Friday Five

My first Friday Five of 2007.  This one’s all about the vegetation.

1.  What is your favorite flower?
Just one?  Gah.  It’s like choosing among my children (um, if I had any).  I’ll narrow it down as best I can:  irises, sunflowers, daisies, poppies, plumeria….  Five.  That’s not so bad, is it?

2.  What is your favorite cooking herb?
Well, that depends on what’s cooking.  Rosemary has a great aroma.  I use loads of it on salmon.  Great on chicken, too.  Cumin is another fave.  My chili is heavy on the cumin.  Sorry, mom.  I can’t share.  I know you won’t eat any chili that isn’t cumin-free.

3.  If you were struck by the sudden need to go for a walk in the woods, where would you go?
The park near my house.  It has a three-mile loop path that meanders through the woods, along the water, and past the baseball fields.

4.  What kind of tree would you be?
Am I famous?  I must be, ‘cause only famous people are asked that question, right?  I’ll say lilac.  It’s more of a bush but can grow to the size of a small tree.  (I’m short.)  It’s a pretty color, flowery, and fragrant.  And, at least in my mind, old school New England – just like my own roots.

5.  When was the last time someone gave you flowers?
September.  Tim always drops off some chrysanthemums on my birthday.  October, November, December, January…  This means I’m due for some flowers here, hint-hint.  Anyone?  Anyone?

Ugh.  I forgot my earrings today.  I hate that.  Really, I should keep a pair or two in my desk.  This morning I picked a pair that went nicely with my sweater – and left them on the bathroom counter.  Damn.  And, of course, I’m going out after work.  Okay, so it’s bowling.  Shut up.  I know I don’t need earrings to bowl.  Wait – yes – yes, I do.  I’m a woman and I need my earrings.  So there!  I’m swinging by Kohl’s on my way to the alley.  Heh.

Lastly, Mary the Pest really needs to leave me alone.  She is serving it up Extra Pesty Style today.  Begone!

Happy Weekend!

Stuck in my head:  “Rudie Can’t Fail” – The Clash

TMI

If I don’t get my period soon, my boobs are going to explode.

I’m just saying.

(Seriously, is this what it feels like to walk around with a pair of big, fake ones?)

Ow.

Clearance Sale

One of my primary resolutions/goals for 2007 is to declutter my humble abode.  I had big plans for this goal last year but seem to have aborted the mission shortly after takeoff.  Not so for 2007.  I will not be a two-time loser.

I intend to purge – trash, my mother’s yard sale that is now over three years in the making, Sal’s Army, and eBay.  Yes, eBay.  If it can easily be packed and shipped and I think someone might bid on it, it’s getting listed.  (I’m not mentioning my seller ID here because I assume no one is jonesing to bid on my cast-offs.  If I’m mistaken, and you do want to own something of mine – You want a piece of me? – drop me a line.)

I thought all this listing business could be overly time consuming, and then it occurred to me:  Instead of boondoggling at the Land of D during my workday downtime (which, by the way, there has been very little of lately), I could post auction listings.

Last week, my decluttering frame of mind became most annoyed with all the refrigerator magnets, particularly the ones I received as gifts and never really cared for.  It was a lame attempt to camouflage the avocado-ness of my avocado green refrigerator.  (Practical me won’t splurge on a new fridge simply for the sake of a more appealing color.  Part of me wants it to die already, but I know when it does, I’ll lament the expense of a replacement.  Just as Olivia did with her brown fridge.  Yup, these relics are durable, built to last.  Ain’t that a double-edged sword?  Mom has already purchased TWO refrigerators since I’ve been living with Ol’ Greenie.  And yes, I realize I will save energy dollars with a new model, but I choose to ignore that for the time being.)

Anyway, back to the multitude of magnets.  I decided to get rid of all but about six of them.  As I was depositing them in the box marked Yard Sale, I thought some of them might be eBayable.  (God, I love making up words.)  I’ve heard that there are some hardcore fridge magnet collectors out there.

I set aside seven of the magnets.  One by one, they went back on the refrigerator and had their picture taken.  I emailed the photos to my office email.  At work, I composed and posted the listings.  I listed them for next to nothing.  I’d rather get a piddly amount than nothing at all for the little treasures.  Within a few days, all had bids.  Some even had multiple bids.  Oh, my.

A couple of days before the auctions closed, one went crazy.  One that I almost didn’t list.  One that I listed for less than the others.  A set of veggie magnets that I know I’ve had for over fifteen years.  Nothing special, right?

