The other day I brought in a few teabags of Roastaroma to work, and now every time I open the top drawer where I was storing them, the most amazing smell hits me.
Between that toasty smell, and the christmas wreath that is still hanging in our apartment, I am seasonally confused.
Also, it’s monsooning.
I think someone smart once said that we don’t need a new year to start over, every day is an excuse to start from fresh. Or maybe that’s a Weight Watchers slogan or something.
Either way, I’ve made a new start this week, at a new job (same company, different division) and I’m loving it. Of course it’s early days, but aren’t those the days when your impression is cemented? New office, new office supplies, same email.
Oh and did I mention a new cat? She’s not new exactly, still Mango. However, since her return from a month at a friend’s house, she is a different feline. No longer antisocial, she’s happy to let you pet her (!) and hold her (!!). She’s still a spoiled brat, but that’s the way we like her.
large U.S. map
a mini sombrero from NM
peep toe heels
Paddington yellow rain boots
three bouncy balls
framed poster
one can of spray adhesive
three plastic tablecloths
tote bag from the mall of America
a praying mantis puppet
paper dolls
talking Napoleon Dynamite keychain
assorted event t shirts
screened room dividers
four lamps
three chairs (besides the one I sit in)
binder with printouts of every font my company uses
five different kinds of sticky notes
two scarves
3 coats
one black satin cocktail dress for tonight’s gala
This concludes your peek into the office of a 20something. I am sure Robin Leech will call any minute.
I haven’t spent much time off the east coast. In fact, I haven’t spent much time out of the north east region in general (unless you count DC, which I don’t). It has only been in the last year, when I began travelling for work, that I really had the chance to experience what life was like in other parts of the country.
As it turns out, it’s pastel. Big Boss, coworker and I were on a trip to Texas when I first noticed it. We were the only people wearing black. Everyone around us was floral or patterned and most certainly multicolored. The three of us may as well have been playing Resevoir Dogs in our black suits and sunglasses. We stood out like sore thumbs. “Y’all’r frum New Yorrk, aren’t ya?” What gave it away? “You jus’ look so ser-yus.” And angry, apparently, as though at any moment we would snap and draw our guns on the unsuspecting population of San Antonio.
And that’s when it hit me, New York’s new tourism slogan. New York: We will cut you. I think it has a nice ring to it.
It smells like tunafish. One word, to distinguish fresh ‘tuna’ from ‘tunafish,’ which comes in a can and spends who knows how many months aquiring that specific gag-inducing odor. Clearly, someone on my floor is eating tunafish in some form, and it’s not ok with me.
I’ve decided here and now that I will at some point in my life be important enough to issue a mandate (celebrity style) that no one may eat or prepare tunafish within sniffing distance of me. And if they do I reserve the right to fire and/or inflict bodily harm on them.
But for now, I’ll put my aspirations of power aside and be grateful that I can close the door to my office, spray my hands with lemony antibacterial spray, and wait out the stench.
**Today’s title comes from a Cold War Kids song…can’t remember which.
It’s not what you’re thinking. No battery-powered lovin’ will follow.
I’m currently wearing a tshirt, short sleeved cardigan, sweatshirt, and pashmina. And my nose is still cold. I’m about to crawl under my desk and cozy up to the computer, the only thing producing heat in my office. I figure I can wedge myself between the mac and pc and live there happily until the ice age ends.
My mom has no sympathy when I call: “It’s so hot in my office I could die. Put on a sweater.”
Would it be weird to get a mug of hot water and just hold it?
Despite the title sounding like a chinese takeout reprimand…
It’s only 11:30, and I’ve already had to sign twice for packages for my boss. And the first time, the mail guy got my hopes up by coming in with the actual package, only for me to see that I was signing for her. Why is it that she gets all the fun please-sign-here packages and I get the bills?
In other news, no male fun for me either.
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