taking a few minutes after the morning service to rearrange hymnals and pick up stray pieces of paper. As I was working my way toward the back of the sanctuary one Sunday, I heard a man's voice behind me: "Did you find a stick of gum back here?" I looked up and saw sports mogul Jerry Colangelo, holding the hand of his small granddaughter.

Since I'm sure the man has about a kajillion dollars, I wanted to say, "Buy her a pack of gum, Jerry. Buy her a gum store, for Pete's sake." But, really, the scene was rather sweet. At that moment, he was just a regular guy, helping his granddaughter find a lost treasure.

I'm a little suspicious about the 12 different settings on my blender. Is there really a difference between Chop, Grate and Ice Crush? I think I'd do just as well with two simple settings: Off and Pulverize.

Four days into my new job, I've already accomplished quite a bit:

• Worn a path back and forth through a maze of hospital corridors, wondering why a series of signs pointing to the elevators suddenly stops before said elevators are anywhere in the vicinity
  
• Left a work-related videotape in my car all day, not realizing our unseasonably warm weather was hot enough to warp plastic into a non-VCR-friendly shape
  
• Said "nice to meet you" and "great to be here" about 287 times, meaning it.

I was a guest at a Toastmasters meeting a few weeks ago. One of the speakers that morning was a firefighter who opened his first speech, I’m told, with this admission: “I’d rather be standing in a burning building than in front of you right now.”

I guess that pretty much sums up how most of us feel about public speaking.

How much black clothing can one person own and still be considered well-adjusted?

I'm finally rejoining the world of full-time employment, after nearly a year of piecing together an income through various part-time, temporary jobs and freelance projects. Amazingly, I have not had a single day without work. But I've spent more hours in isolation than I care to, and I've missed the safe predictability of every-other-week paychecks. I'll be returning to hospital public relations, and the job should be an interesting one. I'm excited, relieved, and extremely thankful.

A group from my church meets every other Tuesday for a book discussion. Right now we're reading Everybody's Normal Till You Get to Know Them, which deals with the need for (and challenges of) community. Our group had a good discussion this week about why people in our culture have so much difficulty connecting with one another in any meaningful way. We agreed that the biggest deterrent is overcommitted schedules that leave little time for anything beyond surface conversations.

One member of our group - a sincere, thoughtful, soft-spoken man - seems particularly interested in getting beyond the small talk that characterizes most conversations. After the study, I approached him and his wife, hoping to get to know them better. Since I know we have similar family backgrounds, this seemed like the perfect topic for a beyond-small-talk conversation. We briefly compared stories, but the man's wife seemed unfocused, her eyes darting around the room as we talked. He had to excuse himself suddenly as he realized a couple he wanted to talk to was about to leave for the evening. Our conversation lasted, at the most, a minute and a half.

I headed for the snack table, grabbed a cookie, and joined the group in the kitchen for our usual small talk.

I was getting ready to go out Saturday night when a giant roach appeared on my bathroom sink, right next to my curling iron. I sprayed the offending creature with Raid, and then became paranoid about breathing the fumes. The rest of my preparation process was spent holding my breath as long as possible while I worked on my hair, dashing into the hallway for a gasp of air, then going back to the bathroom for another round. The things we women go through....

Once again, I didn’t get the job.

For the second time in recent months, a promising opportunity fell through because an unexpected internal candidate came along. But the disappointing news came with one of the best compliments I’ve ever received about my writing. This, coming from the head of Public Relations for a large health system, went a long way in offsetting my disappointment.

I relayed the conversation to a group I had dinner with that evening, and one guy got on a soapbox about how potential employers should just deliver the bad news, and forego any words of praise.

I wanted to tell the guy, “Don’t rain on what’s left of my parade.”

A friend told me about stopping by his barber shop on a workday, right after an off-site meeting. Though he had a flexible schedule that allowed for such things, a co-worker harassed him about getting his hair cut "on company time." My friend's response: "Well, it grew on company time."

My next-door-neighbor is a pretty good guy, but most of our conversations center around his grousing about one thing or another. During last summer's brief gas shortage, he was waiting in line for his turn at the tank when another man cut in front of him. My neighbor yelled out, "You [insert not-very-nice word here]!" When he told his wife about the experience, she responded, "What do you think Karen would have done in that situation?"

What am I, the neighborhood Goody-Two-Shoes?

Something I've discovered after writing professionally for years (the exact number of which shall remain undisclosed):

I never get tired of seeing my byline.

Shallow, aren't I?

I spent hours preparing for a job interview this morning, but could not possibly have anticipated this question: "If you could invite five people, living or dead, to a dinner party, who would you invite and why?"

Knowing I didn't really have time to give significant thought to my answer, I started rattling off random names of people I would consider either interesting to talk to or fun to be around. I hope my interviewer won't give significant weight to my answer, because I came up with a pretty odd assortment: Oswald Chambers, Erma Bombeck, Abraham Lincoln, CS Lewis and David Letterman.

I'll probably spend the next week mentally revising my guest list.

The W-2 and 1099 forms are pouring in from last year's myriad jobs and freelance clients. I'm glad I have an accountant to deal with such things, since taxes from an ordinary year are overwhelming to the underdeveloped math side of my brain.

I went to a Super Bowl party yesterday, and watched no more than 30 seconds of the game. Most of the party was spent around an outdoor fire pit, talking with friends and eating. In my book, that's a great Super Bowl party.

I never read forwarded e-mails that begin like the one I received this morning: "Whether this is legitimate or not I do not know for sure, but it sure sounds like it is, and is information worth having...."

In my experience, that's usually a sure sign of an urban legend.

I know that job-hunting requires work, but positions in my field sometimes require more than what I would consider reasonable.

Last week I had a brief phone interview for a position with a local magazine. Later that afternoon, my interviewer sent me three articles to edit, which I was asked to return along with five story ideas (and optional sidebar articles) for the magazine. I have no real sense that I'm a serious candidate for the position at this point. This is something I might expect if they had narrowed their choices down to a handful of people, but I think four hours of work is more than I'm willing to invest in something that seems like a longshot.

This weekend I hit golf balls, hiked Pinnacle Peak, and ate Sunday lunch on a friend's patio, enjoying absolutely perfect weather. It was one of those winter weekends where we all say, "Oh, this is why we live in Phoenix."

I can remember what I had for dinner at a relative’s house 20 years ago, but can’t recall my own cell phone number. Okay, so I finally did memorize the number, but I won’t admit to how long this actually took. It’s an ongoing challenge to get numbers to stick in my head.

Sometimes I miss the simplicity of living in a small town, where everyone had the same phone number prefix. When you asked a friend for their number, you only had to recall four simple digits. Now when someone offers contact information, you have to brace yourself for a list: home phone, work phone, cell phone, pager.

And you still can’t get a hold of people half the time.

My three least-favorite personal chores, in no particular order:

• Going to the bank
  
• Filling my gas tank
  
• Paying bills
  

When I get around to actually doing them, they're really not all that bad. So why do I always seem to put them off until the last possible minute?

The gym where I work out usually has an array of magazines available for those of us who like to be distracted during the more mundane parts of our exercise routine. Since the magazine supply last weekend had dwindled down to a couple of battered copies of Field and Stream, I ended up watching Disney Channel's Lizzie McGuire during my workout last Saturday. I normally can't endure Saturday morning kids' programs, but I have to admit I added an extra few minutes to my workout so I could see how the show ended.

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. One I'd add to the list: "24/7".