Out on the tiles

I call my mom almost every weekday morning, but we generally take weekends off because we’re both very busy, important people. So her call, on Sunday, came as a surprise.

“I have something very important to tell you,” she said.

My stomach flipped. I immediately thought of my sister, filming a Steve Irwin-type adventure show in Australia, the deadliest continent on the planet.

This is it, I thought. Hailey’s been eaten by a crocodile. I knew this day would come.

“What?”

Matt, who had watched me halt mid-stride and heard the quaver in my voice, looked up from his laptop, his eyebrows a full inch higher than usual.

Those lovable nutjobs

“Did you know that when your father goes to the bathroom, he counts the tiles on the walls and floors? He can tell you exactly how many tiles there are in the bathrooms of every home we’ve ever owned.”

“What?!”

I let out a long breath of air. For Matt’s benefit, I shook my head and rolled my eyes ceiling-ward. He resumed typing.

I pictured my parents sitting side-by-side at a honky-tonk Austin bar, an icy pitcher of Miller Light between them. I wondered how much of that sweet nectar remained.

“I just thought you should know since we’re related to him,” Mom continued, laughing. “Wait – you’re related to him. I’m not. So you should know.”

I repeated this news to Matt. After all, our offspring would feature genes from both nutjobs on the other end of the call.

“But does he count them all or count across and down and then multiply?” Matt asked.

I repeated the question for Mom.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Here, you ask him.”

“Your mother thinks I’m Rainman,” Dad said.

“You count tiles in the bathroom?” I asked. “Do you count them all or count across and down and then multiply?”

“Both,” he said.

“Both?! And it never occurred to you to mention any of this when I was getting tested for O.C.D. as a child?!”

He didn’t seem to hear this last question.

“You know those holes in shower drains?” Dad asked. “I count those too.”

He returned Mom’s cellphone.

“How on earth did this topic of conversation come up?” I asked.

“You know that Kendle you got me?”

Mom never can remember the name of Amazon’s eReader.

“Kindle,” I said.

“Yes, Kindle,” she said. “Well, you put a book on it about a guy--”

“'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime,'” I said.

“Yes! And we were talking about it with the bartender and Dad said, ‘Well, you know, I count tiles in the bathroom,’” she said. “And I always thought Sheldon Cooper from ‘The Big Bang Theory’ was a little strange, but he’s not strange; his brain is messed up --like your father’s. He’s not normal. And all this time you had O.C.D.C. and Dad was the source.”

I detected a hint of triumph in her voice.

“So go write a blog about it,” she said.

So I did.

Just listed

I’m a wannabe first-time homeowner shelling out a ridiculous amount in monthly rent to live within a commutable distance of my husband’s Cupertino job. This means reviewing Silicon Valley real estate listings makes me sad. And that’s why I want to extend a hearty shout-out to Russell Ciotta of “Classic Properties” for making me laugh out loud; his listing for 6625 Clifford Drive made last night’s perusal of “The Ugly Yet Unattainable” unexpectedly enjoyable.

Ciotta knows he has nothing to lose; clinching several hundred thousand over his $1.3 million asking price is a given in this wacko market. So he lays out all his cards on the table: cracked façade, mold, mildew and moss, rust stains, unsecured crawl space rat portals. The online photo gallery doesn’t contain a single flattering image of Ciotta’s teardown special. Accessories include a broken squatty chair, a Christmas tree stand and a pool ladder -- but no pool. The primary image shows the front door ajar, and if you squint through the shadows, you can just make out ceiling-high towers of newspaper and the silhouettes of a dozen or so cats.

I can’t decide if this listing is a joke, a social experiment or over-the-top honest advertising. Perhaps Ciotta simply decided to phone this one in. In any event, he deserves some props. Bravo, Mr. Ciotta. Bravo.

Resurrecting Bianca

Warning: This blog post contains spoilers about "Be Right Back," Season 2, Episode 1 of "Black Mirror," the British anthology television series that explores the dark side of technology. If you haven't seen this 2013 episode yet, well, what the heck are you waiting for?!


If bloody curtains and a skeletal clown don’t say, “Come hither, children; we have candy,” I certainly don’t know what does.

