There are only two things I really dislike at work, besides being there: working on the same floor as the cafeteria, and birthday cards.

Going by the odor that permeates the 8-square-cubicle region I inhabit five days a week, cafeteria workers are content to offer two selections every day: bacon in the morning and steamed broccoli in the afternoon. The bacon I wouldn't mind if not for the latest study showing that secondhand odors for popular breakfast meat cause bad cholesterol to skyrocket in sedentary males. As far as the broccoli, well, that's just so wrong. It likely stems from a grudge borne by the cafeteria lady who is not amused by people who constantly pay for their food in loose change.

After a while the nose ignores the smells, allowing you to return to what's important, and by that I mean surfing the Internet on company time. But the birthday cards, well, that's another story.

I try to imagine the first time someone passed around a card at work, knowing it had to celebrate a boss's birthday because no one had to suck up to their colleagues.

"Hey, I've got a Birthday card for the boss. Sign it and pass it on."

"I will at my next break. Which is Tuesday."

"Well, I need it by tomorrow. It'll just take a second."

"That's exactly why Emma was fired last week. Remember? That one time she paused in the midst of coughing? And just because she had TB. No, I've got to keep up. Besides, I don't have a pen."

"That's not a problem. Look, you're bleeding pretty profusely from your fingertips. Just use that."

"I can't just sign it. I have to say something nice and clever. I really can't think of anything."

"Well, how about thanking him for that time last week when he admitted he'd briefly thought about taking the lock of the bathroom door, and then the opium wore off?"

"OK, just give it to me. Hey, this thing is full of other people's marks. There's not enough room to write."

"But you don't know how to write."

"I was thinking about scrawling, but no, I can only squeeze in my X and that's it."

There is way too much pressure involved in the birthday-card process at the workplace. If you sign first, you have plenty of room but what you write will be scrutinized by the rest of your colleagues. No matter that you are a productive employee appreciated for your contributions. One misstep on the birthday card will mark you for the rest of your time.

"Good morning, Mr. 'Best Wishes on Your Special Day.' Did you take a course from Hallmark to come up with such a clever and innovative saying."

But if you sign near the end, card space is at a premium. You may even have something exceptional to say, making a witty reference to something that has recently occurred or, better yet, an inside joke. But there's just enough room to say, "Have a happy," for which you draw disapproving looks from the card's addressee.

"You know, I thought you were funnier than that. But now I know you just suck."

The key is to get in at the right time. About midway through, when there's still room on the card if you actually have something to say, and enough literary contributions on it so you might be able to hide a quick "You're not getting older ... no, wait, you are" without anyone noticing.

Better yet, abolish the whole practice. And if we could also outlaw broccoli, my office area would be a much better place.

This is how you do not want to wake up on a Saturday morning -- "Oooowwwww, my eye, my eye, it hurts so bad!"

Well, hello Bryson and good morning. Me, I'm fine, thanks for asking. And you?

"Myeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeye-"

Ah, there seems to be a problem with your eye. Is there something I can do to help?

"Myeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeye-"

OK, let me get dressed and we'll

"Myeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeyemyeye-"

Oh yes, a wonderful morning today. I didn't see anything sticking out of his eye like, say, a hot poker, but clearly something was wrong. However, I had to interpret that special language that kicks in when in 8-year-old is not feeling all that well, a language that focuses on the pain and absolutely nothing else.

I am, of course, at a loss to fully explain exactly what was happening because 1) it was early and my own eyes were now burning due to the bright light of dawn and B) I was in my underwear, and I rarely think clearly in my underwear (to which some women may attest).

So I respond the only way I know how.

"What's wrong with your eye?"

Dumb question.

"Ithurtsithurtithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts-!"

Think I've got it. I ask him to come closer. Yeah, the eye is red and puffy. On closer inspection, I confirm there is definitely no hot poker sticking in it. I am comforted. He is not.

"OK, I know it hurts. Tell me exactly where though."

"Hereherehereherehereherehereherehereherehereherehere-!"

Apparently eye pain is directly connected to the inability to pause between words. Must be something in the visual cortex that tells the rest of the brain, "We'renotpausingnotevenforasecondsothere."

Great.

Looks like it's time for the ER. "OK, bud, you need to get dressed, you're going to need to see a doctor."

Surprisingly he does react as he usually does -- "No, they'll give me a shot." The boy would rather risk death than have his skin punctured. So his eye must really hurt.

We head over to Mesa General, where he was born. On the way, lots of questions.

"Are they going to give me a shot?"

"Will it take a long time?"

"Are they going to give me a shot?"

"Are they going to take my eye out to fix it?"

"Are they going to give me a shot?"

Standard answer -- "I have no idea." Except on the taking-the-eye-out query. That was a "Probably not, unless it falls out accidentally." No, didn't say that. He was not in the mood.

So we arrive, and I answer the dozens of questions required by insurance companies for the purpose of making sure they are willing to spring a few hundred bucks to save a kid's eye. The ER is empty save for a woman who looks as if she'd been waiting about four days. She is sprawled across four chairs, eyes closed, robe draped over her, a thick plastic foot brace on the floor in front of her. I see no blood, explaining what seemed to be a very long wait.

Last time we were here, Bryson was 3 and suffering from a very high fever. Thanks to the beauty of triage, we went right in.

Now triage was against us. Eye injury? That's somewhere between a fractured hand and a "It just hurts really bad." Unless Bryson suddenly started vomiting blood, we were in for a long wait. Now that I was hoping for that. Until at least the fifth hour of waiting.

I had called Bryson's mom, of course, and she shows about an hour into the weight, husband and 2-yr-old Jason in tow. She sits right next to Bryson, hugging him, squezing his hand. Oh yes, the cavalry had arrived. I saw the light in Bryson's eye (the good one) -- "Thank God, mom's here, now I won't die."

Or I could be exaggerating.

Finally a guy in scrubs comes out and asks for Bryson. The five of us head to an office built for maybe two, three if a child is included.

Bryson's mom: "Can we all come in?"

Guy in scrubs, who is a nurse despite what he is trying to look like: "No."

Bryson's mom: "Oh, because I was hoping Bryson's brother and his other dad could come-"

Guy who is not the doctor: "No."

The guy who is not the doctor is very cool.

More questions, including, "What the heck did you do to this kid's eye?" Not in those words, but you could tell the guy was asking questions as if CPS was looking over his shoulder.

"So, son, what happened? Were you with someone when it happened, like, an incident where maybe someone got maybe carried away and did something to hurt your eye, like maybe a significant male in your life, because dads get angry, especially single dads, and blame their children for-"

Wait, it isn't really that way. I just get a little sensitive about it. But Bryson did say-

"It was a hammer?"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, I was hitting a rock and something got in my eye."

"Ah, I see."

The obligatory accusing look follows ("Most good parents don't let kids drive drunk, or play with hammers").

Hey, I was putting up this stupid badminton net in the back yard and needed a hammer to put in the stakes and the next think I know Bryson's playing diamond miner. Boom, a fleck hits his eye, and he didn't complain about pain until this morning.

After I am tried and convicted of felony lapse of parenting, we get to see a real doctor, who uses a bright light and then this glowing fluorescent substance to determine there is no hot poker sticking in Bryson's eye. There is, in fact, nothing in his eye. But there is a scratch, to which he applies antibacterial goo and then, yes, an eyepatch. Arrrrgh, mateys.

So when everything was done, on the way home we stopped at Hot Pokers R Us and I bought one for Bryson to play with because, as everyone knows, that sort of thing fits into my parenting plan.

And that's been my life.