I'm a tool, not just because I'm tired, and another installment of my "novel"
Seriously. I got about 4 hours of sleep. One, because I was up until noon making potato salad for a potluck at work tonight, and two, because a friend woke me up with a text message. Thank goodness things are going to be relaxed tonight, and if I really need to, I can take a break from work to come home and crash for a little bit. I'm wearing my Santa hat, even if they force me to wear my camis.
Many apologies to many people, some of which do not read this. The past six months have just flown by, and I've gotten lazy. This shift working thing is killing me. I know I've lost brain cells, and I can't remember when I have been so disorganized in my life. I suck. I knew Christmas was coming, but I procrastinated anyway, and when I ready to start doing the present shopping, everything suddenly became off limits. My fault. And I will totally make it up to you all.
I have the router problem fixed, in a roundabout way. Everything is going through my Vonage modem instead of my router, and it is UP! I had that brainstorm right before work yesterday.
Anyway, just in case you are following along,
Finally I raise my head and stare at my bagel and coffee. I still feel a little flushed from the whole daydreaming in front of the boss about the boss ordeal. My brain is telling me that there is no way he has x-ray vision or that he can read minds, but I still worry that blushing the color of a fresh strawberry will rat me out. Pondering this, I take a sip of the now tepid coffee, making one of those faces that resemble a kid forced to eat Mom’s eggplant casserole. Yuck. I don’t want to leave the relative safety of my cubbyhole for a fresh cup, so I occupy my mind by smearing cream cheese onto my bagel and taking a big bite. Margie walks in just at that moment with a smirk that gets wider once she sees the dab of cream cheese on my lip. “Good talk with the boss, I see.” “Shove it Margie. It’s cream cheese.” I give Margie a withering look as I roll my eyes. “I was just giving you a hard time. Jeez, you’d think that you’d know I was joking. That hunk of a man is way beyond you, and you know it.” Gee thanks Margie. I sink deeper into my chair, sullenly chewing on the remains of my bagel. “Did you just come in here to bruise my fragile ego, or do you actually need something?” Margie stands there with her hand on her hip holding out a message slip. I take the paper, look at it, and promptly become lightheaded. Margie leaves the office looking like a cat that caught a mouse. So much for not being fodder for the gossip pool. It doesn’t take much to start rumors. And I knew this one was going to be a doozy. The slip of paper is a simple one. It’s parchment white with elegant letterhead with the words “Brendall Stock” in strong print. All the message says is. “Don’t forget Saturday night.” As far as office chitchat goes, this is the mother lode. And it has hit me square in the middle of my noggin. I know that the whispers will be sporadic at first, escalading into a loud crescendo by Friday afternoon. And on Monday, the knowing looks will follow me everywhere I go, along with glances to the head office. As innocent as this farce is, I will forever be a marked woman. I will be eternally known as Stock’s Saturday Night Schtup. Of course only that last part is in my head. I am totally unsure what I will be called, but I know it will be humiliating, and it will follow me throughout my tenure here. Even if Brendall announces on the 10 o’clock news that he’s throwing a party and all he wants from me is to be his Girl Friday, it won’t matter. This entire ridiculous situation is based on one written sentence. Maybe the pen really is mightier than the sword. I feel I am about to become scandal sushi. I sink even lower into my chair toasting the air with my paper cup. Kanpai, motherfuckers.
Burying myself into work so I don’t have to face Margie and the other coworkers almost certainly laying in wait for me to show my face so they can start their incessant whispering, I am relieved when the sandwich girl knocks on my door. It is not because I am starving, which I am, but I know that my day is almost over. I select the corned beef on rye, a large dill pickle and a Diet Dr Pepper. Gina, the supplier of deli delights, isn’t much of a talker, but to my dismay even she knows about The Note. “So I hear you have a date with the big man on Saturday.” I groan and bury my head right into my corned beef and mumble almost incoherently, “It’s not a date.” Gina flips her hair as she pushes her cart out the door, “Whatever. I would be ecstatic if that man acknowledged my existence.” Yeah Gina, I think. I’m creaming in my pants right now. I grab my food and slide underneath my desk and pray that the rest of the world, including Brendall Stock, thinks I am dead. The rest of the day passes without any more incidents, though it was probably attributed more to the fact that I was trying to work underneath my desk. Though I figured out rather quickly that I wasn’t going to get much done without a decent view of the computer monitor. Trying to see it from my current vantage point was giving me a particularly painful ache in my shoulders. Well that gives new meaning to pain in the neck, I think. I finally slink back into my chair. There is no use pouting. I’m going to have to face all of this sooner or later. After taking a few deep cleansing breaths I decide to take things head on. Those documents are not going to write themselves. I attack them with the ferocity of a dog in heat. This of course reminds me of other things, but I diligently push such thoughts away as I re-write the contracts to the proper format.
