Well folks, Ms. Unemployed for a Year finally bit the bullet.  Congratulate me on me new career as a cashier.  At Staples.  THE office supply superstore.  Staples is so accommodating that if anyone of you ever forgets to pack such staples as staples, paperclips or a leather office chair before you leave the country, just pop into London's Heathrow Airport.  Staples is the first store you'll see when you get off the plane.

Sick, isn’t it, how in just three short months of employment, Staples has permeated my very being.  Never fear, I don't plan to do this forever.  Just until I figure out what I want to be when I grow up. 

Technically, I've already grown up.  I've got three grey hairs to prove it.  Well, actually I have more than three, but I yank the rest.  I can't reach the three in the back.

I think I might have digressed from my story, just a hair.  Yeah, I enough, enough of the silly puns, let's get back to Staples.  The thing I don't like about working there is that I spend my entire salary on Staples staples.  I blow all my money on stuff that's cheap, simply because it's cheap.  Last week, for example, I bought batteries in all shapes and sizes because they were on sale and they're good until March 2009.

Funny thing is, I don't own anything that requires a battery.  So I went out and bought a very expensive Palm Pilot simply because the thing runs on batteries.

Naturally, the Palm Pilot I bought came equipped with a year's supply of batteries.  It always pays to read the label. 

I lost it again when M&Ms went on sale.  Technically, M&Ms do not qualify as office supplies, and Staples doesn't normally sell them.  But during the holiday season, Staples joyously sells anything and everything, including shower radios (what kind of an office needs those?) battery-operated nose hair trimmers (no, I will not buy one simply to use up my batteries), and M&M dispensers in the shape of roller coasters (#2 in the M&M dispenser collector series).

Even though I swore that 2003 was the year that I would give up chocolate forever, I couldn't resist when the Christmas color M&Ms went down to $1.50 per bag.  And I'm not talking any old bags.  One bag alone could feed Chicago for a week.

My manager didn't exactly jump for joy when I bought out the entire stock of M&Ms.  I tried to disguise myself by wearing my winter coat on top of my Staples uniform, but he recognized me anyway.  I realized later that he knew me by the $999.99 Staples price tag that one of my co-workers had so kindly stuck to my head, and I had so stupidly forgotten about.  What's even stupider is that originally, my co-worker had tagged me at $11.99, and I complained that I was worth a lot more than that.  So she re-priced me, and I wore the stupid label all day long.

I think I also upset my manager when I asked for help carrying the M&M bags out to my car.  Turns out I needed three co-workers AND the manager.  The co-workers helped me with the carrying, and the manager helped me with the tire changing.  Poor tire just gave out under the weight of all that candy.

The manager was especially irked (that's a word I learned from a crossword puzzle) that I had to take four people out of the store when the lines were the worst we've seen in weeks.  So, let me ask you this.  Does anybody out know why people need to go to Staples on New Year's Eve, in a blizzard?  After all, Staples (THE office superstore) is open again on New Year's Day.  What kind of last minute pre-holiday emergency requires $400 worth of paper, $90 worth of neon gel pens, $25 worth of bubble wrap, and a disposable camera?  Come to think about it, maybe I don't want to know.

I was really wiped when I got out of work on New Year's Eve.  We opened early (6 am!) and I only got a fifteen minute break for lunch.  Some of my co-workers complained that I didn't deserve to go home after putting in a mere 12 hours, but I didn't care.  I had important plans for New Year's Eve.

Yes, sir.  Me and my M&Ms were going to put our feet up and watch the Twilight Zone New Year's Eve Marathon. 

But first, I had to get those darned M&Ms out of the car, through the blizzard, and into my condo.  I did it in stages.  First I took 16,279 trips between my car and the patch of floor in front of the condo elevator.  Then, I called for the elevator and started tossing those babies inside.

You know, everybody has a talent.  Mine is packing.  I packed every single bag inside that elevator.  Floor to ceiling M&Ms.  Psyched!

Not!  I forgot to leave room for me.  Oops.  So, I had to reach in, push the button for the fourth floor, and then bolt up four flights of stairs to catch that elevator before someone else did.

Naturally, I blew it.  When I got to my floor, there stood the Condo Weirdo.  The elevator doors opened, and 4,000 bags of M&Ms spilled onto his head. 

For those of you who are curious, I call this guy the Condo Weirdo because, for starters, I don't know his real name.  More importantly, I call him the Condo Weirdo because whenever he uses the condo laundry room, he always wears a Beatle wig.  I kid you not.  He wears his Beatle wig and he pours Cascade Extra Strength for Dishes into the washing machine.  I hate to think what he uses in his dishwasher.  And while we're on the topic of the Condo Weirdo, I can't figure out why he fills up our condo library with Reader's Digest books and why he makes so much orange Jello in the common area kitchen.

