Farewell, Outlook. I will miss your tidy folders

I'm sorry, Outlook, but it just isn't going to work out between us. There's someone else, you see.

I know this might be unexpected, but if you'd paid attention you might have seen it coming. For a while, a long while, you were it for my work email. We were thrown together by IT, and we forged quite a partnership.

I confess that your facelift a couple of years ago took a little getting used to—your inbox entries were harder to read, and I sorely missed the way you used to separate emails by day and week. But I am not a shallow person. I soon learned to appreciate this new version of you over the old, even during that little rough patch there trying to negotiate your calendar and schedule meetings. No big deal that my personal calendar entries could be seen by pretty much everyone for a while, right?

But then there were the chronic viruses. Back doors not secure. You blamed me for not protecting you adequately, and perhaps I could have done more. But really, you could have gone for help sooner. In fact, you should have been on a prevention plan. We could have avoided so much misunderstanding.

I know you blame me for leaving, but I tried to make it work. I really did. But IT was pressuring all the staff to throw their allegiance to Gmail. With its seemingly unlimited storage, who could blame them? You just couldn't deal with all the stuff I needed to store. Still, I was determined not to abandon you. You were professional. A gentleman. Gmail was...common. Cocky. Too familiar. I stuck with you for weeks. Do you remember?

For a time I tried to give you both attention. I know this made you jealous. I guess I would have felt the same. But then you started with the temper tantrums. The drama. Crashing for no reason, multiple times a day. You wouldn't even let me talk to you. Fine. It was so exhausting trying to keep up with your mood swings, I didn't really want to talk either.

You really gave me no choice. I had to move on, find someone to keep me organized, juggle my appointment reminders and goals and tasks. Gmail was there with open arms. I even learned to understand—sort of—the foreign language of labels, not the folders you and I used to communicate with.

I tried to check on you a few times. I did. But you shut me out.

And then one day out of the blue you showed up, acting as if nothing had happened. You showered me with attention and reminders of what we once shared (“Meeting with Lois B. Monday, 2:00,” “12:30 Chili cook-off for staff!” “Edits due to Creative Services”). Sadly, these were tired and old reminders. Gmail never brings up the past—only the bright future. It makes sure I get where I need to be, when I need to be there.

And right now, that is at a Spirit Committee meeting (11:30, Gmail tells me), planning a staff taco lunch. Good luck! I wish you well.

P.S. I really miss having folders to sort my mail into. Please don't tell Gmail.

Addition of the Simple Human

When we hosted an Easter meal for several guests recently, we figured we should probably decorate in some fashion. But Martha was unavailable for the occasion,* so we were left to our own devices.**

We therefore carefully arranged some simple table decorations (Flowers. Old milk bottles. Tap water.) and some brightly colored cloth napkins strewn here and there. As it turned out, however, these decorations were not what caught our guests’ attention, appreciative though they seemed to be of our efforts.  

The star attraction turned out to be our new Simple Human Stainless Steel Rectangular Step Can (with Liner), purchased just the day before to replace our old kitchen trash can, the victim of an unfortunate incident that left the lid standing at permanent attention.

Amid all his other duties to get ready for our guests (e.g., making new holes in a wall somewhere in the house), the Hero had frantically searched nearby stores for a replacement trash can that in our small home had to meet the following requirements:

• Fit into the tiny space between the counter and pantry (thereby disqualifying anything of a round shape).
• Be so positioned as to allows scraps to be thrown or scooped off the end of the counter directly into the trash can.
• Not bang into the wall when opened. (Here the Hero’s advanced math knowledge came in handy, as numerous calculations were required to ascertain the maximum potential height, depth, width, and swing arc of the new trash can.)
• Operate more or less soundlessly.
• Blend in with the surrounding appliances and furnishings.
• Not trip any passersby, either with malicious or benign intent.

Can #1, which the Hero brought home two days before our guests would arrive, failed miserably at bullet points 3 and 4. We suspected it might also fail at bullet 6, although we did not let the can stick around long enough to prove or disprove this. Several other cans failed their preliminary test right at the store. The Hero texted photo after photo to me, on which I gave various commentaries—too small, too big, looks too eerily like a robot. We were getting a little desperate.

But finally he returned and set up the Simple Human can. We stared at it. It met every bullet so perfectly, it could have been made for us. It was foot operated and closed automatically. It was attractive. Sleek. Stylish. Studies have shown that baby creatures of pretty much all species are universally considered to be cute. It turns out that the same is true of trash cans.

The Simple Human can seemed . . . polite, even. We half-expected it might talk to us (“Thank you for this opportunity to join your household. How might I be of service?”). We wondered how we had ever gotten along without it.

In the rush of getting the meal ready on Easter, we didn't think much about the can. But as each guest came in, we were greeted with “Hi, how are you? . . . Oooooo!” and over they went to inspect the trash can. At any one time there was a small crowd gathered around it, stepping on the pedal, watching the lid open, then watching it close soundlessly by itself. Soon that crowd would drift and another would form. We could have sold tickets. We all saved our trash and threw it away one item at a time, just so we could have more opportunities to go through the process again and again.

One husband admitted wistfully, with a reproachful look at his wife, “She won't let us get a step can.”

“We don't have room,” she said in exasperation, in what was obviously a long-running disagreement.

I sympathized, and gave the can a little pat on the top when no one was looking. “I’m glad we have room for you,”  I said.

_____

*So was Ina, which was probably just as well. She would have wanted to arrange the table several weeks in advance, leaving nowhere for us to eat our daily meals but in the laundry room.

**Not good.

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