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."