STATE VS. OFFICE HOARDER (EXHIBIT A)

See, ya'll... I wasn't lying.

I do feel compelled to point out, though, that the skeleton-girl was bequeathed to me by a girlfriend/co-worker when she got married and didn't need it anymore; it says "Waiting for the perfect man". And the voodoo doll was a souvenir from New Orleans; years ago, one of my employees brought it to me and it has remained a joke within the office... good fun to poke at when the pressure gets tough. I wanted to explain the creepy-looking stuff. I mean, I know I'm weird, but it's definitely in a sunshiny kind of way...

WTF: I'M AN OFFICE HOARDER

It’s Friday… let the WTF’inanigans begin!

It’s starting to feel like it might actually get a little bit busy again at work. And yesterday, I had TWO things to accomplish AT THE SAME TIME. (Not quite multi-tasking— but perhaps dual-tasking?) Anyway, I had a mild “episode”, trying to sort out one from the other. Which to do first? Can I handle the pressure?? How did I get this SOFT in just four months? Have I lost my edge?? W T F. Thank the Heavens above for Brittnee… if she hadn’t run to Office Depot for me, I would have had THREE chores on my plate, and a full scale mini-meltdown would have doubtlessly ensued.

So I’m sitting here, getting my ducks in a row for next week... Writing out my goals... Contemplating, planning, sizing up the sitch… Thinking we may fire the old ad engine back up soon. And I think to myself, “Self, you will think more clearly next week if you have a clean desk.” I get to opening drawers and surveying the contents… and what’s in there, ya’ll is just ridiculous. Completely absurd. For those of you who follow my “tweets” over on Twitter, I do apologize; this will be a repeat (and I’ve already had one person call to my attention that six tweets about the crap in my desk is too much; clearly, if it's not worth six tweets, it's certainly not worthy of an entire blog). For those who don’t follow me, reading beyond this point is completely optional. Proceed at your own peril, knowing you've been dully warned. I won’t blame you for surfing ahead to something that won’t turn your brain into gelatinous goo; this will not be stimulating. It might give you a glimpse into my psyche— but egads, I hope not. There’s no telling what these items say about me.

-2 cans soup, expired
-4 Medifast shakes, expired
-1 dried up Tide-to-Go pen
-A bottle of cuticle oil
-4 strands of Mardi Gras beads
-3 Easy buttons (two that say “that was easy” in English, one in Spanish)
-2 lint rollers with no sheets
-A bottle of deodorant
-Small bottle of Scope
-3 Oral-B Brush-Ups
-Toothpaste and toothbrush
-4 bottles of lotion
-5 bottles of Purell… WTF?
-Individual packets of Germ-X wipes
-5 years worth of greeting cards
-Lysol wipes (does anyone see a theme here??)
-A box of straight pins
-3 clothespins
-A voodoo doll… WTF?
-3 boxes of Hawaiian Punch
-1 nail file
-Assorted sizes and types of seashells
-2 grapefruit spoons… WTF?
-1 feather boa… WTF?
-A shaker of garlic salt… WTF?
-Pedometer
-Drinking straws with umbrellas
-Tealight candle… uh, fire code, WTF?
-8 Sonic mints
-Various toys and tchotchkes… some of it’s really weird, too.


My first thought was “Is there an office version of Let’s Make a Deal?” I could kick ANYONE’S butt. ANYONE! Who else, I ask you, has a feather boa and a shaker of garlic salt and a Spanish-speaking Easy button at the office?? Next, I divined that I should pack all this crap up and take it home for a garage sale… I could pay for my next vacation!

I’m the first to admit that I have a raging case of ADD… combine that with working in a creative role… and add the fact that I believe in saving all manner of minutia… and it’s a recipe for, apparently, a HOARDER of ginormous proportions. That’s what I've become: a Crazy Cat Lady with hoarding issues. Isn’t it a wonder I ever get anything done, with those tendencies and a desk like this? WTF?? And ya’ll, it’s FRIDAY NIGHT. Shouldn’t I have something else besides this going on? Clearly, it is a desperate cry for help.

I welcome your comments. Experts, please chime in.

‘Til next week’s installment of “What-The” Friday, have a good week, my pets. I’m going to be working on learning to throw things away. Will keep you updated!