It’s finally after 5 o’clock, and I am in desperate need of a cocktail. I shut off my computer and slowly shrug on my jacket, thinking of possible escape routes. It is a good thing that I am wearing slacks; I might have to perform a Matrix-style office getaway if I get backed into a corner. I peek through the blinds into the maze of outer cubicles, my eyes darting first to Margie’s desk. Margie is nowhere to be seen. But that is not to say she could pop out any moment like a haunted house skeleton. This alone propels me into immediate action. I sneak out my door and hug the partitioned walls along the way, feeling absolutely idiotic doing so. The majority of the other employees are already gone by now, tucked into their favorite dive bars sipping on mugs of warm crappy beer and screaming at whatever home team is getting their asses kicked on the too small, too loud television. But it needs to be done. I am determined to leave unscathed. I almost make it to the elevator without being accosted by the remaining busy-bodies awaiting my flight from the general safety of my office, when I hear my name called from across the room at about 80 decibels, causing the lingering secretaries and database managers to pop their curious weasel-eyed heads up from their cramped cubicles like those annoying rodents in the Whack a Gopher game. I really could use one of those padded hammers right about now. I’d whack myself into oblivion.
I wanted nothing more than to bang my head against the elevator doors, but instead I steel myself for the upcoming onslaught. But I wasn’t sure whether it was going to come from the booming voice I heard, or from what I would hear about herself the next morning. I might just use a couple of my sick days soon. I feel an incurable disease coming upon me suddenly. Turning around slowly as to not make a fool of myself by falling down and dying of shame, I face the body that belongs to the voice and a telltale reddening creeps into my neck. I really need to do something about that. Maybe bronzer would work. Oh, who am I kidding? I should just lie out in the sun for about 8 hours and just bake myself in to crimson crisp. That would prevent any further blushing for the next thousand years. The Boss walked toward me with that purposeful stride befitting of any man of importance, and one with an agenda. “You takin’ off, Myla?” I was immediately on the defensive, for reasons totally unknown to me. “I’ve completed all the contracts and they are ready for your approval, Mr. Stock.” He puts his hands in his pockets and casually leans against the wall. “Call me Brendall, please. We’re going to be working rather closely together this week. There’s really no need for formality.” I notice a few pairs of eyes go wide, and I wished his voice didn’t carry so. “Well Mr., I mean Brendall. I’ve had quite the busy day. I’m truly exhausted and all I want to do is go home and take a nice long hot bath.” Why did I feel the need to let him on that little tidbit of my private life? Like he would ever volunteer to scrub my back. Yeah, right. Granted, that was exactly what I was planning to do, but with a martini or four beforehand added in for good measure. “Sure, of course Myla. You go on ahead and have you a relaxing’ night. We will discuss the plans for Saturday night when you get in tomorrow. You just stop by the office when you get in, and I’ll give you everything you need.” There are more widened gopher eyes from the peanut gallery. I would do anything for that stupid mallet right about now, I think as the elevator doors close, enclosing me in the blissful, eyeless and earless enclosure.
I exit the building and take a deep lungful of air, as if this was my first breath in eons. For some inexplicable reason, I look back at the building, to my floor, and I see a man’s figure. I could be him, but it is hard to be certain exactly since he is ten floors up. His office does face the street. Maybe it isn’t him. Or if it is, then maybe he’s not looking at me, but that the city’s skyline. I suddenly get goose bumps and quickly make my way toward home. I make it to the nearest taxi stand before turning around once more to see if the mystery man at the window is still there, but he is already gone. I shrug my shoulders as a cab pulls up to the curb, and the window is forgotten as I get in and give the driver the address to my favorite nighttime haunt near my home. The day is turning to night and I watch and the streetlights and shop signs come to neon life as the taxi makes its way to my destination. I love this time of day. It is like two separate worlds. I never get to see the day wake up, only because I would rather sleep through it. I would prefer the twilight and the night beyond. Even in the city, I feel safer walking through the night. It also helps that I am pretty handy with the metal flashlight I carry in my purse. I accidentally hit Mickey once with my purse as I was swinging it quite enthusiastically after too many apple martinis while singing Love Shack at the top of my lungs. Mickey was not pleased. It took about two weeks for the swelling on his head to go down. He didn’t talk to me after it happened for a month. I had to admit I was pretty miserable about it. It took me three months before I would drink an apple martini again. It would take even longer for Mickey to walk next to me on my right hand side as long as I was carrying a purse. If I had any compunction to start swinging it again, he would calmly take it from me and carry it himself. I smiled to myself remembering this little tidbit. It was rather amusing to see this massive man with bulging muscles hauling this tiny pink alligator purse on his wrist with more grace than Jackie O. could muster. We can both laugh about it now, but to this day, Mickey will steer clear of me if I walk into the bar with that purse.
