Prelude to a mother-in-law's visit

In a few short hours, my mother-in-law will be arriving for a weekend visit.

This will be her first time in our house since 2002. We're hardly estranged from the in-laws - we talk on the phone regularly, and Sam and I have made a handful of trips to Minnesota in the meantime. But this weekend is Sam's mother's first visit to Reno since our wedding three and a half years ago.

I'm terrified.

I've talked to a lot of people who seem puzzled by my demeanor. She's not, in her own right, scary in any way. My mother-in-law is a very nice woman, "terrific" if we're speaking Minnesotan. She's a grade school teacher, a liberal intellectual, and a fantastic cook. And I'm fairly certain that her opinion of me is pretty positive and well-formed.

The Grilled Cheese Chronicles

At 11:00 on Monday, it hit me. Hard. It was overwhelming.

I needed a grilled cheese sandwich.

I was at work, and I couldn't think of a place to procure said sandwich. I instant-messaged my husband, bemoaning the fact that even going home for lunch wouldn't fulfill my needs, since our house lacked bread of the non-doorstop variety.

Resourceful guy that he is, Sam immediately responded with an idea.

"Go across the street to Target... Buy some bread, some cheese, and a sandwich maker. Make yourself a grilled cheese at work."

It was brilliant.

For some reason I felt embarrassed about undertaking such a complex lunch mission on my own, so I turned to Heather, my coworker, friend, and partner in cheese. She didn't let me down.

Another teammate learned of our mission and asked to join. The three of us set forth in search of ingredients and equipment.

Sure enough, we found everything we needed at Target, including a handsome little $10 grilling apparatus that boldly called itself the Snackmaster. We returned to the office, set up a sandwich assembly line, and prepared a hearty, office-made lunch while intriguing passersby.

When all was said and done, it was a tasty lunch and a fun diversion from the tax research procedures I was supposed to be working on.

This morning, one of my coworkers stopped me to voice a concern.

"You left your sandwich maker in the break room," she said.

"I know," I responded. "I figured we could make sandwiches again sometime, or maybe someone else can use it."

"Are you crazy? Someone's going to steal that thing if you don't take it home."

A few others piped in, backing her up.

"It'll be gone by the end of the week," another teammate said.

"You should at least keep it at your desk."

"No, people will take it off your desk. You should put it in your desk."

Fake Plastic Coins

Like so many other work projects, it started with a bang and ended with a barely audible sputter.

Just over a year ago, I started my mission to bring behavior-based recognition to my workplace.

I feel compelled to tell the story here, because I'm trying to figure out what went right and what went wrong, and because I haven't given up yet. Someday, I hope to write a book about employee motivation, and I imagine a version of this experience will be included.

From the prisoner aisle to the snack cakes

I can't believe I'm losing weight in the season of Easter candy.

It's actually the tail end of the six month Candy Corridor, when you can't enter a grocery store without being assaulted by chocolate.

The assault begins in early fall with the fun-sized Snickers bars and marshmallow pumpkins of Halloween, which give way to the festive candies of Christmas, which subside to romantic Valentine's Day chocolates, which melt into the chocolate bunnies and pastel eggs of Easter.

Gonna have to face it, I'm addicted to snooze.

I love to sleep. I don't just appreciate it in that passive, I-prefer-to-feel-well-rested-than-tired way. It's something I actively enjoy, an indulgence of sensory delight and pleasure, an activity to be entered into with joy and enthusiasm.

Even though I got plenty of sleep last night, I would jump at the opportunity to go home right now, curl up with my down comforter, body pillow, and cat (although that's entirely on her terms), and nap into the afternoon. It would feel so good...

The only downside is, I know exactly how that scenario would end.

I would wake up in the dark, disoriented, thirsty, and possibly drooling. The cat would have ferociously staked out some improbable real estate on my back, pinning me into an awkward position and responding with an annoyed meow and some claw-digging if I tried to move her. I would reach for the alarm clock to determine what time it was, clumsily knock over a bottle of water, see that it was 5:30, and try to figure out which 5:30 it was.

The MBA Blues

I'm in kind of a bummer of a mood today. To keep this blog from being a complete and total downer, I figured I would throw in some random Internet photos to lighten things up.

Last year, at this time, I was spending most of my time here:


This glorious feat of postmodern architecture is the business building at UNR. Last spring, I was spending a minimum of four evenings a week inside its walls, studying to be a businesswoman.

There's no "i" in volunteer work, but you'd be surprised.

In high school, I was one of those overachievers who couldn't make a sandwich without thinking about how it would look on my college applications. I joined everything from chamber orchestra to environmental club in my attempt to look well-rounded, stopping just short of playing sports (even I had my limits).

Volunteer work was a big plus in the world of competitive college admissions. I wanted schools to know that I was not only smart and competitive, but had a soul as well.

Instead of just venturing out into the world looking for people who needed me, I found a club at school that would not only help me find projects, they also kept track of my hours, gave me certificates of completion, and happily vouched for my volunteerism on college and scholarship applications.

And that's when I discovered the world of community self-service.

By the time I'm a parent, they'll sell class rings at daycare.

It all started with an innocent lunchtime conversation among coworkers.

"I have to go pay for my son's cap and gown," one of my colleagues said, casually recalling her to-do list.

"Wait a minute," I interrupted. "Is your son even in school yet?"

"He's graduating from kindergarten this spring."

I don't have children, so it took me a minute to put all the words together and realize she was being serious. My other coworkers, all mothers with children of various ages, piped in to confirm that yes, it was perfectly common in this day and age to slap a mortar board on the head of a five-year-old, play "Pomp and Circumstance," and hand him or her a "diploma" that the "graduate" could not reasonably be expected to read.

Someday, my daughter will write blogs about me, too.

If I don't call my mom at any other point in the week, I call her on Tuesday nights. She lives in Fargo, I live in Reno, so the phone is our only method of communication. I've tried to introduce her to computers, but her friend Heinz convinced her that the Internet is a steaming cesspool of scam artists out to steal the identities and money of old people.

Anyway. Heinz is a topic all his own.

The dialogue that follows is translated from Polish, so I apologize that the wording is a little imprecise.

Send me your worst, Mother Nature!

I love a good storm.

I'm not just saying this because today, I get to procrastinate at home instead of in a cubicle across town.

I've been waiting eagerly for this storm, ever since it was spotted off the coast of California a few days ago. I felt like a child awaiting Christmas.

Storms help me relax. I am one of those lame people who hardly ever takes a vacation day and never gets sick. And even if I do, I still check my e-mail, just in case I missed something interesting. I know, I'm a dork. Even on weekends, I usually stay home, but I always feel guilty about the things I am not doing. Desperately needed shopping trips. Overdue oil changes. Christmas lights still hanging in March.