"SURVIVOR SYNDROME" IN THE OFFICE

I sat down to write my usual "What-the..." Friday post, and even though I've been composing it in my head the past couple days, I just couldn't really get focused on it. My mind is preoccupied today. Unfortunately, it's been preoccupied the past couple months. The proverbial "pink slip" has darn near dominated my waking consciousness, and now it's all but dancing through my dreams too.

Around the office these days, the how are you doings are now most often answered with I'm just happy to be heres. Let me tell you it's hard to watch a department of 400+ dwindle to less than half that size. And it's very hard to sit just a few feet from someone, in a sea of 48"-tall cubes, and watch as their desk is packed up and they're whisked away to be told it's their last day. Harder still is knowing that good people-- people you like and respect-- are going to have to start all over somewhere else, but they probably don't have the foggiest notion of where. I mean, do most people really have a clear Plan B?

I've thought about it, as I'm certain most people have-- vaguely, in a fleeting, back-of-my-mind kind of way. I know I could always wait tables or work retail while pursuing my career options... I'm confident I could figure out a way to beat out a living; but at what level of sacrifice? As a single woman, no one else is going to make my mortgage in the meantime (besides, I wouldn't want them to... my pride and self-worth are very much wrapped up in taking care of myself!) I survived, and even thrived, after divorce so I know I'm capable of new and unexpected beginnings. But watching, with your own eyes, as it happens to others makes you stop and realize how woefully unprepared you'd be if the unthinkable happened to you. The meager "emergency fund", assuming you're lucky enough to have one, just doesn't stretch all that far.

In our workplace, the "right-sizing" started last fall. I've done a considerable post-mortem on it since then and don't really consider myself short-sighted, though I certainly wasn't aware of the magnitude at that time; honestly, I don't think anyone foresaw a slowdown of this scale. The first two casualties were right in my own area, with a couple of promotions/advertising employees; the advertiser was fortunately able to be moved to another area of the company that was starting to consider hiring of someone of a like skill-set, but the promotions guy was the first to actually be released. Voluntary non-paid time was encouraged through the holidays. Then a few days before Christmas, a wave of part-time/evening workers were let go and our department pared back business hours. After that, we breathed a sigh of relief, thinking it was all over and that we'd be back to normal in a few short months. It was about a month later that the next wave came, this time affecting more full-time employees. Then a few minor fringe benefits were cut, as well as several of the more esoteric programs, and most recently 401k matches and pay raises for office employees. Ironically, the things that have affected me most directly (401k and pay) were not really a blow... I had anticipated those for weeks before they were announced, and truly those are sacrifices that I'm happy to make if it keeps our business strong and positioned to excel in the future. But the last few layoffs have tugged at my heart something fierce. Maybe it's a cumulative effect, or maybe it's just the overall gnawing of uncertainty. But as I wheeled my cart through the grocery store last night, I had a feeling that just wouldn't go away. I couldn't quit thinking about my former comrades. I wondered how many of them, ill-prepared for a layoff, might be struggling right now. Even as I filled up my basket, and today as I've continued in my normal routine, the empathy I feel for them is immense.

All things considered, we've been fortunate; so many of the folks who've been cut have been placed in other areas of the company. Even some who weren't transitioned right into other roles have since been brought back to interview for jobs and have landed them. Our HR department and managers seem to have handled the situation with grace, sincerely wanting to do the best they can for these folks.

I feel grateful to have been relatively unaffected by the shake-up. But that leads me to the essence of this post. I say "relatively unaffected" in a direct sense, but what I really mean is that it's impossible not to be affected, at least on some level. I recently read an article from an HR expert, doling out tips to dislocated workers... it was full of sage job-seeking advice, and one of the tips was "give yourself time to mourn". The gist of it was that even though folks have to pick themselves up and keep going, they also need time to grieve and process what has happened. I think that's very true. I also think it's true for the ones who are left standing.

"Survivor Syndrome" usually has to do with those who live through tragic plane crashes, auto accidents, wars, natural disasters and the like. But it has meaning in the workforce these days, as well. The mix of emotions and guilt that trauma survivors experience is not completely unlike the feelings of those in an office where layoffs have occurred. There's a sense of loss mingled with niggling questions like "Is it over?" "Could it happen again?" and "Could it happen to me next?"

