That's What We Said

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

I am once again at my desk while not one, but two workstudy students assemble IKEA furniture. We got the remaining furniture on another office field trip this morning and I'm "trophy-wifing it" as Officemate says, while one normally-dressed and one scantily-clad youngster put my office together for me. It's not a bad life.

It turns out that putting furniture together leads to some awesome "that's what she said" opportunities. Officemate and I are not at all above a workplace "that's what she said", but our workstudies are a little horrified our liberal use of the phrase. But come on, they're bringing it on themselves:

Upon seeing the completed filing cabinet:"Holy cow, this is huge!"

Trying to install drawers into filing cabinets: "I guess you just slide it in."

Handing the other one the hammer: "Allison*, wanna bang?"

Realizing the hammer is very large: "This thing barely fits in my hand!"

Trying to maneuver filing cabinet into corner of the room: "I just really don't think it will fit."

Realizing they need help moving the filing cabinet: "We're going to need 3 people to do it."

Come on! They're asking for it. And we are delivering. Then laughing like 12-year-olds while the not-much-older-than-12-year-olds roll their eyes and get back to work.

*Not her real name.

I Scream

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

Note: I totally thought I posted this yesterday. My bad, kids.

Today is Officemate's youngest daughter's 2nd birthday. Happy Birthday, little Officemate! Your current Jekyll and Hyde personality befuddles me, but it cannot be denied that you are damn cute.

Officemate took the day off to take her kids swimming in honor of little one's birthday and because the Bay Area seems to have gotten the memo that it's June and the weather is behaving accordingly, much to the extreme relief of people on Facebook.

The nice weather is awesome, of course, but it does not contribute to a productive workplace, as doing anything outside seems infinitely preferable to, I don't know figuring out how a student with a disability will be able to access our 100+ year old, totally in no way ADA-compliant building when she arrives this August.

We actually have more disabled people in our building than average, I would guess, but they can all walk by themselves, or with the assistance of a cane, or in one woman's case, the wall. (Seriously, watching her move makes me want to cry and thank some deity for my ambulatory body.) This student has some serious back problems that sometimes don't hinder her walking, but sometimes necessitate the use of a wheelchair.

Our building is one of the oldest on campus, and has multiple floors and lots of stairs and no elevator, so it's really kind of nightmare for someone with mobility issues, making me all the more impressed with my disabled coworkers who seem to navigate it expertly and without complaint. Anyway, for someone who uses a wheelchair to go from floor to floor, they have to leave out the one ADA compliant exit we have on each floor and go outside and around the building, up a pretty steep hill, to get in on the next level. I anticipate this being a nightmare for our student, and let's be honest, probably for me.

So that's why I'm not thinking about it and going to get ice cream.

I'll Take You Out

From an unnamed production office for an undisclosed television show in an address-withheld building in LA where the elevators are shockingly slow...

Sometimes my job world collides with someone else's job world, and sometimes that it adds to both our days in a fun commiserating-laughing-with-a-stranger kind of way.  And sometimes, like today, we are both worse off for the interaction.  And so, an open letter to the girl and the guy at the over-priced but super tasty Los Angeles hamburger place that we have ordered a staff-wide lunch from a disastrous three times:

Dear Girl and Guy at the Over-Priced But Super Tasty Los Angeles Hamburger Place,

Hey, your hamburgers are really good.  Like, very delicious, which is why- despite my warning cries- on the rare occasion that the star of our show comes into the office for more than an hour, he wants to order everyone's lunch from your restaurant.  Your tiny little pretentious hamburger restaurant.  I thought, naively, that after you refused to put cheese on a burger because it didn't come with cheese on your menu, and wouldn't substitute a turkey patty for a beef one in either of the two hamburgers that our star ordered last time, that my days of listening to you sigh on the phone when I called in a large order for pick up were over.  As did I think that my days of calling back and listening to you sigh once again when I listed off the many items that you forgot were also over.  Alas, I was wrong.

See, today our star popped into the office and suggested that we order from your restaurant, as if he had completely forgotten the incident a few weeks ago when he yelled at you through me after you refused to put lettuce- which you serve- on a burger- which you also serve- because you said that they cannot be served together.  With either no memory of the past, or a wide-eyed optimism that this time things would be different, he placed his order for two hamburgers that apparently- though they are on your menu- you don't serve anymore, and I knew that we were in for a lovely afternoon.  Me, you, and all the people I work with who are prone to fits of rage when such things as their non-dairy dressing on the side get screwed up. 

So after you told me that the kitchen was going to be "really pissed at you" when I finished telling you which burgers my company would like to exchange several hundred dollars for, I waited a few shocked minutes, and then headed over to pick up our food.  Remember when I got there and I asked if I could use an empty counter to take the food out and double check our order?  Remember how you looked at me as though I had just asked to use that counter space to drink the blood of your first born?  I do.  I also remember how you told me that you had already checked, as if pretentious burger place employees never make mistakes, and as if you and your cohorts in particular hadn't already wasted dozens of minutes of my time in return trips for forgotten items.

But, I have to say, that was one delicious burger that I wanted to punch you in the face over.  So thanks.  And stop being such an a-hole.

Somewhat yours,
K

Panic Elevator

From an unnamed production office for an undisclosed television show in an address-withheld building in LA where the elevators are shockingly slow...