Many apologies to many people, some of which do not read this. The past six months have just flown by, and I've gotten lazy. This shift working thing is killing me. I know I've lost brain cells, and I can't remember when I have been so disorganized in my life. I suck. I knew Christmas was coming, but I procrastinated anyway, and when I ready to start doing the present shopping, everything suddenly became off limits. My fault. And I will totally make it up to you all.
I have the router problem fixed, in a roundabout way. Everything is going through my Vonage modem instead of my router, and it is UP! I had that brainstorm right before work yesterday.
Anyway, just in case you are following along,
Finally I raise my head and stare at my bagel and coffee. I still feel a little flushed from the whole daydreaming in front of the boss about the boss ordeal. My brain is telling me that there is no way he has x-ray vision or that he can read minds, but I still worry that blushing the color of a fresh strawberry will rat me out. Pondering this, I take a sip of the now tepid coffee, making one of those faces that resemble a kid forced to eat Mom’s eggplant casserole. Yuck. I don’t want to leave the relative safety of my cubbyhole for a fresh cup, so I occupy my mind by smearing cream cheese onto my bagel and taking a big bite. Margie walks in just at that moment with a smirk that gets wider once she sees the dab of cream cheese on my lip. “Good talk with the boss, I see.” “Shove it Margie. It’s cream cheese.” I give Margie a withering look as I roll my eyes. “I was just giving you a hard time. Jeez, you’d think that you’d know I was joking. That hunk of a man is way beyond you, and you know it.” Gee thanks Margie. I sink deeper into my chair, sullenly chewing on the remains of my bagel. “Did you just come in here to bruise my fragile ego, or do you actually need something?” Margie stands there with her hand on her hip holding out a message slip. I take the paper, look at it, and promptly become lightheaded. Margie leaves the office looking like a cat that caught a mouse. So much for not being fodder for the gossip pool. It doesn’t take much to start rumors. And I knew this one was going to be a doozy. The slip of paper is a simple one. It’s parchment white with elegant letterhead with the words “Brendall Stock” in strong print. All the message says is. “Don’t forget Saturday night.” As far as office chitchat goes, this is the mother lode. And it has hit me square in the middle of my noggin. I know that the whispers will be sporadic at first, escalading into a loud crescendo by Friday afternoon. And on Monday, the knowing looks will follow me everywhere I go, along with glances to the head office. As innocent as this farce is, I will forever be a marked woman. I will be eternally known as Stock’s Saturday Night Schtup. Of course only that last part is in my head. I am totally unsure what I will be called, but I know it will be humiliating, and it will follow me throughout my tenure here. Even if Brendall announces on the 10 o’clock news that he’s throwing a party and all he wants from me is to be his Girl Friday, it won’t matter. This entire ridiculous situation is based on one written sentence. Maybe the pen really is mightier than the sword. I feel I am about to become scandal sushi. I sink even lower into my chair toasting the air with my paper cup. Kanpai, motherfuckers.
Burying myself into work so I don’t have to face Margie and the other coworkers almost certainly laying in wait for me to show my face so they can start their incessant whispering, I am relieved when the sandwich girl knocks on my door. It is not because I am starving, which I am, but I know that my day is almost over. I select the corned beef on rye, a large dill pickle and a Diet Dr Pepper. Gina, the supplier of deli delights, isn’t much of a talker, but to my dismay even she knows about The Note. “So I hear you have a date with the big man on Saturday.” I groan and bury my head right into my corned beef and mumble almost incoherently, “It’s not a date.” Gina flips her hair as she pushes her cart out the door, “Whatever. I would be ecstatic if that man acknowledged my existence.” Yeah Gina, I think. I’m creaming in my pants right now. I grab my food and slide underneath my desk and pray that the rest of the world, including Brendall Stock, thinks I am dead. The rest of the day passes without any more incidents, though it was probably attributed more to the fact that I was trying to work underneath my desk. Though I figured out rather quickly that I wasn’t going to get much done without a decent view of the computer monitor. Trying to see it from my current vantage point was giving me a particularly painful ache in my shoulders. Well that gives new meaning to pain in the neck, I think. I finally slink back into my chair. There is no use pouting. I’m going to have to face all of this sooner or later. After taking a few deep cleansing breaths I decide to take things head on. Those documents are not going to write themselves. I attack them with the ferocity of a dog in heat. This of course reminds me of other things, but I diligently push such thoughts away as I re-write the contracts to the proper format.