I keep trying to put all of these feelings into perspective, and I'm sure it will come with time. I have to think that, for some, the layoffs were probably a blessing in disguise: a chance for a fresh beginning in a job that will offer growth. For others, perhaps it's a chance to regroup, with a severance package to cushion the blow, before tackling something they didn't have the courage to try. I remind myself that this is how opportunity is born; circumstances are often a nudge for those of us who are too timid to crawl out of our comfort zones willingly. I hope that's how it works out for all my erstwhile coworkers, anyway. I'm wishing for nothing but the brightest of futures for all of us.

HONK IF I'M PAYING YOUR MORTGAGE

Wow... This is the best thing I've seen in a while. Pretty well sums up all the frustration sensible Americans are feeling right now. I wish I'd thought of it!

I wonder if you can order these little dandies by the case?

Believe me, I am anti-bumper sticker 99.9% of the time... the only time I've ever had a sticker of any kind on my car was a kazillion years ago when I was 20 and didn't know any better (sorority letters... say no more!) But I think I know plenty of folks who would enjoy these... I'm just not sure we could stand the incessant honking.

WTF: The House Next Door to "The Girls Next Door"

Well, the week passed with lightning speed, and it’s already time for the second installment of WTF— “What-The” Friday, where we explore things that make you ask, “What the......?”

Today’s topic: Hugh Hefner's selling of his "family home" that’s next door to the Playboy Mansion.

The Playboy Mansion is the heterosexual male's playground where naughty Mid-Summer (and all other seasons!) Night's Dreams come true. Hef has supposedly shared his famous love shack with his three girlfriends the past few years. You've seen it on E!... the ivy-covered Tudor-style lust-den with the infamous grotto... giant wet banana in the backyard... peacocks on the lawn... monkeys (and blondes) swinging all over the place... "Figs and dates and grapes and cakes, ah" as well as some impressively large "melons"! And hanging over it like a beneficent moon is the giant, smirkish grin of the octogenarian bon vivant who lounges all day in a smoking jacket. I have to say that Hef's trademark smoking jacket and pajamas still worked for me, up until the past couple years; now, however, it just looks age-appropriate. It's the kind of attire he would wear if he, like a lot of other people his age, lived in a nursing home. It no longer conjures up the image that he's just too busy having sex all day to waste time putting on real clothes.

WTF.

So the house adjacent to the mansion is also owned by Hefner. It is inhabited by his second wife, Kimberly Conrad, a former playmate he married and moved into the place 20 years ago. Despite Hef's flamboyant bachelor lifestyle, the two have never divorced (WTF?). She's the mother of his two sons, and has raised the boys next door to The Girls Next Door (at least for the past few years). The family manse is reputed to be a replica of the Playboy Mansion, about a third of its size. And now that Conrad and Hef are "empty nesters", it's time to put the home on the market.

This is the most recent of several very big and very publicized changes at the Playboy Mansion over the past few months. First Hef "broke up" with his three girlfriends, who were all suddenly very seriously dating other people (can you say "contracts were up" and we no longer have to be discreet)... WTF? And as soon as Holly, Bridgette and Kendra moved out, Hef had selected his next covey of girlfriends and moved them right into the Mansion. The new trio includes 19-year old twins, roughly the same age as his sons. WTF? I suppose the nest isn't technically empty, as long as you keep filling it with a steady stream of new "chicks", right? So theoretically, if Kimberly starts to feel lonely without her sons, she can always step next door and ground the new girlfriends for not cleaning their rooms.

Oh, and in case you’re interested in the property— it’ll only set you back $28 million. No problem in today's real estate market. And if you're feeling a mite neighborly, you might help keep an eye on the property next door. I bet if you peek through the bushes late at night, you can watch all the swinging next door. The monkey cages are right out back.

EVERY GIRL'S CRAZY BOUT A SHARP-DRESSED CAT

Check out Mr. Jabbers in his snazzy new tie... dapper, yes?

