It has always intrigued me that some women don't work. Just don't work. And their husbands just keep going to work and aren't jealous at all. I know it's hard work to raise kids, and buy groceries, and clean the house blah blah blah. But let's be honest, these women never have to dread their annoying boss coming around the corner. They never have to spend countless hours of their life with people whose eyeballs they want to gouge out. And this fantasy land is what the majority of this blog is based upon.
However, after my recent week off for Christmas - the most time I've had off since college - I began to feel differently. The first few days were bliss. Other people were at work and I was not! I got things done that I had been putting off for months. I picked up my retainer. I spent 15 minutes picking out a color of spray paint. I had a much-needed appointment to an ENT, in which I leisurely discussed my sinuses without having to rush back to avoid the glare of an annoyed boss. I sat down and just watched a Christmas movie. I baked cookies. If I could bottle that day up and take swigs of it throughout the work week, I so would.
It was 3 days after Christmas that the change started. I had had all the joy I could stand. All the fudge, egg nog, cookies, and Chardonnay that any human should ever consume. I had been to the movies. I had eaten out approximately 15 times. Been shopping twice. There was literally nothing left to do. I craved nothing else. I could not stand one more bit of entertainment. I needed some freaking work.
I assume housewives reach this point eventually. One can only watch so many episodes of Oprah, fill up so many scrapbooks, and go on so many park strolls. At some point, don't you have to have a crappy activity to do so you can actually look forward to a fun one? Like Jason Mraz says, "It takes the night to make it dawn. It takes a day to make you yawn...It takes some cold to know the sun. It takes the one to have the other."
I guess if you're going to be a hardcore housewife, you really treat it as work. You get up, take a shower, run errands, clean house, and stay very scheduled. And then maybe it does feel like work and you do look forward to the weekends. I'm afraid my housewife-hood would go more like this: Wake up at 10:30. Watch HGTV for hour to hour and a half. Eat breakfast. Go to Hobby Lobby at 12:30. Come home with multiple craft projects around 3:00. Begin several crafts. Possibly take shower. But most likely not. Brush teeth. Then the work day is over!
So maybe that's it. You turn your household activities into actual work that you dread. What a sad idea. I'd much rather dread spending my day with a micromanaging pissy boss than spending my day picking up after a chubby little toddler. I want any time I have at home to feel like a treat. Even when I'm folding clothes, I like to remember that I could be arguing with a colorblind old man about which color of carpet will look best in his office. When raising my kids is now my only job what is there to be relieved from on Saturday?
On second thought, why do the weekends have to be my only happy time? Why can't I be happy with just having fun, non-work activities 7 days a week, 365 days a year? I guess the real answer is that work feels good. I do enjoy a good day's work. It's the people around me that I don't enjoy. So maybe working from home is the ultimate goal. Yes, this is the answer to all problems. You aren't jobless. You still have tasks that don't involve scrapbooks, but you can't see or hear your annoying co-workers. Yet you retain your social skills through email so you're not stunned at dinner parties with nothing to talk about except a diaper genie. This still doesn't solve the problem of how to get me to take a shower when I don't have to be in public, though.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Thank you, Work.
Thank you, Work, for exposing me to new cultural experiences.
Annually, I am forced to go with my fellow coworkers and eat Thanksgiving lunch with the law firm downstairs. These are a different breed of lawyers than one would imagine. They are insanely obese. They are openly alcoholic. They are smokers. They dress wrong. They smell funny. I am thankful for nothing on this day.
On this special day, we surrender our lunch break, we trudge downstairs, and we merrily greet people we'd normally only have to smile at on the elevator. They proudly usher us into the room with the feast. There are at least 20 tin containers of unidentifiable casseroles that have been prepared at the various lawyers' homes. I do not allow myself to ponder upon the cleanliness of a 400 pound woman's kitchen. She can't possibly clean her knee pit, so how she could adequately clean her counters..never mind.