A three-way bidding war was going on, and on the last day, a fourth bidder got involved.  Oh, sure, most of the others had several bids by this time, but the set of veggies had 18 BIDS.  It was up to $10.50 – for some stupid magnets that probably came from a dollar store or Job Lot.  What was the allure?  I almost wanted to email the bidders and ask them why the magnets were being so coveted, but best not to tip them off as to their nominal value and instead let the lucky winner be terribly disappointed when the package arrived in the mail.

I told Sandy about the auction, and she was equally amused and bewildered.  Was there something special about the set that I didn’t know about?  Sandy said someday I’ll be watching “Antiques Roadshow” and there they’ll be – my veggie magnets that some dork bought on eBay for ten dollars.  Appraised value: $25,000.

Hahaha.  “Yeah.  I’d better check the description and make sure I didn’t accidentally type ‘AUTOGRAPHED BY ALL FOUR BEATLES.’”

In the end, the veggies had 21 bids and closed at over twelve dollars.  Another magnet went for seven, and the rest were in the $3 to $5 range.  After all the fees, I netted a little over thirty dollars.  For some not “new in package” magnets.  Can you dig it?  I can.

What an incentive to continue Home Purge 2007.  By this time next year, I expect to have a tidy, uncluttered house, a sweet PayPal balance, and a big tax deduction courtesy of the Salvation Army.  I’ll have to think of something good to spend the I Got Rid of My Junk windfall on.

So anyway, if I’m not here, you know where I’ll be.

Stuck in my head:  “Take Me To the River” – Talking Heads

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Lesson No. 1 of the New Year

The Bad News:  My pocketbook was stolen from the office yesterday.

The Good News:  Nothing of value or importance was in it.

As I was leaving the office yesterday, I buttoned my coat, flung my tote bag over my shoulder, and walked towards Annie’s desk to say goodnight.  My tote felt extremely light, and I commented on this as I approached Annie.  I stuck my hand in the bag.

“My pocketbook is gone!”

Annie looked down at the floor under her desk.  “Mine, too!”

Disbelief.  I went back and checked my office, even though I knew if Annie’s was gone, then surely mine was gone, too.

Now picture two women go pale.  Picture two women sickened.

I called the office manager; Annie called building security.  “Oh, it figures!  There’s no one there!”

Yup.  That would be our lame-ass building security.  Let’s see, there’s the old guy who holds the paper up to hide the fact that he’s dozing and the woman who frequently steps out for cigarette breaks.  Only one person is on duty at any given time.  Makes you feel secure, doesn’t it?

Our office manager called the police.

Fortunately — FORTUNATELY — my wallet was still in my tote.  And my keys were safe in my coat pocket.  Annie, however, did not fare so well.  “I had everything in there.”

Everything.  Wallet.  License.  Credit cards.  Checkbook.  Cash.  Keys.

“Excuse me.  I’m gonna throw up.”  Poor Annie.

I realized it had to have happened when I was at lunch.  Uncharacteristically, I took my wallet with me.  I wanted to get some potato chips from the vending machine to accompany my sandwich.*  I don’t even know the last time I bought something from the PMS machine.  I considered taking just the necessary fifty cents from the wallet, but for no reason I just took the whole thing.  As Sandy and I headed into the lounge, Sandy said, “There’s some guy walking around over there.”

“They’re testing the fire alarms today.  Did you see the memo from maintenance?”

Obviously, in hindsight, I should not have been so dismissive.

When I returned from lunch, I tossed my wallet back into the tote, not noticing that the pocketbook was missing.  I had other stuff in there, and the pocketbook is always buried at the bottom of my deep, narrow tote.

I relayed this to Annie and Dean (the office manager) while we waited for the police.

I was taking a mental inventory, trying to recall whether there was anything of value in my pocketbook.

“My phone!”

You see, this really matters, because it is my only phone.  I don’t have a home phone.

“Wait — I think –”

I rummaged in my bag.

“I have it!”

In my morning rush, I didn’t put the phone in the phone pocket in my pocketbook, its customary spot.  Instead, as I sometimes do when in a morning rush, I dropped it in the inside pocket of the tote.

Boy, oh, boy, I came out of this lucky, damn lucky, and I know it.  My gloves, sunglasses, and phone were still in my tote.  My keys were in my coat.  I had my wallet.  I didn’t have my iPod with me (I usually don’t, but occasionally do.)