Surprisingly, he seems to rather enjoy getting all dressed up... doesn't fuss with his collar at all (although we're going to have to figure out how to keep him from dragging the tie in his food bowl...) I'm a little biased, admittedly, but he's a good-looking chap. And as Brittnee pointed out, a cat with a serious name like Mr. Jabbers should look the part. The tie just works on him. But poor 'lil thing. With his dental woes now corrected, he has minty-fresh breath... but alas, no balls. The frisky little ladies in the neighborhood will just have to pine for him.

Next look: the black, studded skull and cross bones tee... totally fierce.

"COME ON BARBIE, LET'S GO PARTY"

Well, Barbie's turning the big "5-Oh" this week, and doesn't she look fantastic for a gal with no Botox or dermal fillers? Blonde, thin, wrinkle-free, and has a huge closet with 50 pairs of peep-toe stilettos that don't hurt her feet... pretty much every dang thing I aspire to. And now the crazy yatch also has a fabulous dream home, done in colorful hipster-chic by designer Jonathan Adler.

Now, before we go accusing Barbie of snagging one of those sub-primes from Fannie... Jonathan Adler was commissioned by Mattel to completely outfit a 3,500-square foot Malibu beach-front house as a venue for celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Barbie doll. My first thought is, "Just kill me right now if there's a Corvette in the garage..." I'm officially jealous of plastic. How pathetic.

The big event, to be held tomorrow night, will be a star-studded celebrity soiree... if there's any justice in the world, Ken will run off to Vegas with Skipper and Barbie will spend the next three days in her bathrobe, sobbing to her five cats while eating raw cookie dough. Well, I know it would be with a Pacific Ocean-view, but it would still feel like some measure of justice had been doled out to Barbie; I mean, some of us are knocking on 40's door and struggling to achieve all that Barbie symbolizes-- far, far from the glamour of Malibu beach. Oh, wait... suddenly, I feel a little better... I just remembered that Barbie got a Volkswagen Beetle in the garage of her beach-front home. No Corvette. So life in plastic ain't all that fantastic, Babs. Whew, that was a close one!

WTF? IT'S "WHAT-THE" FRIDAY (A WEEKLY RANT)

So let me introduce the first of the weekly posts (on Fridays, duh) in which we'll discuss things that make you say, "What-The...?"

And today's topic is... insane, over the top, green-ness. We're talking silly dark green. I mean, What-The-Friday is up with all the green hootenanny?

Now, don't get me wrong... I believe in environmental responsibility. I have a stack of cans and bottles under my desk at work. I squirrel them back all week, then take them home and add them to my own recycling bins so I'll know they are properly disposed. And if you don't recycle cans and bottles, you should really try it for one week. Truly. You'll be amazed at how much recyclable waste that you, alone, habitually create in seven days. My neighbors must think I do nothing but guzzle Diet Coke and Aquafina 24/7. It totally looks like it when I take my bin down to the curb. I have two giant contractor-sized bags full of "overflow" cans to take to A.E.R.T. soon, because my bin runneth over. I create more plastic-bottle waste each week than my allotted bin will hold! And on a side note, I'd like to point out one of the differences in living in Springdale vs. Fayetteville... In Fayetteville, from the moment you set up your utilities, the city gives you a recycling bin and all but insists you use it. In Springdale, you provide your own receptacle; in fact, you have to contact the city specifically to enroll in the recycling program, plus pay extra for the privilege of doing so. Weird, eh? There's a giant schism between the Fayetteville granola-crunchers and the Springdale rednecks... but that's another WTF altogether, and I could get way off track if we go there.

So ok, this dead horse has been beaten sufficiently: I recycle. My thermostat stays set on 60, or 62 if I'm feeling quite extravagant, this time of year (well, that's partly because I'm cheap... WTF?) And I've always been extremely conscientious about turning out the lights when I'm not in the room. Aside from a lamp or night-light that I leave on pretty much all of the time, I'm conscious of my energy consumption. It's a habit that harkens back to grade school. Back then, they sent home stickers for us kids to put over the switch plates, reminding us kids to turn off lights; I had one in my room and it stuck.

Too, we have a running joke in my family that my Nana "recycled" before it was cool. Having grown up poor in rural Arkansas in the Depression-era, she learned by example and made it a way of life. I've watched her reuse bread sacks, aluminum foil, butter tubs and jelly jars for years. It makes sense to me.