We hesitantly begin to fix our plate. Each dish contains a regular-sized plastic dinner spoon because, in the 30 years they've employed this tradition, no one has ever suggested they invest in serving spoons. I get the smallest portion possible - which is still like 50 spoonfuls - of the few dishes I recognize. I avoid any and all meat. And then comes the worst part.
Where do I sit? Which bizarre mix of people, whom I would never speak to in real life, must I be forced to share a room and meal for half an hour? Last year, I was crammed into the small break room with an eccentric old man and his wife, who referred to him as The Colonel. This year, there weren't enough seats. Freedom at last! We made our way to the front of the office to eat in peace. I was the last one about to take my seat, when I realized the 4 waiting room chairs had been filled. Then, Earl the Chain-smoker appeared and announced that two chairs had just opened in the break room, and he motioned for me to follow him. No! I almost escaped and now I am being taken away from the only people I know to go sit in the break room ALONE! This cannot be happening.
I follow Earl in disbelief and enter the break room that is partially filled with an enormous television. The smell of its inhabitants immediately overcomes me. This year I'll be sharing my lunch with a portly alcoholic, a bizarre-looking computer nerd type, and a 400 pound woman with 6 elbow rolls. How can I possibly eat macaroni while looking at your elbow rolls? This is cruel and unusual.
I scarf down my food in record time and make an excuse about having to get back to work. On the way out, I hear the usual..going so soon?...stay and have some dessert!...at least take some for later!...you're not going to try my pumpkin pie?? What is it with you people trying to force food on me? When I reach the elevator, I literally have to shake all over to rid myself of the awkwardness.
For the rest of the day, I have the warm fuzzy feeling of raging heartburn to remind me of the holiday cheer. Do these people actually use some sort of heartburn additive in their cooking? I do not experience this level of discomfort any other day of the year.
Annually, I am forced to go with my fellow coworkers and eat Thanksgiving lunch with the law firm downstairs. These are a different breed of lawyers than one would imagine. They are insanely obese. They are openly alcoholic. They are smokers. They dress wrong. They smell funny. I am thankful for nothing on this day.
On this special day, we surrender our lunch break, we trudge downstairs, and we merrily greet people we'd normally only have to smile at on the elevator. They proudly usher us into the room with the feast. There are at least 20 tin containers of unidentifiable casseroles that have been prepared at the various lawyers' homes. I do not allow myself to ponder upon the cleanliness of a 400 pound woman's kitchen. She can't possibly clean her knee pit, so how she could adequately clean her counters..never mind.
We hesitantly begin to fix our plate. Each dish contains a regular-sized plastic dinner spoon because, in the 30 years they've employed this tradition, no one has ever suggested they invest in serving spoons. I get the smallest portion possible - which is still like 50 spoonfuls - of the few dishes I recognize. I avoid any and all meat. And then comes the worst part.
Where do I sit? Which bizarre mix of people, whom I would never speak to in real life, must I be forced to share a room and meal for half an hour? Last year, I was crammed into the small break room with an eccentric old man and his wife, who referred to him as The Colonel. This year, there weren't enough seats. Freedom at last! We made our way to the front of the office to eat in peace. I was the last one about to take my seat, when I realized the 4 waiting room chairs had been filled. Then, Earl the Chain-smoker appeared and announced that two chairs had just opened in the break room, and he motioned for me to follow him. No! I almost escaped and now I am being taken away from the only people I know to go sit in the break room ALONE! This cannot be happening.
I follow Earl in disbelief and enter the break room that is partially filled with an enormous television. The smell of its inhabitants immediately overcomes me. This year I'll be sharing my lunch with a portly alcoholic, a bizarre-looking computer nerd type, and a 400 pound woman with 6 elbow rolls. How can I possibly eat macaroni while looking at your elbow rolls? This is cruel and unusual.