It’s finally after 5 o’clock, and I am in desperate need of a cocktail. I shut off my computer and slowly shrug on my jacket, thinking of possible escape routes. It is a good thing that I am wearing slacks; I might have to perform a Matrix-style office getaway if I get backed into a corner. I peek through the blinds into the maze of outer cubicles, my eyes darting first to Margie’s desk. Margie is nowhere to be seen. But that is not to say she could pop out any moment like a haunted house skeleton. This alone propels me into immediate action. I sneak out my door and hug the partitioned walls along the way, feeling absolutely idiotic doing so. The majority of the other employees are already gone by now, tucked into their favorite dive bars sipping on mugs of warm crappy beer and screaming at whatever home team is getting their asses kicked on the too small, too loud television. But it needs to be done. I am determined to leave unscathed. I almost make it to the elevator without being accosted by the remaining busy-bodies awaiting my flight from the general safety of my office, when I hear my name called from across the room at about 80 decibels, causing the lingering secretaries and database managers to pop their curious weasel-eyed heads up from their cramped cubicles like those annoying rodents in the Whack a Gopher game. I really could use one of those padded hammers right about now. I’d whack myself into oblivion.
I wanted nothing more than to bang my head against the elevator doors, but instead I steel myself for the upcoming onslaught. But I wasn’t sure whether it was going to come from the booming voice I heard, or from what I would hear about herself the next morning. I might just use a couple of my sick days soon. I feel an incurable disease coming upon me suddenly. Turning around slowly as to not make a fool of myself by falling down and dying of shame, I face the body that belongs to the voice and a telltale reddening creeps into my neck. I really need to do something about that. Maybe bronzer would work. Oh, who am I kidding? I should just lie out in the sun for about 8 hours and just bake myself in to crimson crisp. That would prevent any further blushing for the next thousand years. The Boss walked toward me with that purposeful stride befitting of any man of importance, and one with an agenda. “You takin’ off, Myla?” I was immediately on the defensive, for reasons totally unknown to me. “I’ve completed all the contracts and they are ready for your approval, Mr. Stock.” He puts his hands in his pockets and casually leans against the wall. “Call me Brendall, please. We’re going to be working rather closely together this week. There’s really no need for formality.” I notice a few pairs of eyes go wide, and I wished his voice didn’t carry so. “Well Mr., I mean Brendall. I’ve had quite the busy day. I’m truly exhausted and all I want to do is go home and take a nice long hot bath.” Why did I feel the need to let him on that little tidbit of my private life? Like he would ever volunteer to scrub my back. Yeah, right. Granted, that was exactly what I was planning to do, but with a martini or four beforehand added in for good measure. “Sure, of course Myla. You go on ahead and have you a relaxing’ night. We will discuss the plans for Saturday night when you get in tomorrow. You just stop by the office when you get in, and I’ll give you everything you need.” There are more widened gopher eyes from the peanut gallery. I would do anything for that stupid mallet right about now, I think as the elevator doors close, enclosing me in the blissful, eyeless and earless enclosure.
I exit the building and take a deep lungful of air, as if this was my first breath in eons. For some inexplicable reason, I look back at the building, to my floor, and I see a man’s figure. I could be him, but it is hard to be certain exactly since he is ten floors up. His office does face the street. Maybe it isn’t him. Or if it is, then maybe he’s not looking at me, but that the city’s skyline. I suddenly get goose bumps and quickly make my way toward home. I make it to the nearest taxi stand before turning around once more to see if the mystery man at the window is still there, but he is already gone. I shrug my shoulders as a cab pulls up to the curb, and the window is forgotten as I get in and give the driver the address to my favorite nighttime haunt near my home. The day is turning to night and I watch and the streetlights and shop signs come to neon life as the taxi makes its way to my destination. I love this time of day. It is like two separate worlds. I never get to see the day wake up, only because I would rather sleep through it. I would prefer the twilight and the night beyond. Even in the city, I feel safer walking through the night. It also helps that I am pretty handy with the metal flashlight I carry in my purse. I accidentally hit Mickey once with my purse as I was swinging it quite enthusiastically after too many apple martinis while singing Love Shack at the top of my lungs. Mickey was not pleased. It took about two weeks for the swelling on his head to go down. He didn’t talk to me after it happened for a month. I had to admit I was pretty miserable about it. It took me three months before I would drink an apple martini again. It would take even longer for Mickey to walk next to me on my right hand side as long as I was carrying a purse. If I had any compunction to start swinging it again, he would calmly take it from me and carry it himself. I smiled to myself remembering this little tidbit. It was rather amusing to see this massive man with bulging muscles hauling this tiny pink alligator purse on his wrist with more grace than Jackie O. could muster. We can both laugh about it now, but to this day, Mickey will steer clear of me if I walk into the bar with that purse.