Bianca in costume

Within minutes of arriving home Monday, I hung my handmade curtains in the living room windows and clothed the mannequin in a mask and clown costume. I lined the front walkway with tiki torches borrowed from the backyard. I dumped a bag of mixed chocolate bars in a bowl and stirred in plastic cockroaches and Ping-Pong balls painted like eyeballs. I draped the front door with crime scene tape, the red-colored kind that sternly warns, “Danger.” I launched iTunes and cued up “Thriller.”

I have never lived on a street conducive to soliciting or distributing Halloween candy.  Throughout my childhood, my parents drove my sister and I to trick-or-treat in neighborhoods with sidewalks and cul-de-sacs. And thus far, the addresses of my adult years can be characterized in one of two ways: sleepy retirement community or two-lane thoroughfare to more inviting, tranquil pockets of suburbia.

This year, I told Matt, would be different; on this, our first Cupertino Halloween, we resided a mere block from an elementary school, and a steady stream of young families passed by our front door en route to class or work or home each day. I would become the Cool Lady on the block who answered the door in costume and dished out king-sized Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups. I’d compliment the creative kids on their homemade costumes and cast a reproachful eye at the pillowcase-toting teenagers too lazy to dress up at all. 

My first visitor of the evening arrived as I maneuvered the clown-attired Bianca through the front door and onto the stoop. Bianca, like many third-hand mannequins, tends to shed her appendages at the most inopportune times. And this proved one such time, as she dropped her left hand for the benefit of a middle-aged woman passing by.

“Nice mannequin,” the woman said. “Are you registered to vote?” She thrust a flyer into my hand. The ensuing conversation set me back 10 minutes of decorating.

Follow the torches, children.

I retreated to the safety of the couch, where I could maintain a clear line of sight of the front walkway. I peered through the red paint-splattered polyester curtains and waited. And waited.

Eventually, Matt fired up an episode of “Black Mirror” – the one with the rehydrated dead boyfriend – and my attention drifted from the street to the T.V. Right about the point where Martha begins to suspect Ash has been gone far too long, Wolfie uttered a low growl.

“Trick-or-treaters!” I said, leaping from the couch. Matt paused the television as I ran to the door. I would surprise the little goblins by yanking it open before they had a chance to knock. My excitement became so great that when I finally did throw open the door, the action seemed to lack an “A-ha!” exclamation.

The stoop was empty. Across the street, however, five silhouettes crowned by multi-colored glow sticks approached the darkest, most un-deserving house on the block. 

“Black Mirror” resumed, and Martha struck up an online romance with a computer.

I ventured out onto the sidewalk the second time Wolfie sounded a false alarm. No pedestrians in sight. I resisted the urge to yank a tiki torch from the ground and wave it in the air, a candy beacon in the night.

Back inside, Martha was adding electrolytes to a bathtub of Ash. By the time she began bedding her Frankenstein, I had abandoned my post to shower and change into pajamas. But I kept my bra on – just in case.

“Did anyone come?” I asked Matt, rejoining him on the couch. Part of me wanted assurance I hadn’t missed anything, but the other part desired affirmation someone – anyone – had seen my ridiculous decorations.

Bianca waits

No, no one had come, but Martha’s Frankenstein was becoming a bore. 

The doorbell, when it finally sounded, was jarring. I sprinted to the door.

“Trick or treat!” said the 12-year-old on the stoop. She wore her hair in pigtails – a homage to some character I couldn’t place. I offered her my decoy treat bowl, the one with the Styrofoam skull in it.

“Oops! Wrong bowl!” I laughed at my joke. Pigtails did too, albeit nervously.

She selected a Twix bar from the second bowl I presented. Behind her, beyond the flaming tiki torches, I heard chatter emanating from the driveway.

“Do your friends want any candy?” I asked, hopeful.

“Um, they’re afraid of the clown,” Pigtails said.

We laughed. Carrying the bowl, I followed Pigtails past Bianca, past the plastic severed arm and past the steely-eyed plastic rat to deliver my treats. 

DNA results are in...

... and the most important thing you need to know is this: Matt is more Neanderthal than me.

My DNA contains 246 Neanderthal variants, more than 15 percent of 23andMe’s 1 million-plus customers, and my husband’s contains 259, more than 25 percent of customers.

“You are less Neanderthal than Matthew,” my online report states, bolding, this time, not mine.  I printed this part of the report and plan to frame it.

Sixty-thousand years ago, interbreeding between modern humans and knuckle draggers like Matt’s ancestors led to 4 percent Neanderthal DNA existing in certain populations today, according to 23andMe.