I scarf down my food in record time and make an excuse about having to get back to work. On the way out, I hear the usual..going so soon?...stay and have some dessert!...at least take some for later!...you're not going to try my pumpkin pie?? What is it with you people trying to force food on me? When I reach the elevator, I literally have to shake all over to rid myself of the awkwardness.
For the rest of the day, I have the warm fuzzy feeling of raging heartburn to remind me of the holiday cheer. Do these people actually use some sort of heartburn additive in their cooking? I do not experience this level of discomfort any other day of the year.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Lewis Will Die of Natural Causes
There is no chance that Lewis will ever be murdered, kidnapped, or have any other unfortunate encounter with a criminal.
Most of us fear being victims of crime, you know, late at night when we're home alone. After watching a scary movie. Or in those wee hours of the morning when your brain is in freak-out mode and you wonder why you walk from your car to your house without mace in your hand. But then we wake up, the fear drifts away, and we go about our normal day, not always looking over our shoulder or remembering to lock the car door.
But not Lewis.
I have previously discussed our elevator bell that chimes to announce someone's arrival. Most of us ignore it since reps come and go all day and the mail man comes in. But not Lewis. If there is a chime that is not immediatley followed by an announcement of one's presence and title, you will hear Lewis begin to mumble. "I guess this is some sort of axe murderer," she'll often say. Yes, Lewis. That is a plausible guess.
I was the first to arrive this morning, after Lewis - who always locks the elevator behind her. I unlocked the door and came in. Yet I was still greeted with a frantic "Hello??" I imagine that every morning when she hears the first bell ring, she thinks, "Maybe I didn't remember to lock it back. Maybe this will be THE morning when one of those homeless guys finally kills me."
Rest assured, Lewis. You are the last person who will ever be attacked. The rest of us dicey risk-takers who aren't sent into panic mode at the sound of a door bell will definitely go before you do.
Most of us fear being victims of crime, you know, late at night when we're home alone. After watching a scary movie. Or in those wee hours of the morning when your brain is in freak-out mode and you wonder why you walk from your car to your house without mace in your hand. But then we wake up, the fear drifts away, and we go about our normal day, not always looking over our shoulder or remembering to lock the car door.
But not Lewis.
I have previously discussed our elevator bell that chimes to announce someone's arrival. Most of us ignore it since reps come and go all day and the mail man comes in. But not Lewis. If there is a chime that is not immediatley followed by an announcement of one's presence and title, you will hear Lewis begin to mumble. "I guess this is some sort of axe murderer," she'll often say. Yes, Lewis. That is a plausible guess.
I was the first to arrive this morning, after Lewis - who always locks the elevator behind her. I unlocked the door and came in. Yet I was still greeted with a frantic "Hello??" I imagine that every morning when she hears the first bell ring, she thinks, "Maybe I didn't remember to lock it back. Maybe this will be THE morning when one of those homeless guys finally kills me."
Rest assured, Lewis. You are the last person who will ever be attacked. The rest of us dicey risk-takers who aren't sent into panic mode at the sound of a door bell will definitely go before you do.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
When Work Starts to Affect Your Appearance
After reading about my urban-dwelling, high-rise working, sister's designer outfit today, I feel even more like an overweight lesbian in my clothes. I've decided this is to be blamed on my coworkers.
Today, I am wearing khaki pants that I have had for several years. They came from Old Navy. They are saggy in the ass. They give me a muffin top, and they're not even a good color. But I still wear them to work. Why? Because I work with 3 old women. I am wearing a crew neck t-shirt that the aforementioned sister was giving to the Good Will, because when I wake up in the morning and go in my closet, I think "Ugh...t-shirt today." Why? Because I work with 3 old women.
Don't get me wrong. I love clothes. I love getting dressed on the weekends. And on the rare occasion, I do dress attractively at work, but I am almost always regretful that I have done so.
For example, last Valentine's Day fell on a week day. I didn't want to come home from work and take a full on shower. That seemed like a lot of effort, and I didn't want to intimidate the boyfriend. So I thought, I'll wear my Valentine's gear to work. Then I can just freshen up before going out.
