For quite awhile now I've been on a mission to find a good sign-off to emails and other such written correspondences. To me, the sign-off is really important. It says something about the sender and reaffirms the tone of the letter. For example, whenever writing letters expressing my displeasure with something like the DC Traffic Division for issuing parking tickets erroneously or to the cleaning service I hired via Groupon that cleaned approximately 1/18th of my house and left the rest untouched, I always sign it "Regards, Alise." Regards is a little standoffish and says: "I am none to happy about this and I mean business and not the nice kind of business that would be implied with a "sincerely" or "cordially. No, no, just regards." At least, this is what I'm hoping it says. And I can't say for certain but I'm pretty sure "regards" was convincing enough to get me out of quite a few parking tickets back in the day. And Groupon was extremely apologetic about the non-cleaning cleaning service. So now you know: if you receive a note from me signed "Regards, Alise," you've poked the wasp's nest, my friend.
Aside from the occasional "regards" emails/letter, I've exclusively been a "Thanks, Alise" kind of signer-off'er but that doesn't always work either. Let's say I'm just looking to arrange a playdate or passing along a link to some online video that is mildly amusing (like this one: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X3iFhLdWjqc), "Thanks, Alise" just doesn't seem fitting. Or what about if I am writing to congratulate someone about something awesome like a promotion or a baby and I'm friends with this person but not friendly enough to sign-off "Love, Alise" but "Thanks, Alise" doesn't really work there either. A side note: I knew of a person once who signed all work-related emails with "Love." All work emails. Even to the boss. As in:
Dear Bossman,
I was hoping to meet with you today regarding the project you asked me to complete this morning. I am looking for a little more guidance. Please let me know when you have a few moments to discuss.
Love,
Libby
Whenever I think of Libby (not her real name), I always think of her as Love Libby and I will think of her that way until the day I die. Or the day I stop thinking of her, whichever comes first. Oh, I also met with a gentleman in a professional capacity to discuss some media strategies and he sent me an email afterward and signed it: BLESSINGS, Jon. Why would he yell "blessings" at me? That seems like something you'd whisper or speak in an "inside voice." Nope, Jon yelled his blessings at me and I'm not sure I can forgive him.
Back to the subject at hand...I've been trying out a few other sign-offs like "Best, Alise" but what does that mean? Best what? Wishing you the best? I'm the best? Do your best? I'm just not feeling it. "Cordially" just sounds too cordial and "sincerely" sounds really intimate. Don't even get me started on "fondly." "Affectionately" goes in the same basket as fondly. "Warmly" reminds me of a public hot tub and I am repulsed by public hot tubs. And I can't use "kind regards" because we all know my regards are not kind. "Kindly" might be okay...when I'm 78. "Cheers" is too British. "Yours truly" sounds possessive. What am I left with? Later? Honorably? Devotedly? Assuredly? No. No. No and no.
Maybe "thanks, Alise" is truly the best option until I need to whip out a regards and put the hurt on someone. Until then...
Still in Kansas,
Alise
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Circle of Life
I haven't posted for quite awhile and I apologize for denying all three of you a reason to giggle these past few months. Something about having a second child makes time speed up and precious moments in front of a computer are rare. I know, I know, excuses get you nowhere so I'm going to carpe minutam and share with you a story I'm not especially proud of but I'll tell you anyway because I'm feeling generous and reinforces the fact that I can still be stone cold when I need to be (in my previous professional life I had to deal with reporters and politicans all day long so I had to develop a heart of stone even if I did occasionally cry at JIF commercials...c'mon...the one where the girl goes to college and her mom packed a jar of JIF extra crunchy peanut butter in her bag?!?! How can you not well up?!).
Soooooo...it was Easter Sunday and we did what everyone else does on Easter Sunday: an Easter egg hunt in the backyard and searching for Easter baskets. It was exhausting so we put the eldest nugget down for an early nap and I began tidying up our living space when I noticed some movement on the concrete slab in our backyard. I went to the backdoor to check it out and discovered a squirrel with a definite hitch in his giddy-up laying facedown on the concrete. I couldn't tell from my vantage point what was wrong with the squirrel but he did not look good. I thought maybe he fell from a tree and had been momentarily rendered unconscious and when he came to he'd scamper off the way squirrels do. I left him to it and went on about my business. A little later I looked outside and he was gone...or so I thought.
A few hours later I noticed more movement in the backyard and it was that danged squirrel again. This time he really looked like he was in a bad way and I actually felt bad for him. I know this may stun you since I have absolutly zero cuddly feelings towards most animals. What can I say? I grew up on a farm. A poultry farm to be exact and from a very early age, my parents taught us kids how to identify the sick chickens and how to relieve them of their earthy burdens of breathing. We learned that animals come and go and it is all part of the circle of life. Granted, when I was seven and accompanied my father to the butcher with our Holstein cow my little sister and I named Gem (after the rockin' cartoon character, of course. What else would you name a cow?) I'm not quite sure I understood that we were taking Gem to meet her maker and she would eventually become our dinner but I was a quick study. Oh, Gem! You were a good cow. RIP.