“Everyone living outside of Africa today has a small amount of Neanderthal in them, carried as a living relic of these ancient encounters,” according to National Geographic. “A team of scientists comparing the full genomes of the two species concluded that most Europeans and Asians have between 1 to 4 percent Neanderthal DNA.”

Bragging rights aside, the confirmed superiority of my bloodline is important thanks to Matt himself, who set himself up for deep disappointment and shame after we shared a recent dinner out with Kelsey.

This was post-purchasing the 23andMe kits but pre-spitting, and Kelsey proved almost as giddy about the prospects as Matt and I were.

“We’ll have an ethnicity reveal party like people have gender reveal parties,” she said as we strolled back to her house. “You give me the test results, and I’ll go buy little flags.”

And then Matt turned to me.

“You’re going to break their system,” he said. “They’re going to be, like, ‘This is the most Neanderthal person we’ve ever seen.”

Later, on the ride home: “Oh, you better hope you’re not more Neanderthal than me.”

(I know these quotes to be accurate because I make mental and written notes of many of the stupid stuff my family members say. As a journalist, it’s essentially, like, my job to do so. Plus, I read them back to Matt, and he said, “I said that? That’s funny!” And laughed.)

The morning of July 28, I received an email announcing my DNA results were viewable via my online account. Matt had already left for work, but I compared my results with his, revealed the night before. I snapped a photo of the most important bit, and promptly dispatched a text to the gang.

Matt responded first.

Matt: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!”

Jackie: “Very cool! Any surprises in the results?”

Matt: “Only that I’m somehow, in ways unimaginable by me, more caveman than Megan.”

I guess, if you think about it, another mildly important component of the reports and their comparison is the fact that I’m not my husband’s long-lost cousin – or sister (We don’t share any identical DNA segments). So that’s good news too.

Christmas -- 365 days a year

I noticed the lights within the first few weeks of moving to Cupertino. Then a gradual realization affirmed itself each time I walked my dog: Every fifth house in our new neighborhood featured a single strand of holiday lights dangling above the ubiquitous two-car garage door. And all the bulbs on all the icicles remained unlit whether I walked Wolfie during the day or well after dark. 

That first observation took place in early January. Yes, the winter holiday season had come and gone, but the festive spirit lingered, I surmised.

By February, our potty walk route had expanded, and we now passed a two-story split level showcasing a holiday wreath affixed to a gable.

Just a bunch of lazy folks who can’t be bothered to pack it all away, I thought. 

In March, I noted a 6-foot plastic pine prominently displayed in the bay window of a gray neo-eclectic.

Yikes, I thought. Someone ought to buy these folks a calendar. 

And then April. May, June. The lights and holiday decorations remained in place. 

Who are these people? I needed to know. Did the lights and décor signify Christmas or New Year’s or Kwanzaa or the Chinese New Year, or were my neighbors celebrating some kind of year-round holiday I knew nothing about? 

In July, the 1,800-square-foot midcentury across the street sold for $1.8 million. Did the sale price include the 2-foot plastic candy canes in the front yard? I wondered.

I broached the subject when conversation lulled at the neighborhood National Night Out potluck.

“I noticed every fifth house in this neighborhood has Christmas lights hanging above the garage,” I said. “Is that a ‘thing?’” 

“No, that’s not a ‘thing,’” said Mary Anne, the cardiac nurse. Her house, I knew, was strand-less, but her quick dismissal had me puzzled: What was she hiding?

I pointed out the offenders to Matt as we walked Wolfie together, to Kelsey as we rollerbladed and to my mom as we strolled to a nearby restaurant. They smiled politely, but seemed thankful when I stopped counting aloud. 

What Mom and Matt knew (and Kelsey would surely surmise) is I’m a Scrooge-ist when it comes to Christmas, the holiday most commonly associated with light strands. I resent the pressure, the hurry-up-and-purchase-expensive-junk-nobody-in-my-family-actually-needs mentality. I promptly vacate any shop that pipes Christmas tunes over the P.A. system. 

“Buy! Buy! Buy!” Mariah and Elvis and Ol’ Blue Eyes seem to chant. 

The slightest ding of a silver bell or mere coupling of red and green on any day of the year other than December 25 instantly splits the shirt on my back and turns my skin a shade of split pea soup. I like my seasons segregated -- so I can fully enjoy each one separately – and I don’t appreciate Christmas’ encroaching on my fall – or my summer. No occasion is special if it’s celebrated 365 days a year.

