Dusty Records

I was rummaging around in the attic of the county courthouse and ran across a tax register for our area that pre-dates statehood. The people in the book are long dead. The hand that wrote the entries has been stilled.

People just don't write like that anymore.

Cookies

We've got a problem at work. We keep goodies in common in the kitchen including a plastic container of assorted cookies. I, being a trained investigator, am noticing a problem.

All of the light-colored cookies are being picked before the dark colored cookies. Now I don't want to point a finger at my co-workers, but I know that I'm an equal opportunity cookie eater. I think we might need to institute a program to combat the apparent cookieism that's going on here.

School

Back in January I returned to school. It had been over twenty years since I'd sat in a college classroom. Times have changed.

This is one of my rooms. I'm the only student at my physical location. I'm connected via the internet with another dozen students at five or six sites with the professor. I've got a microphone and a camera pointing at me. I participate.

And I've learned that I can still make an ass of myself.

Voicemail

I didn't ask for it. In fact, I was asked about it and I said I preferred to not have it. Just take a message. Scribble me a note. But someone forced it upon me. Voicemail at work, with the new phone system.

I don't know how to run it. The gorram phone told me my password had expired and won't let me into the system. So people are being sent to my voicemail box and are leaving stuff there and I can't get to it.

I hope it fills up quickly and breaks.

A Sign of Holiness

I've never understood the predilection of my countrymen (because certainly no woman would display such a lack of sense) for shooting signs. Don't they know that bullets go places after penetrating the thin metal?

On the other hand . . .

What if it's the tourists?