This really sucks for Annie, though.  I know.  I’ve been there.  And check this out for irony:  Earlier in the day, the same day, I was telling Steve about the time my pocketbook was stolen when I was a freshman in college.  For real.  I kid you not.  Steve wanted me to research some of the principals (including board members) at a Major Rhode Island Healthcare Corporation.  He rattled off a list of names, and I laughed when he spelled one of them.

“Oh, you never have to spell that name for me.  Joe Bleau, Jr. stole my pocketbook when I was 18.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s his name — Joe Bleau, Jr.?”

“That’s him.”

“Are you sure it was his son?  He has a big development company –”

“That’s him.  I had a paycheck in there and the dumbass decided to come to the bank where it was drawn, the bank where I worked, to cash it.  I was there when he came in, too, and the teller waiting on him called me over.  I couldn’t believe it.  And you know, when you call the police from a bank, they come really, really, really fast, with lights flashing and sirens blaring.  Anyway, the little thug [a minor at the time] had already ditched the pocketbook and its contents, and the restitution check came from daddy’s company.”

“Wow.  That’s a good story.”

Here I should mention that there are several things I don’t carry that many people do.  (1) My Social Security card.  Really, when do you need it?  The actual card, that is.  I know the number, and it most definitely is something I do not want to share with the wrong person.  (2) My checkbook.  There’s no need for it.  I’ve never been one to pay by check in stores.  Checks are for paying bills.  (3) Since the Joe Bleau, Jr. incident, photos.  The only irreplaceable thing in that pocketbook was my photos — all my friends’ autographed high school photos and the picture of my ninth grade boyfriend, Peter (a hockey player, dumb as a box of rocks, but very cute).  To this day, I lament that loss.  The photos, that is, not Peter.

Here’s a list of my stuff that the scumbag made off with:

Pocketbook
Comb
Brush
Compact mirror
Business card case with cards
Tissues
Sugarless gum
Sugarless mints
Dental floss
Blistek
Pen
Pocket calendar
Small tin containing aspirin, naprosyn, 1 migraine pill
Cosmetic bag containing:
Lipstick (2)
Eyeliner
Nail file
Hair clip
Hand lotion (1 oz. bottle)
Antibacterial gel (1 oz. bottle)
Tampons (2)

Just what every scumbag needs, right?  Was it worth the risk, fuckwad?

The cop showed up.  I told him when it must have happened (between 1:00 and 2:00) and that Sandy (who already had left for the day) saw someone walking around at that time.  Also, I remembered hearing the door of the stairwell near my office.  Unusual, because we’re on the tenth floor, but not necessarily so unusual for maintenance workers (and possibly fire alarm testers?).  The tenth floor is the only floor that is never accessible without an elevator pass, so he must have gone up to 11 and come down the stairs.  Or come up from some other floor.  Either way, this sucks in the name of security breach, because the stairwell doors are supposed to open from the office side only and be locked on the stairwell side.  You know, so intruders can’t sneak around from floor to floor undetected.

I wish I had seen him.  I wish I had caught him in the act.  I would have loved going apeshit on his ass.  My adrenaline would have kicked in, and I’d have hurled a chair at him, knocking him to the floor.  Then I would have jumped on top of him, grabbed him by the hair, and slammed his head repeatedly against the floor until he was a bloody mess.  People would come out of their offices, trying to pull me off him before I went too far — too late! — and I would have resisted, yelling at them to hold him down while I kicked his balls in.

Yeah, my victimization, my rage fantasy, okay?

Riding home with Jeannie and Lauren (who were sweet to wait for me), I had to admit my truth.  I was careless and stupid to leave my tote where I did, where I always do.  Under my desk.  Not in my desk, not locked.

It’s a pain (albeit not nearly as much of a pain as having your wallet stolen) keeping my desk locked.  I’m in and out of all the drawers all day long.  Sandy keeps her pocketbook in her desk, with the key in the lock.  She takes her keys whenever she leaves the floor.  That wouldn’t have worked for me.  I’m up and about throughout the day.  Still, I needed to come up with a solution.  So, today I found an almost empty file drawer in a cabinet just outside my office.  I confirmed that Patrick rarely needs access to the contents, so I put my tote in the drawer, locked it, and took the key.

A strange day, for sure.  From telling Steve about having a pocketbook stolen years ago, to having my pocketbook stolen mere hours later, to having the good fortune of not losing anything of value.

Someone was watching over me.  What else could explain how I could be so Very Stupid and yet so Damn Lucky?

*Potato chips saved my ass.

Strange day, indeed.

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