Back to this squirrel: I could tell it was suffering and I don't like to see anything suffer so I went to find the Husband to ask him to do something about it. When I presented the situation to my Husband and explained that I needed him to go "take care" of the squirrel in the backyard he asked me exactly what I meant by "take care" of it. Anyone who grew up in rural America knows exactly what I meant by that but because my husband grew up in the city I had to put it in terms he could relate to: I told him that I'd basically just ordered a hit on a half-dead squirrel. The Husband informed me he didn't think he was capable of taking the squirrel's life. It became abundantly clear that if I wanted the squirrel problem taken care of, I was going to have to do it myself.
So, I set out into the backyard with a shovel and a white plastic trashbag (I would later learn this was a poor decision). I told the Husband to keep the children away from the windows because I did not want them to see what their mother was capable of and he obilged. Once in the backyard I wondered what my neighbors were going to think of me weilding a shovel over my head to take out a squirrel but upon further inspection of the squirrel, it was clear he was not going to recover so I did what I needed to do and sent him to squirrel heaven. What does one do with the remains of a murdered squirrel (although I attest that it was a mercy killing...that defense holds up in court, right?) in suburbia? Had this happened on the farm, my dad would have thrown it on the compost pile with the dead chickens or tossed it into the woods to decompose but I don't have a compost pile and the "woods" are my neighbor's yard and tossing squirrel remains into your neighbor's yard doesn't seem very neighborly. And I couldn't just leave it there. I grabbed the trashbag and shoveled the squirrel into the trashbag. Let's just say that if I ever have to clear out a crime scene, I will not be using white trashbags. There was no denying the contents of the trashbag or the crime that had just been committeed. I ended up tying up the bag and putting it in our trashcan. Our trash pickup is on Friday. It was Sunday. I assure you that by week's end the smell coming from that trashcan was unholy. Three months later, I cannot open the trashcan without gagging and everytime I do, I curse that darn squirrel.
Soooooo...it was Easter Sunday and we did what everyone else does on Easter Sunday: an Easter egg hunt in the backyard and searching for Easter baskets. It was exhausting so we put the eldest nugget down for an early nap and I began tidying up our living space when I noticed some movement on the concrete slab in our backyard. I went to the backdoor to check it out and discovered a squirrel with a definite hitch in his giddy-up laying facedown on the concrete. I couldn't tell from my vantage point what was wrong with the squirrel but he did not look good. I thought maybe he fell from a tree and had been momentarily rendered unconscious and when he came to he'd scamper off the way squirrels do. I left him to it and went on about my business. A little later I looked outside and he was gone...or so I thought.
A few hours later I noticed more movement in the backyard and it was that danged squirrel again. This time he really looked like he was in a bad way and I actually felt bad for him. I know this may stun you since I have absolutly zero cuddly feelings towards most animals. What can I say? I grew up on a farm. A poultry farm to be exact and from a very early age, my parents taught us kids how to identify the sick chickens and how to relieve them of their earthy burdens of breathing. We learned that animals come and go and it is all part of the circle of life. Granted, when I was seven and accompanied my father to the butcher with our Holstein cow my little sister and I named Gem (after the rockin' cartoon character, of course. What else would you name a cow?) I'm not quite sure I understood that we were taking Gem to meet her maker and she would eventually become our dinner but I was a quick study. Oh, Gem! You were a good cow. RIP.
Back to this squirrel: I could tell it was suffering and I don't like to see anything suffer so I went to find the Husband to ask him to do something about it. When I presented the situation to my Husband and explained that I needed him to go "take care" of the squirrel in the backyard he asked me exactly what I meant by "take care" of it. Anyone who grew up in rural America knows exactly what I meant by that but because my husband grew up in the city I had to put it in terms he could relate to: I told him that I'd basically just ordered a hit on a half-dead squirrel. The Husband informed me he didn't think he was capable of taking the squirrel's life. It became abundantly clear that if I wanted the squirrel problem taken care of, I was going to have to do it myself.
So, I set out into the backyard with a shovel and a white plastic trashbag (I would later learn this was a poor decision). I told the Husband to keep the children away from the windows because I did not want them to see what their mother was capable of and he obilged. Once in the backyard I wondered what my neighbors were going to think of me weilding a shovel over my head to take out a squirrel but upon further inspection of the squirrel, it was clear he was not going to recover so I did what I needed to do and sent him to squirrel heaven. What does one do with the remains of a murdered squirrel (although I attest that it was a mercy killing...that defense holds up in court, right?) in suburbia? Had this happened on the farm, my dad would have thrown it on the compost pile with the dead chickens or tossed it into the woods to decompose but I don't have a compost pile and the "woods" are my neighbor's yard and tossing squirrel remains into your neighbor's yard doesn't seem very neighborly. And I couldn't just leave it there. I grabbed the trashbag and shoveled the squirrel into the trashbag. Let's just say that if I ever have to clear out a crime scene, I will not be using white trashbags. There was no denying the contents of the trashbag or the crime that had just been committeed. I ended up tying up the bag and putting it in our trashcan. Our trash pickup is on Friday. It was Sunday. I assure you that by week's end the smell coming from that trashcan was unholy. Three months later, I cannot open the trashcan without gagging and everytime I do, I curse that darn squirrel.
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