It's a three-quarter-sleeve wrap dress. Very work appropriate. Yes, it happened to be leopard print, but isn't that almost a neutral now? And it's not like I wore it with fishnet hose and red heels. I wore opaque tights and black heels. Yet I knew what the reaction would be. Not, "You look pretty today." "Cute dress." No, it would be "WOO WOO! SOMEBODY DRESSED SEXY TODAY!" "MY GOD, HALEY, LOOK AT YOU!!!"
Sometimes even a slightly higher heel than usual will elicit a similar response. I cannot stand this. It's either my inner-adolescent who still hates having attention drawn in her direction, or it's that a 60 year old woman saying "sexy" to me makes me projectile vomit.
Therefore, lesbian gear it is for me. Until I get a job with men.
Today, I am wearing khaki pants that I have had for several years. They came from Old Navy. They are saggy in the ass. They give me a muffin top, and they're not even a good color. But I still wear them to work. Why? Because I work with 3 old women. I am wearing a crew neck t-shirt that the aforementioned sister was giving to the Good Will, because when I wake up in the morning and go in my closet, I think "Ugh...t-shirt today." Why? Because I work with 3 old women.
Don't get me wrong. I love clothes. I love getting dressed on the weekends. And on the rare occasion, I do dress attractively at work, but I am almost always regretful that I have done so.
For example, last Valentine's Day fell on a week day. I didn't want to come home from work and take a full on shower. That seemed like a lot of effort, and I didn't want to intimidate the boyfriend. So I thought, I'll wear my Valentine's gear to work. Then I can just freshen up before going out.
It's a three-quarter-sleeve wrap dress. Very work appropriate. Yes, it happened to be leopard print, but isn't that almost a neutral now? And it's not like I wore it with fishnet hose and red heels. I wore opaque tights and black heels. Yet I knew what the reaction would be. Not, "You look pretty today." "Cute dress." No, it would be "WOO WOO! SOMEBODY DRESSED SEXY TODAY!" "MY GOD, HALEY, LOOK AT YOU!!!"
Sometimes even a slightly higher heel than usual will elicit a similar response. I cannot stand this. It's either my inner-adolescent who still hates having attention drawn in her direction, or it's that a 60 year old woman saying "sexy" to me makes me projectile vomit.
Therefore, lesbian gear it is for me. Until I get a job with men.
I Hate You All
I don't have PMS. I'm not sick. I'm not hungry. I'm a little tired, but other than that, I have no reason to feel like I want to kill people today. But I do.
Yesterday, all 3 of the Olds were out of town. This rare kind of day is unimaginably wonderful for me. The sky seems more blue. I can breathe more easily. I love life.
Today, they're all back. So far, they have all bellowed my name repeatedly while I was on the phone, they've asked me to perform menial tasks for them all the while knowing that I am one of two people who actually has real work to do, and they've generally just walked around being loud, old, and annoying.
I'm starting to think that I have a deficiency in being able to cope with other people. When someone sucks, I am able to ascertain this fact within seconds of meeting them. Every slightly annoying characteristic they have seems amplified times 20. When I see them coming, I almost feel like I want to puke.
I don't think it's just that I hate people. I feel the opposite extreme of this reaction with people I love and other people I enjoy. Every facial expression they have and thing they say, I just want to kiss their cheek. I think I just have extreme emotions. I either really can't stand people or I really love them. There is no in between for me. Unless I'm with my coworkers drinking wine. Then they can easily cross from the hate side to the love side. But you can never cross from the love side to the hate side, unless you're an exboyfriend.
On second thought, a rep just brought some mini cupcakes, and now I feel much more well-equipped to handle the rest of the day. It was just a sugar deficiency.
Yesterday, all 3 of the Olds were out of town. This rare kind of day is unimaginably wonderful for me. The sky seems more blue. I can breathe more easily. I love life.