And now back to our story.  A split second before the M&M bags fell onto the Condo Weirdo, I realized, with a start, that the man was sleepwalking!  The snoring and the orange pajamas gave it away.  The falling bags easily knocked Condo Weirdo to the ground, but he didn't seem to mind it a bit.  In fact, he started swimming across those bags and somehow or other, managed to propel himself right into the elevator. 

The elevator doors snapped shut before I could reach him.  With a yelp, I watched as the elevator descended to the first floor.  After uttering a not-very-nice-word, I bolted back down the steps and grabbed the condo grocery cart.  That's when I realized that I could have used the condo grocery cart to help me cart all those M&Ms from the car to the elevator.  But I was much younger then.

Now that I am older and more mature, I grabbed that cart and the condo concierge.  As the elevator doors opened and the Condo Weirdo swam out, the concierge and I lifted him into the grocery cart.  I left the Weirdo with the concierge, and I rode the elevator back to the fourth floor.

Once I had arrived, I pulled the emergency stop button so I could continue unloading my M&Ms in peace.

Figures that the condo president would choose that moment to walk by the elevator and fine me (a) for pulling the emergency stop button when there was no emergency and (b) for transporting material without first padding the elevator. 

I asked him why I needed to pad the elevator for transporting M&Ms, and he answered that whenever you pad the elevator, you also have to tip the building maintenance man for doing the padding.  Coincidentally, our building maintenance man is also the condo president's wife.  Long story.

Moving right along, I finally got all those stupid bags hauled off the elevator and into the hallway.  Then, for good measure, I ran down to the first floor again, where I told the concierge that the elevator was now free if he wanted to transport the Condo Weirdo somewhere.

The concierge told me that it was too late, someone had already carted the Weirdo off to the local library where he could steal more Reader's Digest books for our own condo library.  Apparently, the local library knows all about the Weirdo's pilfering, and is ever so grateful that somebody is ridding them of a collection that nobody in their right mind wants to own.

And now back at the ranch.  Luckily when I bought this condo, I opted for a second bedroom even though I live alone.  The second bedroom is now filled floor to ceiling with M&M bags.

I turned on the Twilight Zone, and I was suddenly filled with an overwhelming desire to make banana bread.  Which is odd, to say the least, because I hate to go anywhere near the kitchen unless someone else does the cooking.

Luckily, I had all the ingredients necessary for banana bread.  Okay, so the flour has been sitting around since 1989, but I keep it in plastic.  And I think that I bought the double acting baking soda for some sort of high school experiment, but the can is rusted shut now so I'm sure nothing go into it.  And I have oodles of bananas.  I keep bananas in the freezer because when they freeze, they taste like ice cream.  The only problem is, you can't eat them like ice cream.  Try sticking one in a cone and you'll see what I mean. 

I took out my frozen bananas, nuked them to room temperature, and started baking my banana bread.  Since I had a couple of M&Ms on hand, I decided to experiment by sprinkling them on top of my banana bread. 

Okay, I confess.  I didn't really sprinkle them.  If I were a normal person, I would have sprinkled them.  But since I'm me, I had to spell out a word.

Okay, not a word.  I had to spell out a name.

George.  Yeah, I know.  Big surprise.  After all, I'm the same me who writes GH in ketchup whenever I make a sandwich.  And since I own purple ketchup (a mistake I deeply regret), GH looks especially funky when it mixes with the sandwich ingredients.  Which is why I eat alone in my car everyday instead of the Staples lunchroom.

So at 5:30 pm on New Year's Eve, "George" in red and green M&Ms goes into my oven.

At 6:30 pm I pull out the George bread and scream.

The top of my banana bread reads, "What?"

You would think that when a person screams in her condo, her neighbors, or at least the concierge, would come running. 

Nope.  Only Alice showed up.  Some of you who have read my other stories probably remember Alice.  I've lived next to this older lady for 3 years, and she continues to introduce herself to me.  On a daily basis.  And yes, Alice still drives.

So in response to my scream, Alice knocks on the door, introduces herself, and then congratulates me on my new baby. 

I thank Alice (believe me, it's easier than explaining that I don't have a baby, merely a literate banana bread) and I return to my What? problem.

I don't know whether to eat the thing, call a tabloid, or put it into my Beatle shrine.  Then again, who says that this had anything at all to do with Mr. Harrison?  After all, I didn't specify which "George."  Could be George Burns, George Washington, or George VI.

