Branching out

What you're looking at here is a stunning tree called a Forest Pansy. Its different color leaves throughout the year make it as unpredictable as it is beautiful.

You might be able to tell from the skateboards, barbecue and dog poop scooper against the fence that this particular picture didn't come from Homes & Gardens. Nope, in fact this is my very own back yard.

I've always loved the Forest Pansy tree. And on day 2 of hunkering down and self-isolating, I thought I'd wander out back and have a look at this tree since it always makes me happy. I can't help but notice the colorful heart-shaped blooming buds (Note to Rich Siegel: Heart Shaped Blooming Buds, Roxy '07), the shape of the crown, the slight bend in the trunk where it leans towards the sun.

Apparently what I failed to notice is this branch sticking out like the Night King's spear over the walkway.

I finally saw it when I turned around from the other side and walked right into it. Fortunately I wear spectacles (OSHA would be so proud) so it didn't take my eye out.

What it did do was gash my gigantic forehead (ad space available - great rates!). I hardly gave a thought to the fact this open bleeding wound on my forehead was like a big welcome sign for the coronavirus. I can only hope the tree isn't contagious.

I'm not sure, but I don't think this blatant Forest Pansy attack will leave a scar. Growing up on the mean streets of West L.A.—north of Wilshire—I already have enough of them.

So while we ride out the coronavirus storm sequestered in the house, I'll still look at the tree and admire its beauty and calming spirit.

Except maybe I'll do it through the window.

Calling in well

Anyone can call in sick. When you’re fighting muscle aches, nausea, diarrhea and a 101-degree fever it’s a no brainer.

Of course, we’ve all been around those people who drag their sorry selves in no matter what, looking like they just finished auditioning for Contagion II. For some inexplicable reason – perhaps an overdeveloped sense of importance, a crippling fear of being fired if they miss a day, or just to get even with everyone they work with who don’t give them the recognition they deserve, they feel it’s their civic duty to keep working until they drop.

But if you ask anyone who’s ever worked with me, after they stop denying it, they’ll tell you in no uncertain terms that’s never been my problem.

Sniffles? Home for three days. That’s the spirit.

I used to work with this guy at an agency who would occasionally call in well to work. He’d wake up in the morning feeling great, optimistic, ready to take on the world. On those days, he’d call the agency, get someone on the line and say, “I won’t be in today. I feel too damn good to come to work.”

I’m all in favor of the concept.

Some shops give you a couple mental days or personal days off a year. I suppose they think you should use those if you’re going to call in well. I think it’s a matter of expanding the definition of sick. As in, it would make me sick to go into work feeling this good.

Which brings me to another point (assuming I had one in the first place): maybe it’s time to reconsider the name “sick days.” If people are going to start calling in well – as they should – the days allotted should reflect that policy.

Maybe a combination of sick and well, a term that would define and describe the days for exactly what they are. Let’s call them Swell Days™.

Although technically, that could be any day you’re not in the office.