Today, they're all back. So far, they have all bellowed my name repeatedly while I was on the phone, they've asked me to perform menial tasks for them all the while knowing that I am one of two people who actually has real work to do, and they've generally just walked around being loud, old, and annoying.
I'm starting to think that I have a deficiency in being able to cope with other people. When someone sucks, I am able to ascertain this fact within seconds of meeting them. Every slightly annoying characteristic they have seems amplified times 20. When I see them coming, I almost feel like I want to puke.
I don't think it's just that I hate people. I feel the opposite extreme of this reaction with people I love and other people I enjoy. Every facial expression they have and thing they say, I just want to kiss their cheek. I think I just have extreme emotions. I either really can't stand people or I really love them. There is no in between for me. Unless I'm with my coworkers drinking wine. Then they can easily cross from the hate side to the love side. But you can never cross from the love side to the hate side, unless you're an exboyfriend.
On second thought, a rep just brought some mini cupcakes, and now I feel much more well-equipped to handle the rest of the day. It was just a sugar deficiency.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Russ: Come Collect Yo Crazy Ass Brother
Russ' brother is clinically insane. All the women I work with have crazy relatives and crazy children. Do not think that they were the only lucky ones in the family tree. They are crazy too.
Russ' brother came in last week and stumbled on his cane back to my cubicle. (He's 42 and not injured). Russ was not in yet, as she earned the right to sleep 'til 10 when she achieved the impressive milestone of turning 50. He didn't look me directly in the face (apparently staring does not run in the family). Rather, he stared off into space and demanded to see his sister. After I informed him that she was not in yet, he chose to have a seat at a chair near MY desk. There he proceeded to talk about his photography, despite the fact that I was clearly busy emailing my coworker and making fun of him.
Today he came in again. Russ saw him come in. Her cubicle is in plain view of the aisle. My cubicle, as I have said before, is far in the back. You know she heard him come in. You KNOW she saw him walk by. She heard him come back to my desk and start talking to me. Still, she did nothing. I had to call this woman across the office to come collect her crazy ass brother. He proceeded to hang around my desk for a while and show me a sample of his photography - a church with spiderwebs on it. Something about this man causes me to talk to him as if he is a child: "Yes! That's a very good picture - yes it is!"
Russ, you owe me an apology for your crazy ass brother. Do not pretend like he did not come over here.
Russ' brother came in last week and stumbled on his cane back to my cubicle. (He's 42 and not injured). Russ was not in yet, as she earned the right to sleep 'til 10 when she achieved the impressive milestone of turning 50. He didn't look me directly in the face (apparently staring does not run in the family). Rather, he stared off into space and demanded to see his sister. After I informed him that she was not in yet, he chose to have a seat at a chair near MY desk. There he proceeded to talk about his photography, despite the fact that I was clearly busy emailing my coworker and making fun of him.
Today he came in again. Russ saw him come in. Her cubicle is in plain view of the aisle. My cubicle, as I have said before, is far in the back. You know she heard him come in. You KNOW she saw him walk by. She heard him come back to my desk and start talking to me. Still, she did nothing. I had to call this woman across the office to come collect her crazy ass brother. He proceeded to hang around my desk for a while and show me a sample of his photography - a church with spiderwebs on it. Something about this man causes me to talk to him as if he is a child: "Yes! That's a very good picture - yes it is!"
Russ, you owe me an apology for your crazy ass brother. Do not pretend like he did not come over here.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Russ and the Staring Game
I have already relocated myself to the most remote cubicle in the name of "being closer to a window." There isn't much more I can do, other than construct a door, to remove myself from the main path of travel in this office. I am happiest when I manage to make it through an entire day without seeing any of my coworkers.
Russ, however, will find a way to walk by. And when she walks by, she will stare. Don't get me wrong, I understand basic social interactions. I know that society requires me to look up from my email in the morning and smile at this woman, as if I have not just seen her the very day before.
