REPLY TO ALL

ohmygod. Oh my ever loving god and higher power. I didn't mean it. OMG. I would've never hit SEND. I'm screwed now. I'm fucked. I'm gonna lose my job because of one stupid email. You just can't say those things to a client, not by accident and certainly not on purpose. OMFG. I was totally joking, but no one will care and it won't matter. You don't even say those things to a friend, not unless they know you and your twisted, convoluted, hyper-ironic, self-deprecating, quasi-sarcastic so-called sense of humor, a sense of humour (for our Canadian brothers and sisters) that is rapidly degrading and vanishing as my fingers tap on the keyboard. You. Do. Not. Say. Those. Things. Full stop (for our partners in the U.K.). I ran to IT, but they said it's impossible to stop that email, to halt it, to disappear. They rolled their eyes and then guffawed. Gawd! What am I going to do now? FMH! And I don't mean "flexible metallic hose," no siree, Bob, check your Urban Dictionary. Maybe I can plead temporary insanity, a spasmodic tic of digital Tourette Syndrome coupled with Surplus Attention Impulse Disorder (SAID), which is why I "said" what I did. Anyone who knows me knows about my SAID challenges, my SAID imbroglios and stumbles. But will HR accept this? No, of course not. If we had a union, it'd be a grievance procedure, a slap on the wrist (or somewhere else hahahaha; there I go again), and that'd be the end of it. If I was lucky. If I were lucky. REPLY TO ALL. Every other time, I have been so deliberate, sure, careful, vigilant. "Do not REPLY TO ALL," I have warned myself as many times as a lap around the beads, as many times as the mala beads on my right wrist, my fake Buddhist beads, 108, if you must know. What if I say somebody else came to my desk and did it? It's worth a try! Naw. Not even in this wide-open, free-for-all, unprivatized workspace. Who am I kidding? Give me a banker's box (or bankers box or brand name Bankers Box). I'll start packing up my office now. You say we don't have an office, we have an open plan? If you say so. I'm gone. Include me out, oxymoron and all. Exeunt omnes. Stage left. Exit moi. I'm already off the network. I can't even hit REPLY TO NONE. 

ChicorLit

Maybe I'm getting better, have turned a corner, reached a tipping point, cliched a cliche. Last week I was chatting with a colleague (Botanist Colleague) about chicory, celebrating its singularly summery and scintillating color. I asked her about it, since I wasn't quite sure how chicory differs from purple coneflower or cornflower, if at all.

Sure enough, the flower I had in mind is chicory, she confirmed for me by consulting some serious-looking textbooks. You see chicory on roadsides a lot at this time of year, just about anywhere in the continental U.S. (As for Europe, I don't know, so chime in readers from around the planet.) It has been used as a substitute for coffee.

So today I made a remark to Botanist Colleague (BC) about chicory, something to the effect that she certainly got it right. Our chicory-referenced dialogue proceeded along these lines, although we bloggeristic Proustians realize how unfaithful and saucy a mistress Ms. Memory can be:

PK: "You see them all over."

BC: "Yeah, you do."

PK: "You were saying they're transitory, lasting for a day?" [like blog posts, I could've added but did not]

BC: "They bloom every day. They wilt real quick."

PK: "Just like me," I quickly and breezily reply in my head, the words clanging around in the cranium like a struck gong.

But I didn't say it! A monumental first!

The elevator doors close.

Saved.

This may be the first instance of what I think they call impulse control in my so-called adult impulsive life.