This morning I celebrated my return to the office with the creamy, nutty wonderfulness that is Ferrero Rocher.

It does not mean "feral roach," as my husband tried to convince me. That was an attempt on his part to get me to stop eating the little goodies and leave some for him. Do not be fooled by such lies.

So I left home with an apple, an orange, a Luna bar, a mug of coffee, and three beautiful, gold-wrapped Ferrero Rocher from the gift box given to us by a close friend. These would be compensation for each of the healthy foods I planned to eat throughout the day. These would help ease the transition from holiday binging back to healthful, sensible eating. They would make me forget that I am but one of a few stragglers left in my office without any remaining vacation time to take during this three-day work span sandwiched between two four-day weekends.

Nestled snug within my purse, they assured me that they would hold my hand through this unpleasant Monday. At periodic intervals, they would emerge and reward my perseverance with soothing chocolate.

It is 9:17 a.m. and I have eaten them.

And the Luna bar is growing uncomfortable with the way I keep feeling its wrapper to discern whether it contains a chocolate-like coating.

I stand out today because I am wearing brand-new black jeans.

The last time I wore new black jeans to work was in August 2000. They were very, very black. The next time I wore them was a week later, after I'd washed them. They had emerged from the laundry somewhat less black, betraying a few faded streaks and creases. In fact, after a few more washes I began to worry that I resembled the shaft end of a before-and-after colorfastness experiment.

Here is a random list of things to which the blackness of my jeans might be compared:

The depth of night
My eternal soul
The creepiest corner of my laundry room where spiders dwell
Unrelenting evil
The sleep of death (what dreams may come, etc.)

Merry Christmas to All!

I'm worried about BBY KAT, the light brown Honda.

She's one of the cars that I frequently see during my drive to work. I'm usually on the road at about the same time, traveling the same route, and I find myself riding along beside many of the same cars each morning. It's like a playgroup for my Ion. He perks up when he sees cars he recognizes.

There's BBY KAT of course. And the white truck with the Attend the Church of Your Choice sticker. And the silver Ion whom my green Ion thinks of as a sort of cousin. (We let each other over in the sticky construction spots).

There's the orange Cougar. And the bright yellow Beetle. And the car that I only saw once but can't seem to forget because of its www.rememberjanebelle.com sticker.

But I'm just hoping BBY KAT is all right. I caught up with her on an entrance ramp to the highway. The streets were rainy, cold, and slick, and I was just trying to get to work without random cars losing control and sliding into me. As I pulled up behind BBY KAT, one of her rear wheels began wobbling alarmingly as if it were about to fall off.

"What do I do?" I wondered. "Do I honk, flash my lights, roll down my window and shout?" I felt terrible, but I did nothing. I watched her turn onto the highway and speed up to match the traffic, unaware that anything was wrong.

A police car passed me. "Catch her!" I silently prodded him. "Pull her over and warn her about the wheel!" But he didn't. The wheel continued to wobble, and the officer passed her without a glance.

My exit came up, and I took it, spending the entire remainder of my drive with my knuckles clenched on the steering wheel. I imaginined BBY KAT's wheel coming loose, her car careening out of control, flipping several times into oncoming traffic, and ending in a twisted wreck with many innocent people dead. All because I couldn't bring myself to flash my lights at the woman.

I know it sounds silly, but I'm going to be checking the paper for traffic fatalities. The world is just too darn dangerous.

I came into the office today to discover that Facilities had left on my desk a very nice, leather-simulated, gold-edged, checkbook-sized 2004 calendar. How kind!

Checking my email, I discovered that the company had kindly provided everyone with a "pocket diary," reflecting the true international flavor of our international owners.

My very own pocket diary. Well, as a devoted diarist since the age of eight, I feel it would be a shame to waste it on dates and appointments.

Dear Diary, (reads my very first calendar entry)

Today I shall be meeting with marketing to discuss the direct mail efforts for a collection of drug books. The meeting is set for two o'clock in the afternoon, which I feel is a wonderful time of day for a meeting. The sun should be casting beautifully through the barren tree limbs, and we'll all be a pleasant state of mind having just returned from lunch.

I will take you with me everywhere, Dear Diary! I'll use you to record phone numbers of people I meet, as well as the addresses and birthdays of close friends.

But for now, I'll have to stop writing in you. Since it's taken me forty minutes to thoughtfully record today's meeting time, my boss is standing at my office door and looking impatient because there were several files she had asked me to give her before the meeting. (Between you and me, Diary, she needs to lighten up.) Talk to you again soon! Love, ME