But this is not the reason Russ stares. I can tell by the blank look on her face that she isn't staring in hopes of interacting with me. She isn't even aware that I am on the other side of her gaze seeing her staring at me. She is staring as a child stares at a passing ice cream truck, simply to observe an object of interest. I am not an object, Russ. I see you staring at me.
One day it was so unbelievably awkward and long, that I was forced to say, "What?" I was expecting something along the lines of, "Did you fix your hair differently?" But alas, this question was met with a continued blank stare and then she was gone.
Russ, however, will find a way to walk by. And when she walks by, she will stare. Don't get me wrong, I understand basic social interactions. I know that society requires me to look up from my email in the morning and smile at this woman, as if I have not just seen her the very day before.
But this is not the reason Russ stares. I can tell by the blank look on her face that she isn't staring in hopes of interacting with me. She isn't even aware that I am on the other side of her gaze seeing her staring at me. She is staring as a child stares at a passing ice cream truck, simply to observe an object of interest. I am not an object, Russ. I see you staring at me.
One day it was so unbelievably awkward and long, that I was forced to say, "What?" I was expecting something along the lines of, "Did you fix your hair differently?" But alas, this question was met with a continued blank stare and then she was gone.
Introductions
I work at a small interior design firm in a small city. As is common in this field, I am one of 2 young women working side by side with 3 women who are older than my parents. As you can imagine, this generational gap brings about many interesting encounters. These encounters often require that I vent or decompress with my fellow young coworker, because - of course - I am against murdering the elderly.
Recently, however, the upcoming election has correlated violently with the increasing age of my coworkers, and I have therefore developed the need to take my venting public.
Introductions:
All names have been changed in the interest of my continued employment. All women have been given male names to further demonstrate the ridiculousness of these people.
Randall:
Recently, however, the upcoming election has correlated violently with the increasing age of my coworkers, and I have therefore developed the need to take my venting public.
Introductions:
All names have been changed in the interest of my continued employment. All women have been given male names to further demonstrate the ridiculousness of these people.
Randall:
- The personification of insecurity (thanks to her architect husband) portrayed as supreme confidence and arrogance
- Only buys shoes with one criterion: that they are completely silent so as to aid her sneaking up on you
- Walks around the office slower than a sloth for the aforementioned reason, but also to pass the time since Randall hasn't done any work since approximately 1972
- Doesn't acknowledge that the cost of living increases annually; The lack of raises is supposedly recovered through weekend-long company trips to Atlanta to spend money I don't have with people I don't like. Yippee!
- Dons a massive forehead that she proudly parades around the office, slowly
Lewis:
- Shorter than most children
- Favors a bulldog
- Loud, obnoxious, ignorant
- Whistles. Whistles at work. Whistles the same song all day without regard to anyone else's feelings
- Terrified of the entire world including rainstorms and homeless people
- Is the first to arrive at work and therefore re-locks the elevator behind her to prevent, I'm guessing, her abduction from the third floor of an occupied building
- Bellows "Hello??" from the back of the office when the next person arrives and the sensor dings, because, you know, several burglars around town also have keys to unlock the elevator that you - just - locked - behind - you, Idiot.
- Thinks that her typewriter degree from 1984 combined with her age has qualified her as a registered Interior Designer
Russ:
- Airhead bordering on mental retardation
- Enormously tall, almost masculine except for a pretty head
- Hasn't updated her technological skills beyond 1984
- Has no respect for personal space - barrels into your office, resembling what can only be described as a Bull in a China Shop, and knocks several things off your desk
- Such a big, disorganized mess that she can't even manage tasks as simple as keeping her phone cord untangled
- Has raised three idiot daughters who, on a daily basis, overdraw their checking accounts by a minimum of 300 dollars, change their major, and wreck their car
- Has a cellphone set to the most annoying ring tone imaginable, which she leaves behind at the office every chance she gets
- Doesn't gently take brochures you pass to her in rep presentations - snatches them from you like a prisoner at lunch
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