Back at my own office, I nodded good morning at the just-arriving Dena Carr, our group clerical support person. In the not-so-long-ago days when I had held such a position, it had been called a "secretary."

As I glanced out at deserted offices, I wondered numbly where everyone else was, and why I always seemed to be one of the few to arrive for work early and stay late.

As usual last evening, I hadn't even left my office until nearly six, long after the more important people had split to wherever people who leave on time are rushing to go. I, on the other hand, had been delaying the inevitable trip to the photography studio for the photo shoot for the anniversary ads for Ever-Ease - America's Home Remedy.

Oh, you couldn't have helped hearing about it in the last 99 years or so, if you were alive, American, and had access to a radio or television set. Dr. Stanley Potts, a late 1800's mid-western physician had developed this humble little gem from a mere patent medicine to a home necessity that now graced the medicine cabinets of millions. Updated from the original powder to shiny forest green capsules, but retaining the ever-present evergreen tree symbol on the label, Ever-Ease was familiar to all.

Our classy East Coast advertising agency had been fighting tooth and claw against reviving the 1950's vintage character that the world had come to love - and they had come to loath: "Evey" Ever-Ease, an animated evergreen tree with a squeaky voice and a flippant personality. But alas, our Company management supporting the come-back currently prevailed, and part of my job was to act as liaison between warring factions. Our section had to get decisions made, get things ordered, and just keep out of the way of the frequent recurring bombs of rhetoric that they kept lobbing at each other.

One enlightened brand manager had nightmared the idea that "Evey" be updated to prove more palatable to the demographics of our mainline user: the harried middle-classed rat racer. But clothing an animated evergreen tree as a symbol of the middle class wasn't an easy task. Tennis shoes were to adorn the root sections that sprouted from the main trunk, and gigantic jogging shorts eclipsed the lower branches. As a final touch, a sweat band topped the highest layer of greenery that was "Evey's" head. The two dissenting camps, Agency and Company, agreed on one thing: it wasn't art, but it might sell product.

It had fallen to our section (since nobody else wanted the job) to coordinate the birth of the new "Evey" who was to be unveiled with great ceremony at the 100th Anniversary celebration on the front lawn of the Company complex on June 21, the first day of summer.

So, I had spent the previous evening attending the photo shoot for full-page, full-color ads that would introduce the new "Evey" to the consuming public. The shoot was also attended by the lowest ranking brand manager assigned to assure that all was done according to "brand strategy." There was, however, great disagreement on just what constituted the official strategy. Ever-Ease had no less than four brand managers, two senior, two regular, one assistant, and one group manager in charge of all the former.

The poor assistant, literally scared to death that he might misinterpret some small segment of strategy, proceeded to question each and everything, at least twice. He worried about the color of "Evey's" jogging shorts - which were yellow; he anguished about the placement of the headband, which no matter where it was placed, kept slipping over one pine cone eye; and he fretted about whether the laces should be in a bow, or simply tied in a knot.

Finally, the guy in the evergreen suit who had been sweating under the lights for hours settled the matter once and for all.

"If you don't shoot the damned picture now," he wheezed,"I quit, and you can get some other idiot to do this."

At last, it was agreed that we would take a few test shots, and the photographer, experienced in dealing with assistants, persuaded the brand person to cool off with a soft drink, secretly and heartily laced with spirits. Accustomed to neither public or private drinking, and after a second and a third, the assistant became quite docile and amiable to being sent home in a cab, while we finished.

I, on the other hand, refused to soften the blow of reality and watched the proceedings in a completely sober state. Frankly, the sight of a perspiring evergreen tree in an outfit that would even make Richard Simmons blush, only encouraged me to get the project over as soon as possible. At last, I had been able to go home to my microwave and something selected entirely at random from the freezer.

A loud buzz interrupted my reverie of last evening's events, as I recognized Dena's signal for a call on my line. It was my sister Lotta, mother of Sally, the intrepid cap remover. Lo constantly took me to task over the sad state of my social life. She got right to the point.

"What are you doing this weekend?"

"Catching up on my sleep."

"You need to meet MEN, Jayne!" she scolded me.

"I'll pass, Lo. I just want to spend my declining years in peace."

"You're thirty-two, not sixty-two," Lotta reminded me. "You're too young to retire from meaningful relationships."

"I have a meaningful relationship with Genevra."

"Cats don't count," she scoffed. "What about that nice policeman that Ned and I introduced you to last month?"

"Detective, Lo, and he was nice enough. I certainly appreciate the concern you have for me, but frankly, Lieutenant Rooney leads an even busier life than I do. It isn't that I'm avoiding him, or anyone. But it's a really busy time for me at work now."

"I can't believe you let them take such advantage of you," she began.

I held the receiver out from my ear and did my stretching exercises using the receiver for a balance weight. Only when I heard the sputtering cease did I answer.

"Look, Lo, I've really go to go. I've got a meeting in a few minutes. I'll call you Friday night. Bye!"

And before she could reply, I hung up. Actually, it wasn't as rude as it sounds. Lo and I have a really good relationship as sisters go. She just likes to make like my mother every now and then, even though she's five years younger. Our mother and father have had the good sense to have retired to Florida, and she feels that she has to look out for me. Mostly though, we understand and cheerfully put up with each other. She won't be mad long, and by Friday night, she'll have plotted something male-oriented for my weekend.

Every now and then, I'll let her talk me into making up a foursome with someone new that her husband Ned Taylor has come up with. Ned's a very successful insurance agent who knows everybody in town. I'm constantly amazed at the number of candidates that he has found for me over the past few years. Most are completely hopeless as marriage prospects, as even Lo knows, although she will never admit it. But he keeps trying, because she keeps nagging.

Last month's evening with the good Lieutenant Rooney had been more enjoyable than most, probably because he appeared to have been no more interested in pursuing that sort of "meaningful" relationship than I had. I was fascinated by what he does for a living, and we found lots to talk about on the way home. We have even met a couple of times since, because we discovered that we both shared a passion for early morning walks and chocolate frosted doughnuts. Lo doesn't know about that, and I don't suppose I'll tell her yet. We don't have a current date scheduled, anyway, but I feel quite sure that his answering machine will call my voice mail one of these days soon.

Again my mind was forced back to reality, as Dena poked her head in the door.

"Lars is here for his appointment," she sang out merrily.

I groaned. I was not looking forward to this morning's meeting called by section director Tatum Walker. I had to hand it to him. Nobody could drive a harder deal than he could. Our section dealt with suppliers of nearly everything from raw materials to "trash and trinkets" our name for the myriad of selling gimmicks and giveaways used by our sales force as they peddled our pills. Tater, as we usually called him behind his back, had certainly shaped up our vendors. He had rock hard contracts at bottom of the barrel prices. Some people may not have cared for his methods, but most held a grudging respect for what he had accomplished.

Rumor had it that Tater drove such a hard bargain that he had even negotiated to have his body shipped home using his frequent flyer mileage in the event that he drew his last breath while on one of his many company trips. But as a final irony, we presumed that he'd continue to press for an upgrade to first class, even into the hereafter. This morning he would be doing a vendor review with one of our suppliers. Everyone had been subject to the wrath of old Tater, and this particular supplier had been slipping a little. I dreaded watching the salesman wilt under Tater's relentless scrutiny of his performance.