La Recherche Du Les Temps Perdu

I sit under a bank of clocks at my desk. They are labeled with cities all over the world, with a lone clock stuck off to the side with an attorney's name on it. Sitting here, I am accutely aware of lost time. Sometimes the tick-tock of the clock reminds me of an iv, only this one working in reverse as I feel life draining away.

However, I think that Proust would be proud of me. When I'm not at work, I work diligently to regain lost time, to value the time that's [almost] my own. Perhaps my one fault in this regard is that I become slightly manic about doing as much as I can outside of work. Perhaps a fault of the whole undertaking is failing to satisfy the question "when is our time ever our own?"

One wonders, and hopes.

My first day...

And now, a story. An entirely fictional, bearing-no-resemblance-to-reality-whatsoever story.
Once upon a time, there was a boy who sat in a closet that was approximately 5'x8' and smelled of musty socks because it was where the deli, bakery, and meat department people kept their aprons and there was a sink that hadn't been cleaned since Noah was being weaned. The boy sat at a computer and learned how to be the happiest damned cashier you ever did see. He learned about "world class service," and "shrinkage," and that words like "honey" and "babe" are naughty, dirty things upon which the Great Iron Fist of the Zero Tolerance Sexual Harassment Policy would come down should they even be whispered to oneself behind the boxes of frozen peas in the produce freezer.
When the boy emerged into the blindingly nuclear fluorescent brilliance that was the shopping floor, he was changed. He had become, as promised by the cashier training software in many more words but with essentially the same meaning, the happiest damned cashier ever.
The end.

Special thanks to poliscijournalistleslie.

Totally stinkin' awesome

So, I was much more excited than I should have been to find that Baltimore has a women's roller derby team! I think my cousin (Krissy) and I will try and go to THE CHAMPIONSHIP in October. Stinkin' awesome!

Roller derby, anyone?

To each his or her due

Here's a link to info. on the poet whose lines appear at the bottom of the page.

Je le trouve!

Wikipedia, good for lots of things. Ms. Barrymore (or, more accurately, the script writer) didn't get it quite right. Oh well. It was still a good movie.

"Cellar Door"

Hello, all. I chose the name because, according to Drew Barrymore in Donnie Darko (always a good source), a famous linguist once said that "cellar door" is the most beautiful phrase in the English language. I'm going to look that up and get back to you.