NATIONAL IRE SERVICE

Some mornings, J gives Iris and me a ride downtown, and we pass this warehouse with a T missing from its sign. Lately I feel like I have stopped in and topped off my tank on the way to work. It's been a rough, roller-coasterish couple of weeks at the office. Months, in fact. Maybe we should find a new route, one that goes past Contentment Discounters or the Have a Nice Day Café (no, wait, that closed). But then I'd probably be late, causing my boss and coworkers to dispense more ire and you know what? I'd rather just get it from the pros.

On the brighter side of this long and labored consumer metaphor, a side that is not actually metaphorical, Marijke and I went to H&M and found cute pants. That fit. Adding to my delusional (or is it?) conviction that life would be sweet in Sweden. There's no National Ire Service there. It's been regulated right out of existence by benevolent bureaucrats in flatteringly-tailored trousers.