I know that if you're in the entertainment industry and your name doesn't rhyme with Gleven Glielberg or Shmulia Doberts, you're going to have to do some seriously annoying, infuriatingly stupid work that you don't enjoy almost every day.  And I don't know, maybe Gleven and Shmulia do, too.  But it seems as if the wildly bothersome tasks have hit a peak around my office recently.  They alternate between banal and high stress, and are condescending so as to demonstrate zero faith in my abilities as often as they are way above my pay grade with full freedom to fail all alone.  In short, I'm not into it.

Enter this gem from some wonderfully prescient maintenance employee:

That's the elevator covered in padding.  I have to share an office with, as of today, four other people which makes throwing myself against the wall as I scream at full volume a slim possibility.  But an elevator- That I can commandeer.  That emergency Stop button can't just be for natural disasters and equipment malfunctions, and I know a young assistant who could sure use 10 minutes alone yelling at people who aren't there and whom she will never actually yell at and who might really enjoy punching a soft surface so that there's no later need to explain the scabbed knuckles.  I might even bring a book and a cup of coffee to wind down in there afterward, just to maximize the alone time.  And I'll probably pick my nose.  Just because I can.

Say Hello to Your Acquaintances

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

It's been awhile since I've done an open letter, and today I've been inspired to write 4. Without further adieu:

Dear IT guy,

I don't know what happened to you to make you such a crank. Is it because we all think your Russian wife is mail order? Is it because you have no discernible neck? I've worked with well-intentioned IT guys with no social skills before, but you are actively unpleasant. We know you love to tell us everything that we're doing wrong and complain about doing any work at all, but it's making us all hate you so bad. So bad.

What do I need to do to get you fired?

Fondly,
S

Dear friend with a new baby,

I'm happy for you. I really am. This is nothing personal, but I am hiding you on my Facebook news feed because I cannot read any more posts about your baby's sleeping/eating/pooping habits. I totally get that you're home alone all day and totally focused on your baby, but I need you to understand that no one else cares.

XOXO
S

Dear phone repairman,

You cannot call me "sweetie." You just can't.

Sincerely,
S

Dear 19 year old workstudy student,

You are young and cute. This office is casual. But for the love of God, those shorts are way too short. We won't be wondering if your legs get magically fat at your crotch if you wear shorts that are just an inch or two longer. We all get that you have a nice figure. We do not need to see your ass to be convinced of that fact.

In solidarity,
S

Morning After

From an unnamed production office for an undisclosed television show in an address-withheld building in LA where the elevators are shockingly slow...

You guys- Remember when you or your favorite early 90's evening soap opera queen Brenda Walsh lost your/their virginity and were totally sure that you somehow looked different after?  Thought that you were putting off such a glow that it was amazing that strangers didn't just stop you on the street to ask what glorious (well, whatever) event had recently passed?  Remember, guys?

Well, I hate to shatter any totally reasonable notions (especially given that I'm pretty sure that my mom makes up half of our readership), but I did not lose my virginity last night.  But I did go to DISNEYLAND!  With my gal pals!  Almost until closing!  On a Monday!  And I couldn't believe, as I walked around my office today, trying to tamp down the residual joy and delight enough that I could do things like pour my coffee and ride the elevator like a normal person and not one who might, say, throw her hands in the air and shriek, "Yaaaaay!" at the sight of a balloon with ears, that no one noticed.  No one.  No one said, "Hey- Are you recently returned from the happiest place on Earth?  Because you sure look like it!"  Nor did anyone say, with a furrowed brow, "Are you not wearing any make-up?" which was an improvement from earlier this week, but how today did no one feel compelled beyond reason to comment on my actually somewhat happy state?  It's almost as though a generally pleasant attitude is expected.  Well no one better expect that from me any other day.  This is some pixie dust shit, friends.

The Itchy and Scratchy Show

From an unnamed university in the greater San Francisco Bay Area...

K and I have both recently mentioned my ability to tan easily. It's one of the few genetic gifts I've received. I mean, I know I'm very lucky to have a healthy body, but I don't have like naturally long legs or poreless skin or what have you. I've got my ability to tan and my long fingernails working for me, and against me I have greasy hair, big ole' feet, and blood that mosquitoes love.

Yes, I am a mosquito magnet. If one is around, it will bite me. After a week of camp in high school, a girl in my cabin was complaining about her 13 mosquito bites. I did a quick tally of my own body and replied "bitch, please, I have 13 bites on my left arm." It was true. I had 57 altogether, including four on my face.

That was my worst case ever, and while this weekend in Yosemite wasn't that bad, I still have about 8 large visible bites on my arms, 4 on my legs, and two huge ones at the bottom of my neck. I didn't want everyone at my office to make a big fuss over how eaten alive I was, so yesterday I wore a sweater and jeans to work to cover up all my owies and suffer in silence. However, yesterday was crazy hot and I was pretty uncomfortable in my cold-weather outfit. So today I decided to deal with the comments and come to work in a sundress.

I walked into my office (after voting, of course!), shoulders, arms, and legs bared, and braced myself for the barrage of concerned comments I was sure were coming my way.

"Hi, S!"
"Cute dress. It goes well with your 'I Voted' sticker."
"You left your water bottle here yesterday."

All the fussing, all the "oh, you poor thing" type comments, all the motherly admonishing about bug spray I was expecting....none of it came. No one has said anything. I've even done some melodramatic scratching to draw attention to my plight, but nada.

I've decided their lack of response must be due to their knowledge that I am not the type of person who likes to attract attention or sympathy, and not to due to a genuine lack of interest in me and my itchy burden. Right?