WHEN MISS MANNERS DISCOVERS CLIP ART

The copy machine at my old job was the size of a small heifer. It stood in a stall made of three cubicle walls. Shredded paper was strewn on the floor like a sparse layer of hay. I could have sent an intern there to make copies for me. But doing it myself was a chance to get on my feet, stand next to the machine's warm flank and listen to the rhythmic sound of paper moving through its gut.

Each day, my pastoral moment was marred by a fresh sign pinned above the copier. please, it said, in 128-point italicized serif type, REFILL PAPER TRAY AFTER USE. The words "paper tray" cast a forward shadow of black ink onto the page, as if the sun was setting behind them. Clip art floated around the words: a copier, a notarized document and a hand. Pushpins had been pressed so hard into the sign's corners that their soft ends almost penetrated the paper.

The sign was the work of Suzanne (no real names have been used), a criminal-justice student hired last summer to perform general office duties. Soon after she started, the walls of our small public-relations firm were covered with signs that combined art and ordinance.

In the kitchen, before I had even sipped my tea, my eyes would slide to a sign over the sink that admonished YOUR MOTHER IS NOT HERE TO CLEAN UP AFTER YOU. DO IT YOURSELF. Below that phrase, a border of clip-art sponges marched around a coffee mug from which a stream of liquid flowed, like something at the end of an outfall pipe.

Praise for Suzanne's signs cascaded from the top of the employee flowchart. One of the agency's head honchos, Bob, even suggested that the staff thank her for "enhancing" our workplace. I could never bring myself to pat her on the back. Not only did she pollute my moments of relaxation, she invaded all of my private spaces.

PLEASE, IF THE TOILET SEAT DOES NOT FLUSH AUTOMATICALLY, PRESS THE BLACK BUTTON, read the sign on the back of every stall door in the women's room. There was a picture of a toilet and a finger pushing a button. The finger was hugely out of proportion to the toilet, as if it could actually bend at the first knuckle and sit down on the seat. This time, Suzanne added some flowers. I'd sit glaring at the sign. It felt as if Suzanne was standing over me in the stall--not only making sure that I flushed, but that I wiped the seat and washed my hands.