I think that's all well and good... I'm behind the basics, and even some of the borderline-impractical stuff. Reduce. Reuse. Recycle. Every little bit helps. And Daylight Saving Time now starts four weeks earlier so all the goofs out there who totally don't will at least be saving some energy whether they realize it or not. But you uber-vigilant, Ed Begley-type, organic cotton-wearing environmentalist greenfreaks out there (you know who you are)... W T F?

Brittnee and I decided to spend our lunch at the brand-spankin' new Target store in Rogers today, and we saw this... the item that actually inspired today's WTF rant:

Yo, seriously? Ya'll, it's a door mat, made of recycled rubber. It. Smells. Like. A. Tire. The whole aisle smelled like the automotive department at Sears. I don't think that makes much sense, considering this is the item that welcomes folks into your abode. But then, I suspect it's more about broadcasting your eco-friendliness to the world, rather than deterring the tracking-in of dirt. And that's what makes this eye-sore (nose-sore!) such a supreme emblem for the holier-than-thou greenie set... it's kinda like those yellow "Baby On Board" signs that plagued the proudly fertile, van-driving moms of the 80's.

WTF.

MR. JABBERS IN THE HOUSE

Ah, dear readers... We meet again.

It has been a while. First, my hard drive decided it was time for an expensive vacay and went to the shop for a fortnight of R&R. Then, once it got back home, I got busy and blog-lazy. Then when I freed up, the cable/internet inexplicably stopped. And for some reason, it takes like 48 hours (ok, not really, but it feels like it!) on the phone with a rep to troubleshoot, only to find out it will be 48 hours before a service technician can make a house call. And now, I can't remember what I even wanted to say. Go figure.

So where did we leave off? Hmmm... Let's see... I was probably trying to start some weird new diet, obsessing about work, griping about the govmint again, and prattling endlessly about my cats. Sound about right? Well, it doesn't narrow it down much, but at least it shouldn't be hard to jump right in where I left off!

Well, in my unrelenting quest to become the craziest Crazy Cat Lady in the history of all Crazy Cat Ladies, I have since adopted yet another cat. This one tugged at my heart a little... So I get this e-mail from my old pal Robert Wood, titled "Cat Emergency". The message goes on to explain how this guy (who lives in the same apartment complex as one of Robert's friends in Danville) is being... shall we say, er, "detained" for the next eight to ten years. And said felon left behind a now-orphaned kitty. Apparently he had been an inside cat, because now that he's homeless, he's continually trying to run inside anytime one of the apartment doors opens. Sad, sad sitch... and long story short, I caved. The e-mail from Robert closed with, "Crazy Cat Lady, won't you help?" Honestly, it made me physically sick to my stomach, the thought of having this many cats. It's so completely creepy. But within a day and a half (before buyer's remorse had a chance to set it, I suspect), Robert showed up with the little lass.

Turns out, the kitty is a sweet little thing... very friendly and "talkative". But he had no home, no owner and no prospects, and it didn't take but a nano-second to decide that he needed me. So allow me to introduce the newest member of the feline brood, Mr. Jabbers.

So far, so good... everyone seems to be getting along. Boodle didn't care much for him at first, but even she has come around now; he and Smidgey were fast friends. Within the first week, Mr. J went off to see the vet for the ol' snip & clip procedure and a nasty drooling problem. Come to find out, he had both his baby teeth and his adult teeth, which was causing some trouble. Now that he's feeling better, he's showing a lot of personality. And now I'm both financially and emotionally invested in the little guy.

And before you judge too harshly about my recent choice of pet names, keep in mind that I had a rabbit named Scarlett O'Hare as a child (yes, I was truly obsessed with Gone With the Wind through my early teen years). So as quirky as the Mr. Jabbers moniker is, trust me... it's a step up.

So a final disclaimer from me: No. More. Pets. Seriously! I don't care what kind of sob story you lay on me next time, people, I'm at my limit. On the upside, I should be far less likely to be gallopping all over the countryside, feeding the stray cats. And now that I have a two-seater, there's not nearly as much room for cans of cat food. I'll just stay home and continue the benevolent feline ministry from here, thank you very much!