So, I got down to business.  I baked myself another banana bread.  And I felt like a complete ninny.  Fortunately, this is a familiar feeling for me, so I didn't care.  I got out those M&Ms and wrote, "Are you George Harrison?"

7:30 pm.  Out comes my banana bread with the following message.  "Who wants to know?"

ARGH!  After introducing myself to Alice again and assuring her that no, I don't own a dog, I baked my third banana bread.  I wrote my name, and I told the mysterious M&Mer, that I was a Beatlefan. 

I'm sure there are one or two bakers out there who realize that real banana breads get baked in a little bitty loaf pan, and it's really not possible to write complex messages in M&Ms on such a small surface.  So before you think you've caught me making up a story, let me assure you, that I had dumped the little pan, doubled and a halved the recipe, and put the whole shebang into a much bigger cake pan. 

8:30 pm.  Out comes the banana bread, along with the following message.  "Needs more sugar."

"What does 'needs more sugar mean?"  I baked into my next bread.

9:30 pm.  "Recipe calls for 1 1/2 cups when you double and a half it."

ARGH!

"Hi Alice.  Nice to meet you.  Yes, perhaps that was my car alarm screaming.  Perhaps I'll go check my car now."

Nothing like cleaning off your car in the middle of a raging blizzard.  Off I went to the grocery store.  Only two nuts were zipping up and down the aisles at this hour on New Year's Eve.  Me and the Condo Weirdo.  I don't know how that Weirdo persuaded the Deli Counter Guy to push him around in that shopping cart, but there you have it.  I gave Deli Guy a nudge and told him to remember the M&Ms.  He thanked me and headed for the candy aisle.

As for me, I loaded up on banana bread ingredients, including flour, sugar, and of course, M&Ms.  I know, I know.  I've got M&Ms spilling out of my spare bedroom, but I just feel insecure.  My Banana Bread Guy is having a grand old time not telling me who he is, and I don't want to run out of the crucial ingredient at the crucial moment.

I made my purchases, then I threw the Weirdo, the shopping cart, and myself into the car.  I drove us all home, carried my bags into my condo, then wheeled the Weirdo into the elevator.  The concierge was "on rounds" (he's got a sign that says so), and I didn't know where the Weirdo lived.  I figured he'd be just fine munching on M&Ms and riding up and down with his Beatle wig slightly askew.

I returned home where, surprise surprise, I baked another banana bread. 

"You've improved the recipe," my mysterious buddy complimented me.

"You're making me crazy!  Are you George Harrison?  And if so, how did you get into my oven?"

As the church bells in my neighborhood rang in the New Year, I pulled yet another bread out of the oven.

"Ding Dong Ding Dong.  I wrote a new song in your honor.  It's heavenly."

Alice apologized for stopping by so late, but she was very excited to meet a new neighbor on New Year's.  I gave her a hug.

It was around this time that I started wondering why I had bothered to turn on the Twilight Zone marathon.  I LIVE the Twilight Zone marathon.

Yes, indeedy, I lived it all night long.  I used up all my bananas, made myself bananas, and by the end was making bread out of anything I could find.  Pumpkin at first, then apples, then raisins…

My breads complimented me on my creativity, although they did question my use of artichokes.

"I'm running out of ingredients," I complained.  "Tell me who you are and what you want."

After I loaded that last cake into the oven, I fell asleep on my kitchen table.  I couldn't help it.  Here it was 6 am and I had run myself ragged between working a double shift at Staples, and then lugging all those M&Ms, and of course, doing all the baking. 

I awoke at 8 am to the joyful noise of my smoke alarm.  The bread!  I had left it in there for two hours!

Smoke filled my condo, and I could barely find my way to the front door when Alice knocked.

She introduced herself, then advised me not to set off fire crackers in my unit before 10 am.  I thanked her and handed her a raisin bread that said, "The Lord is Awaiting on You All."

I turned off the oven, then cautiously opened the oven door.  It's hard to believe that yet more smoke could emerge on top of the existing smoke, but it did.

I blinked furiously, not just because of the burning air, but because of the wispy image that floated before me.  That familiar grin.  That twinkle in the eye.

"Happy New Year," he whispered as he disappeared.

I shook Alice's hand, then handed her a pumpkin bread that said "Hey Hey We're the Monkees."  That one came out around 3 am.

After Alice left, I opened my balcony doors to let the smoke out.

Lisha Goldberg is a freelance writer and editor. She also writes a newsletter for a Boston piano studio. Lisha has won several prizes for her writing, including the Boston Herald Star Trek Competition (write a eulogy for Captain Kirk!), CompuServe's Beatle Essay Contest, and Writers Digest Magazine Award for best Inspirational Short Story.