So yes, this blatant disregard for poor August vexes me to no end, and I will do my utmost to bring this disturbing trend to light (Ha, pun!) and save still-strandless neighborhoods like yours. Starting with this blog post.

To each her own

I recently reunited a friend with Justin Timberlake – or at least Justin Timberlake’s visage painted on a wine glass.

A friend of the friend had purchased matching Justin wine glasses on Etsy for the girls who attended her bachelorette party, and my friend left her own souvenir behind at my house, likely so as to torture me with Justin's intensely creepy stare. I returned it to her at a BBQ.

Justin's seen better days

“Why Justin Timberlake?” I asked. “I would have bought glasses with each person’s favorite celebrity crush.”

That got the table talking. My friend selected Michael B. Jordan from the film, “Creed.” Later, after she had time to think about it, she switched to Tina Fey.

“I think she’d inspire me in drunken moments,” she explained.

Another girl picked Beyoncé (BTW, did you know spellcheck will flag Beyoncé’s name when it’s missing the accent mark over the second “e?” Now that’s celebrity). These selections confused me because I thought we were supposed to pick hot dudes. Even more confusing was the fact my mind kept returning to Cary Grant. But I didn’t announce that. Instead, I silently brooded on selecting a more age-appropriate (not deceased, at least), alternative choice I could share aloud.

Clarity arrived via a co-worker’s text today:

“Celeb sighting at Pompeii,” she texted. “This guy from ‘Mindy Project’ who I happen to think is super-cute.”

She attached a photo of actor Chris Messina in his role as Dr. Danny Castellano.

“No way,” I replied. “Are you kidding me? When?! I love him!”

So Pete and I set out to verify and celebrity stalk. As nonchalantly as possible, I attempted to improve my mid-afternoon, half-asleep appearance, fluffing my frizzy hair and removing my frumpy sweater. And yes, as reported, Messina was standing outside the Italian restaurant. And he was just as dreamy-looking in person as he is on T.V. In fact, he looked like he had just stepped out of a television and onto our ever-so pedestrian sidewalk. He radiated from the background as if embossed. What ever was Dr. Danny doing in sleepy Los Altos?!

Chris Messina

As Pete and I continued our stroll toward Messina, I mentally rehearsed how I would request a group photo, a new Facebook profile image all my female friends would envy! Oh, glorious day! Should I address him as “Mr. Messina?” Or begin with a cliché, “I’m a big fan of your work?” But Messina was on the phone. I settled for locking eyes with him, smiling shyly and reddening all over. I think he may have smiled back.

I didn’t say anything until Pete and I entered the parking lot.

“So, was I taller than him?” I asked.

Pete confirmed I was. At least that was something.

Anyway, the point of this ridiculously sad celebrity-sighting story is to finally report back about my wine glass selection: Girls, I’ll take Chris Messina. Or Cary Grant.

The Amazon Prime Day deals I missed

I first learned about Amazon.com's "Prime Day" about a week ago. Curious to understand what all the fuss is about, I visited the website three hours before the promotion ended. Here's a sampling of the deals I missed:

Megan Winslow, Hair Stylist

I haven’t had the best luck with Bay Area hair stylists. My first, a Belmont-based girl with Rihanna-red hair, “concealed” my gray streak with a platinum blond, skunk-like stripe. I didn’t speak the same language as the Palo Alto stylist and thus communicated via hand signals and horrified facial expressions. The Campbell hairdresser cut an excellent bob, but she retired soon after our appointment to enter the lucrative wedding updo racket. And so, upon relocating to Cupertino, I decided to select my new stylist based on the most stringent criterion: her name.

I’m aware of self-described “woman of all trades” Realtor “Megan Winslow” who resides in Massachusetts and a Roald Dahl Fangirl “Megan Winslow” with the Pinterest boards of a wannabe foodie. A Piano Teacher “Mrs. Megan Winslow” lives in Oklahoma and a blue-eyed, overly pursed-lipped brunette masquerades as “Megan Winslow” on Twitter.  But I first learned of Hair Stylist “Megan Winslow” a few months ago when Googling my name for an article written by Journalist “Megan Winslow.” Turns out, my “Anti-Fart Juice” opus is outranked by the listing for a salon owner based in Cupertino. And she works less than a mile from my house.  For better or worse, I would trust her with my tresses.

