I subscribe to "A Word A Day," that e-mail newsletter that delivers a new word to your in-box each morning, to enlighten and amuse. It's a modern version of the Reader's Digest's "Toward More Picturesque Speech" column I read as a child, having been barred by religious parents from watching TV or listening to the radio. If at times my vocabulary seems antiquated, the blame can be laid squarely on my grandparents’ collection of World War II-era Reader’s Digests that comprised my summer reading.

Today's word was "sutra," meaning a rule or aphorism, taken from the Sanskrit, and from the common root that brings us the words sew, suture, and hymen. While it was interesting to learn, it paled in significance to another word I was confronted with this morning, a word that while not new to me, opened a well of personal insecurities for public viewing. This magical word: AND.

It went like this:

My boss, Mr. Paul, regularly lends me CDs, which I borrow and listen to and then return, at which point we either rave collectively or argue bitterly about the merits or lack thereof. For instance, we agreed about the New Pornographers’ latest, Twin Cinema, and vehemently disagreed about the Decemberists, who for me recalled hideous memories of low-budget community theatre productions I unwisely joined. We still disagree about the merits of the Decemberists, but the point I’m getting to is that we discuss the CDs when I return them to him. I am religious about returning them, partly because he is my boss and can trump up charges and can me at any moment.

A couple of weeks ago, Mr. Paul asked me if I had his A. C. Newman CD, which he had lent to me months ago, and which I had returned. “No,” I answered, “I gave it back.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “But I’ll look in my car, to make sure,” I offered, and he agreed, and walked away. I may have imagined a whispered “You stole it” as he left my desk, but when I came in the next day to report that it wasn’t in my car, he said it out loud, leading to a high-volume conversation about my certainty that I’d returned it. That afternoon, when I came back from lunch, I had a message from him:

Violet—I couldn’t find you, but I’m leaving for meetings, and I’ll be back tomorrow.
Then, at the bottom, the single word: Thief

He didn’t know that I had already made a passive-aggressive pre-emptive strike by not even looking in my car for the CD, but he was retaliating anyway.

This went on for several days, with his loud complaints that I had stolen his CD, and my subsequent casual protests that I had returned it. I knew I’d returned it. I could see myself returning it, putting it in his mailbox, hear the vague echo of our conversation assessing the CD. I did not have this CD.

Except that today, when I looked in a little-used drawer that contains, among other things, three decks of tarot cards, a sticker reading “Grandpa” in large golden script, and five bottles of nail enamel, there was the CD. It was under some old pay-stubs, stuck in with a CD of the Modern Lovers live in Bristol, 1978. I paused for a moment, contemplating my next action. I could toss the CD, pretending I’d never found it. I could secretly plant it in his desk, or under his desk, where he’d find it. Or, most painfully, I could shuffle into his office and confess. Confessing would be painful, and speak to my lack of organizational skills (already obvious), my lackadaisical search (true), and my apparent absence of concern for the CD overall (also true).

I chose the last option, painful though it was. I walked in, hiding the CD behind my back. Mr. Paul looked up. “Yes?” he said.

“Are you ready for a loud confrontation?” I asked. I could feel myself blushing with embarrassment. He nodded. I held out the CD. There was a loud confrontation. Where did I find it? He wanted to know. I told him. He waited for my apology, which I gave.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I thought I’d returned it to you! I was mistaken and it’s my fault! I apologize for not looking in my drawer.” We were both laughing, and I was turning vivid red. “I’m sorry, I didn’t look hard enough.” There was another pause.

“And…?” he said, waiting.

I searched for an appropriate yet not-too-self-effacing phrase. He waited.

“And… I’m a huge loser.”

He nodded, as I processed my loserness and lack of organizational skills that are my job’s primary requirement, then he started laughing again.

"I swear I looked in that drawer," I said lamely.

“I know you did," he answered. "I hid the CD there,” he said. “I found it in my car last week.”

I do not know yet what I will do, but somehow, I'm going to make him pay--not for hiding the CD, which was funny--but for that "And" that caused me to question myself. I'm not much on practical jokes, but I think I can organize one this time.

Star of the day. . .Strauss & Howe