It's always sad when good lighting goes to waste.  If I had something concrete to work on right now,  I'm sure the glow cast by the lamp on my desk would be the perfect light for it.  It's really the right sort of lighting for all desk-related work. No straining or squinting required.

This lamp looks vintage, yet funky -- all shiny silver and spirals with a simple beige shade.  So far, it has been a great help in shuffling the pages upon pages of doodles and scribbles I've been slaving over in the name of research. Yes, there's much research to be done. We are building a WEB SITE, you see.  A great site. They tell me it will be INTERACTIVE, VERTICAL and filled with CONTENT. It will be SEXY. But best of all, it will be ROBUST.

My co-editors and I agree that we don't quite understand the use of the word robust in the Web world, but the boys in the tech department tell us that that it's the very best we can aim for, so we should be proud and excited to be part of the team.

During each of 53 days I have worked for the company, I have spent hours staring at my hiply thin computer monitor "researching" competitors. As there aren't very many, and I don't have anything else to do, I've allowed myself to expand my searches to sites that will help me grow as a person -- that's the explanation I will use if I'm ever questioned about the countless hours I've spent comparing products on Sephora.com.

I'm not worried the other editors will mind, or even notice, my surfing. I hear plenty of suspicious clicking from their desks, which sport lamps identical to mine, by the way.

Although I have made no discoveries nor had revelations to report to Chad, the editorial director, I've become very familiar with CNN.com and the Web sites of many major newspapers in the United States and Central Europe. I can now recite in alphabetical order, organized by genre, the full catalog of books on Amazon.com, the full line of offerings by several cosmetics and hair care companies and follow regularly the dramatic Web diary of a sad 12-year-old goth girl in Kansas.

I should feel guilty that I guiltlessly collect a paycheck for surfing the Web all day. But I don't. At least I'm pretending to do actual work, unlike the tech guys who spend their days ordering pizzas on the company dime and playing foosball.  Plus, it's not like I'm one of those dotcomers that gets paid a billion dollars a year -- I'm in the editorial department. I heard that the combined salaries of our editorial staff of eight (which doesn't includes Chad, who is also a VP of something), is a sum less than the budget for Post-It Notes and welcome gifts for new employees. I still have my black, faux leather binder, embossed with the words "Teamwork, Inspiration, Creation" under the company logo.

It's tucked in one of the drawers of my cute little desk from Ikea. Somewhere in Sweden, I'm sure there is an office just like ours, all desks of orangy wood with clean lines and self-conscious simplicity.

The desks were deliberately chosen to match the architecture of the four-story circular office building, which appears to have been made with nothing but glass and wood.  Despite the heating and cooling system, it is nothing but stifling heat in the summer and bitter cold in the winter.  The office manager explained that while the indoor temperatures may seem inhospitable, they actually prevent our systems from getting shocked when we head outside-- logic we're too lazy to refute.

Still, the suits that come for meetings and sales pitches don't mind that they are either being frozen or steamed alive. They're too distracted and impressed by the central courtyard and its thousands of dollars worth of flowers and potted plants. It all will help them make their final decisions to finance the SITE. Good landscaping means the site will be excellent. Robust.

Rumors about impending pink slips are flying. I've been wishing for one, even though  I desperately need a regular paycheck. Maybe someone will bring the rumor up at the 4 o'clock edit meeting.

But after a step into the conference room, I know that we're not going to get a damn thing done at that meeting. Chad is slouched in his black leather chair, staring blankly at his notepad.

"It smelled fine," he tells me as I, without thinking, take the first seat to his left.

It turns out that he's talking about the California Rolls he bought for lunch  at the health food store across the street.  He's not feeling well, he elaborates, and then lists every single thing he's eaten in the past three days hoping that somebody will pinpoint the culprit behind his tummy ache. I'm starting to ache for another marathon meeting about viability and synergy. We indulge him with sympathetic nods and don't mention that he looks fine.

"So...um...are we ever going to write anything?" I blurt. Surprises me too.

"Imitation crab can't be that bad if it's in the refrigerated section," Chad says and lifts the back of his hand to his forehead. "I think I feel clammy."

And that's the end of the meeting.

For the next two weeks, we resume our daily surfing, and nobody seems to mind our more frequent and longer breaks in the courtyard. We sit around drinking free sodas and coffee, sharing all unused beverages with the potted plants and flowers that they've forgotten to hire someone to water.

With the clock ticking to the soft launch promised to investors, the VPs bring in a new office manager to make things run smoother. Her name is Susan and she jumps right into her work with an elaborate reorganization of the free sodas, stirring controversy by replacing Sprite with 7-Up. The VPs fold their arms in front of them and nod to each other because everything will be all right now.

Day after day, Susan, zips, zigs and zags through the office rearranging furniture and replacing yellow Post-It notes for light blue ones. We dub her Speedy. Not for the way she constantly mows through the offices, but because of the substance that surely fuels her. Fortunately, all of this activity doesn't affect our pointing and clicking or breaks in the courtyard, where the once healthy plant life has faded into various shades of brown and dead.

Although we haven't written one single story, much less nailed down what the site is about, everyone grows more relaxed. Maybe it will be okay. I really start to believe this until, one day, I see something I've never seen before: Speedy standing still.

"Who...ordered...those?" she asks, with what seems like a little terror. I follow the direction her finger is pointing, bracing myself for something bad like cages of ferrets or funny, like a jumble of blow-up dolls. Instead, all I see is the lamp on my desk.  It has to be the speed.

I shrug. Gotta get back to clicking. Speedy sets off to discuss the matter of the lamps with Chad, who agrees that the lamps do clash with the post-modern architecture and Ikea furniture, creating an imbalance in the work environment. Ah, no wonder we can't get anything done. Speedy sets off to confirm with other execs before placing an emergency call to the nearest office supply store. I decide it's time for another soda break.  I take my time, purposely avoiding the circus of activity taking place indoors. There is moving and shuffling and the tinkling of shattering glass.

When it finally quiets down, I head back indoors to check my e-mail. But as soon I see the change, I am suddenly the one standing still, in shock: The perfect light lamps are gone.

In their places stand thin, reedy looking things that angle over the desks like Superman, arms raised straight ahead, ready to fly off and away.  Chad stands nearby, inspecting the change. He nods and fold his arms over his chest because everything will be all right now.

It takes a while to get used to the new lamp's murky, muddy haze.  This is light made for cozy evenings on the sofa watching videos. It's light to make out by. Not good for desk-related work at all. I miss the perfect light of my old lamp, but in the end, it's okay. I really don't have any work to do anyway.