My paramount concern was determining how to reveal myself to this woman, a stranger in all but name. If I booked my appointment by telephone, she might think me a prankster. If I scheduled through her online booking system, she’d think I was a confused dumbass. Ultimately, I decided to introduce myself in person. I would keep my driver’s license handy and flash it like a hall pass should she question my membership within the exclusive “Megan Winslow” club.

But Hair Stylist Megan Winslow operates her salon through one of those multi-business shopping center spaces and occupies her booth for scheduled appointments only. Twice I wandered into the building and scoped out her portion of the rental, but the lights were off and the door locked. I settled for pocketing one of her business cards.

Weeks went by. I kept Hair Stylist Megan Winslow’s business card in my wallet and amused myself by flashing it at confused friends and co-workers whenever conversation lagged. My hair grew scraggly, the gray streak even grayer.

Desperation set in, and I finally reconsidered the online scheduling route.

My appointment took place on a Saturday morning, and the building entrance was locked when I arrived, so I keyed Hair Stylist Megan Winslow’s booth number into the keypad.  And then she was there, blond and pretty. She was, I noted, several years younger than me – a slight irritant, but one that solidified my superior claim to the name.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Megan Winslow.”

She smiled.

“Oh good. I thought someone was confused about the scheduling system and mistakenly entered my name as the client.”

You mean, my name, I thought. But I shook her hand anyway.

Hair Stylist Megan Winslow and I spent my hour-long appointment comparing lives. She’s from Tracy and has a younger sister too – not, disappointingly, named Hailey. I told her about my childhood in Florida and confessed to yanking out the gray hairs assaulting my side part. Like any good hair stylist, she gently scolded me.

Hair Stylist Megan Winslow is getting married this month and plans to adopt her husband’s last name afterward.

“It will be weird,” she said. “I’ve always been Megan Winslow. I don’t know what it will feel like not being Megan Winslow.”

Traitor, thought part of me. The other part, the psycho, possessive bit, felt relief; Silicon Valley couldn’t possibly accommodate two Megan Winslows.

Anti-fart Juice

I snacked on some weeks-old watermelon today. I should have known better; the once-crisp chunks had started to collapse inward like melting pink icebergs, and the pale seeds wept from fleshy sockets. My stomach felt hard and distended within 10 minutes.

Naturally, the only remedy for my affliction was sipping Anti-Fart Juice from a horizontal position whilst moaning. I explained this to my roommate, Alicia, and once she stopped laughing, she asked about the contents of my mug. It is on her behalf that I now reveal my magic potion’s super-secret recipe:

ANTI-FART JUICE

Ingredients:

-1 tablespoon of chopped ginger (fresh is preferable to the graying, bought-this-for-stir-fry-weeks-ago-and-completely-forgot-about-it variety)

-1 squirt of lemon juice

-1 squeeze of honey

-Hot water

Instructions:

-Heat some water. Pour it into a mug

-Dump the lemon juice and honey into the mug

-Stir

-Place the ginger inside one of those metal, medieval torture device-looking tea ball thingies.

-Drop the teal ball thingy in the hot water. Seep

-Sip whilst horizontal and moaning

April Fool (Part III)

I rarely entertain visitors at work, but when I do, they tend to inquire about the row of empty toilet paper rolls affixed to the top of my cubicle. 

“That’s the Wall of Shame,” I’ll say. 

The follow-up explanation makes perfect sense: One of my female co-workers neglects (dare I say, “refuses?”) to toss and replace empty toilet paper rolls. And although I have my suspicions, I have yet to identify the perpetrator of this most egregious affront to human decency (I mean, within the realm of restroom-related calamities, is there anything worse than finding oneself stranded on a communal toilet bowl? The answer to that question, I can personally attest, is a resounding “no.”). So I erected the Wall of Shame to, well, shame the perp. 

I fully expected Human Resources (AKA, the publisher’s wife) would eventually notice my gauche social experiment and politely ask me to knock it off – quite literally -- but Liz has become my most dedicated roll collector. Over the course of approximately six months, she and other participating stall sleuths have collected 20 rolls. There’s a process: we scribble the date and time of the offense on the cardboard and then use Scotch tape to attach the roll to my cubicle.

My point in divulging this passive-aggressive pastime is to provide context for my decision to position Bianca on one of the two ladies’ restroom toilet seats with a sign reading, “I SAW YOU. You didn’t toss that empty toilet paper roll. Shame.”

