Utterly Addictive Color Play

It began so innocently. Sassafrass was home for the holidays and I asked her to show me something I could play besides my beloved Solitaire. Now that I’m crunching numbers at work, my idle moments require something new, something pretty, something colorful. And when Sassy clicked on “options” and I got to pick my fave array of hues, well, that was the livin’ end.

I don’t mean to imply I’m hooked, but I have stayed up until 5 a.m. compulsively moving through the 22 sacred steps allowed to clear that board.

Solitaire? What’s that? Books to read? Feh, it’s all Flood-It, all the time. Even my television habits are warped. Now I “hear” the tv while I’m glued to my game.

I hope my iPhone survives.

If I'm not playing, I'm recharging my overworked battery.

Here, even the riffraff must be beautifully tossed.

The Boss convened The Staff to warn us we are having a Garbage Audit. No kidding, the local trash company – I’m not naming names – (Sunset Scavenger Recology) will conduct an inspection of our (black) garbage and  (blue) recycling bins.

Given our constant use of acid stained disposable gloves (garbage) and slips of identifying papers (recycle), we’re all aflutter to chuck properly. This has occasioned a major relabeling of all office trash cans. To the confusion of one and all.

Only in San Francisco. Even the trash biz is politically correct.

"Stop in the name of refuse. Where are you throwing that acid-soaked paper towel, Shop Girl?"

We don’t know if we’ve been targeted or if this is a random activity of the local sanitation company. If so, I’d say they’ve got a bit too much free time to be hustling up extracurricular activities like this.

We've picked up all the scraps and swill. What trouble can we stir up now?

What happens if we flunk? Do they stop picking up our rubbish?

Gee, that would stink.

"I swear, Your Debris-ship, I've never seen that paper bag before in my life."

My makeup was better & I wouldn't be caught dead in those shoes, but you get the idea.

Off I happily toodled to work feeling terribly pretty (for a middle aged lady). By day’s end, my ass was dragging from the weight of my multiple wrong moves.

Mistake No. 1:  I erroneously bundled together items that should have been treated separately. Doesn’t sound so bad, does it? But the thing is, I cost The Boss 30 days holding time on monies that could have been in the company pocket a month earlier. Okay, not fatal. Especially since I made this boo-boo a month ago, when I presumably knew a lot less than I do now.

Mistake No. 2:  I purchased fake silver dollars. There. I said it.

In the same lot with one real one, I blithely paid out good old U.S. cash for fakes too shiny and too lightweight to fool my employer. Now, he wasn’t working this past weekend when I did it, and the higher ups with whom I consulted also failed to catch my flub (not that I blame them for my faux pas). Still, that’s money we’ll never get back, even though I offered to pony up. The Boss is too much the gentleman to take me up on that.

Mistake No. 3:  I cringe even as I write this. Not only did I comingle coinage of varying worth (half dollars, quarters, and dimes), but much, much worse, I bought almost $3. of quarters without silver content. You know how you can look at the side of a contemporary quarter and see all the copper in it? To my dismay, disgust, and disgrace, I neglected to weed out these offending items from a large batch of change.

Dang it all, that’s a rookie mistake beneath even me.

And get this: The Boss didn’t even know I did it. I discovered this gaffe while sorting the different denominations. Like the Girl Scout I was – and I guess I always will be – I dutifully confessed my sins to him. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.

“Jesus Christ, Wiggles,” he moaned as my goofs piled up. I don’t blame him. My internal chastisement was much coarser and extensive.

Details, details. How did I, a dreamy generalist, end up charged with dotting i’s and crossing t’s?

At least I look good while I’m misstepping all over the shop. That’s what counts, right?

"After all, tomorrow is another day." Or so I repeat to myself.

My Mildred's tats were friendlier. And so was my Mildred.

I called out the next customer’s name on the gold buying list.

“Mildred!”

And up walked an adorable, musclebound, tattooed, earringed man. Yep, that’s what I love about San Francisco. A hunky man can go by “Mildred” and nobody bats an eye.

When checking him out, I said, “Here you go, Millie.”

“That’s what my best friends call me,” he smiled back.

“Then I’m one of them.”

Indeed, he was a Thoroughly Modern Millie.

That’s what I have discovered since going to physical therapy. Today I went for my appointment and it was a sea of foot problems, like this one

Another woman was having her neck rubbed with something called “Free Up.” She could barely move!

My therapist Phil says it’s because the weather has gotten colder. But I think it’s that people are tripping, stumbling, twisting, and falling in record numbers. I blame the economy, completely. Meanwhile, I am now wearing a scarf in and out of doors, just in case it is about the weather.