Folks, I did it. After weeks and months of complaining about how much e-mail I get, I have achieved inbox zero.

It feels good.

Could someone please explain to me why I’m here:

instead of here:

My co-workers and I call the guy who delivers our mail “sweaty mail guy.”

Not to his face.

And yes, I know it’s mean.

But he’s really sweaty.

For the second day in a row, I’ve pulled into a parking space at work to find a person sitting in the car next to me.

“Well, that’s not so strange,” you say.

You’re right, it’s not. I get to work around 8:30 AM, and so do hundreds of other people in my building.

The difference is that these people are just sitting in their cars. The cars are running … they’re not on the phone, maybe they’re listening to the radio or whatever, but they’re not in the process of getting their things together and getting out of the car.

I find this odd.

Did you ever have one of those days where you just woke up, and for whatever reason, just felt cranky?

I slept okay.

Nothing happened.

I’m just … annoyed. Irritated? Angry?

(I’m sure other people have these mornings too.)

And I spent the 45 minutes of my drive to Somers telling myself to either figure out what was making me angry, find a reason to be happy and pleasant despite feeling annoyed, or (ideally) both.

No such luck.

Almost everyone I know is sick or has been sick in the past two weeks.

I’ve heard of the cold, the flu, the stomach virus … eww.

Since last weekend, I’ve been sniffly and sneezy and sore-throaty myself. Paul’s a little sniffly too, but swears he does not have a cold.

I think I’m almost done with mine though; I can actually speak for more than five minutes today without losing my voice.

So now of course it’s Luis’s turn. He woke up this morning not feeling too well, and I’m pretty sure he’s got the stomach variety. I just brought him some tea, and he’s napping in bed trying not to throw up.

It’s time for spring.

When I was a kid, whenever I left the house, my Dad would tell me to “be careful.”

As a teenager, it really annoyed me. I was responsible … I came home on time, I didn’t drink, I hung around with nice kids. Sure, I wasn’t perfect, and I got away with plenty under the guise of being “a good kid,” but why did he always assume I wasn’t being careful?

Lately, I’ve caught myself saying the same thing to people. It sort of snuck up on me; it took different forms in different situations in an attempt to disguise itself.

“Drive carefully.”

“Get home safe!”

“Safe trip.”

“Be careful; the weather’s bad.”

In retrospect, I realize it wasn’t that my Dad thought I wasn’t going to be careful. It was really just his way of saying that he cared, that it mattered to him that I’d get home safely.

I wish we could be more direct with people. Instead of hiding behind words like, “be careful,” why don’t we just say, “you’re important to me”? Or even tread on the most dangerous, vulnerable ground: “I love you.” (Nonetheless, I’m grateful to my Dad for finding his way to let me know he cared.)

Too many times, we never get to say those words the last time. We’re left with regret about the things we didn’t say because we waited for the right time, the right place, the perfect moment.

The perfect moment is now, today. If you care about someone, take a moment to let that person know. Let it take whatever shape feels right for you, but make sure the message is received.

I love you. You’re important to me. Be careful.

Have you seen these “Happy cows” commercials from the California Milk Advisory Board?

It’s got to be one of the best advertising campaigns I’ve seen in a long time. No matter what kind of mood I’m in, these commercials make me laugh. I will stop Tivo in its tracks to run back for a happy cows commercial.

They have all the commercials and bloopers on their web site. I love it. I’ve been laughing for the last ten minutes straight.

I can’t decide which one is my favorite!

I’m on my way into the city this morning for a fun-filled day of meetings. I’m excited about it, primarily because I haven’t seen Kelly in forever and we’re going to have some drinks after work.

But honey, it ain’t easy.

I got up extra early this morning (5:30, to be exact) to make sure I could be ready to go a few minutes before seven.

I was right on track … nice hot shower, dressed sharply, well fed (bagel with 1/3 less fat cream cheese and a glass of pineapple juice, thanks to Paul), and out the door!

The roads were clear and smooth, and I pulled into the parking lot at the Metro North New Hamburg station with about five minutes to park and get to the platform. (It’s the same distance from my house as the Poughkeepsie station, but because it’s further south it means I can spend ten fewer minutes on the train each way, and that’s a good thing.)

There were no parking spots!

Absolutely no metered spots available. Miles and miles of empty permit spots, but of course I don’t have a permit … it’s not like I schlep to NYC every day.

I drove around, checked each nook and cranny of that stupid lot, and generally expressed my exasperation in healthy and appropriate ways.

And then I called Paul, who surely would be able to fix this for me. (After all, he is my fixer, right?)

He said, “just park in the permit spots, and if you get a ticket we’ll worry about it later.”

Okay, but seriously, I shouldn’t have to. (This is where reality and I part, graciously.)  They should clear the snow out of the fifteen parking spots that are covered. I mean folks, it’s only 7:15 in the morning, and every spot is gone?

Oh, and Allright Parking is really not all right. It’s not good. It’s downright bad. I called them four times trying to see what to do, and three of those times, they hung up on me. The fourth time, I managed to speak with the lovely Christine. Her talent, charm and skill were evident from the moment she answered … I mean, folks, this is a woman who loves her job. She said, “Go to the next station. We can’t do anything about snow. Tickets are $12-25, depending on how many tickets you’ve had before.” Um, thanks. So I can drive down to Beacon and miss the next train too? No, thanks.

I left a nice note on my dashboard in the hopes that the MTA police don’t ticket me. Pretty please?

Kelly, have that drink ready pronto.

For years, my dad and I have been collecting coins. By that, I mean that my dad buys them, gives them to me as gifts, and I catalog them in books.

I enjoy this. It’s cool to see all the new coins coming out, and it’s a nice link between my dad and me … it gives us something to talk about.

We’ve had a lot of success with the state quarter series, and so when the Presidential $1 coin series launched in 2007, my dad didn’t skip a beat.

For Christmas, I got a book, and six dollars: the Philadelphia and Denver minting of Presidents Washington, Adams and Jefferson.

So what does this have to do with Jimmy Carter?

As I read up on this, I learned (unsurprisingly), that in order to be honored, each President must predecease his minting date by at least two years.

This doesn’t really represent a problem for the first 38 presidents; #38 is President Gerald Ford, whose coin will be minted in 2016, at which time he’ll have been dead nearly ten years.

President Carter (#39), however, is also due to have his coin debut in 2016, which means he’ll have to die by 2014. Okay, yes, he is 83 years old today, which would mean that in 2014 he turns 90. But I’m just saying, it’s not very nice to plan for the guy’s death just so he can have a dollar coin with his face stamped onto it.

I mean, either way he’s screwed … if he doesn’t die, it’ll take an Act of Congress to get his coin made. If he does die, well … he’s dead.