Bianca and I arrived at the office at 8 a.m. on Friday, April 1, before all but Victim No. 2, who was finishing up some work. I had figured a naked Bianca might be a tad too risqué for a newspaper setting – even on Casual Friday -- so the female form I smuggled into the building arrived fully clothed in jeans and a blouse, my hand-me-downs. She was in position on the first stall toilet seat by 8:25 a.m.

Victim No. 2 did not fully condone my plan. She helped me collect Bianca’s bits when both arms dislocated and clattered to the ground, but I could tell she was nervous about my prank upsetting Liz or, much worse, causing one of the more senior employees to drop dead of a heart attack. I appreciated that; my cubicle offered a clear line of sight to the restroom doors, and I assured Victim No. 2 of my ability to wrestle any old lady to the ground should she attempt to enter.

By 9 a.m., all employees had arrived. I went about my work but always with one eye on the restroom door and the videocamera within easy reach on my desk. Each time someone drew near that door, I activated the camera and bobbed up and down and up and down to peer over the Wall of Shame. But no one entered. No one within the sea of estrogen that is that office had to pee! No one, that is, except me, and I wasn’t about to abandon my sentry and miss recording the first victim’s reaction as she emerged, horror-stricken, from the restroom. By 9:30 a.m., I was crossing and uncrossing my legs and jiggling the alternating suspended foot. Pete was now in on the joke, and he and Victim No. 2 were thoroughly amused by my jack-in-the-box bouncing.

“This is killing me!” I texted them.

“We must have a lot of big bladders in this office,” Pete texted.

“Seriously,” texted Victim No. 2. “Just wait until the coffee kicks in…”

And then J.T. entered the restroom. I activated the camera and sprang from my seat. I took up position between Chris and Mary’s desks and trained the lens on the door. And waited for the scream. And waited. And waited.

Finally, J.T. emerged. She looked at me and looked at the camera, but she didn’t say a word. Her face, in fact, was blank, void of surprise or suspicion or annoyance. She returned to her desk. I returned to mine and exchanged looks of confusion with Pete and Victim No. 2.

Was it possible J.T. hadn’t seen Bianca? I found this unlikely because I had left Bianca’s stall door ajar and the vanity mirror reflected her perpetually serene visage throughout the small room. 

I investigated. Yes, stall still open. Yes, creepy face still reflected in the mirror. Huh. Pete suggested I attach an “Out of Order” sign to the remaining stall door, thus forcing victims to confront the interloper. So I did. And we waited. And waited. 

“We need one of those nature sound machines that plays the sound of a running stream,” Pete texted. “Hope no one gives Bianca a swirlie!”

“Man, I have heartburn again from all this anticipation,” I responded.

At one point, an elderly employee did venture close enough to the restroom door for me to seriously consider tackling her – or at least cutting her off at the pass – but she returned from her trip to the copy machine unscathed. And then Leverne stepped inside the restroom. She emerged 10 seconds later.

“MEGAN!” she shouted. 

It would take another bathroom visit from J.T. – and her resounding scream – before the entire office became aware of our visitor. And then both men and women clustered and crammed into the ladies’ restroom to behold Bianca and snap her picture. The onlookers included the newspaper's editor-in-chief, the associate publisher and Liz. The publisher, Paul, entered holding his nose.

J.T., it turns out, had not seen Bianca on her first bathroom break, and the fact that my recording her exit confused but didn’t phase her should provide some indication of the degree of weird my co-workers associate with me.

Liz approached my desk once the excitement died down.

“Can you come with me?” she said, putting an arm around my shoulders.

Uh-oh. I glanced at Victim No. 2. Now I too was genuinely nervous. 

I allowed Human Resources to escort me past the reception area and halfway down the office stairs. Then she paused and turned me around. We ascended the stairs.

“Hello,” said a voice from behind the receptionist’s desk. “How can I help you?”

Bianca was seated in the receptionist’s chair and Dawn, in the cubicle behind the receptionist’s station, was using the phone intercom to provide her with a voice. I laughed and watched, dumbfounded, as Liz snapped a photo of Bianca. Despite the heartburn, anxiety and near bladder rupture suffered by poor Victim No. 5 (me) -- that unexpected appreciation for silly made this year’s shenanigans all worthwhile.