I think that getting hit on at the office is something that goes along with the territory of working long hours in a corporate environment. I spend a majority of my time at work. Usually at least ten hours a day, five times a week. And I'm single. And maybe a little too approachable.
And I spend a lot of time cultivating crushes on various individuals from the office, but I've never really gone out with somebody.
I've definitely made-out with someone from work, but that was more of a drunken boo-boo. And I was only twenty-two so I don't count that one.
Since working at my current company, I’ve been asked out four times. That puts me at about a once per year average. One man was older than my father, and notorious for looking at pornography in the office until the Company blocked those sites. Another was maybe fifteen years older than me. He was a recent divorcee, who was still living with his wife and kids. After describing his living situation and complaining about his wife for an hour. He looked at my boobs and asked me out (this was at a happy hour).
The third guy was a few years younger than me, and awkwardly made me go into a conference room one morning at work so that he could ask me if I’d be his date to a weekend wedding up in Madison, Wisconsin (five hours from Chicago). We’d only known each other casually through work for two weeks at that point.
The fourth guy is thirty-five years-old and lives with his parents. One time at a happy hour, he got really drunk, burst into tears and exclaimed that he hated his parents. The Monday after that, he sent me an instant message to tell me that I looked pretty that day. I avoid him as much as possible.
On Friday, this guy named Sean called me, said he used to work at my company (a few years ago) and asked me if ‘I wanted to grab coffee sometime.’ At first I assumed that it was a joke. My friends definitely aren’t above that sort of trickery. In fact, every time Mick calls me on my work extension he claims to be ‘Roy from Payroll’ then asks some bizarrely inappropriate question for which the answer, he claims, is necessary to update my personnel files. It wasn’t Mick though. And the guy sounded authentically nervous. And I didn’t really know what to say, because I was sitting in a cubicle with my new boss right behind me, and I had no idea who the guy was.
I interrupted him, and asked if I could call him back. He gave me his number (it had the suburbs area code), and I recited it back to him so that it would seem as if I was definitely going to call him back. Then I went to ask my work best friend if he knew who this guy was.
My best friend at work is this sixty year-old guy named Charlie. He’s been with the company for over thirty years, and he and I first met at my ‘welcome to the company’ happy hour. We were instant friends. Charlie can technically retire whenever he wants, and he likes to make fun of how much longer I have to work. Last Friday he ran a calculation (he’s also an accountant), and informed me that I had slightly under 10,000 more days of work before I could retire. I subtly flipped him off (so as not to offend my boss).
“What’s his name again?”
“Sean ****,” I told him.
“I’ve never heard of him,” Charlie said, “Let’s Google him.”
We googled him.
“Huh,” I said, “nothing.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“I guess it doesn’t really matter. I mean. Who calls somebody they barely knew several years after meeting them and asks them out on a date? It’s just weird,” I pointed out.
“You seem to attract attention from weirdoes,” Charlie agreed.
“That’s probably why you and I are such good friends.”
“Hey! That was a jab at me,” he responded indignantly.
Then he flipped me off.
***
So anyway. I’ve got Sean’s number, and I’m definitely not going to go out with him. Because I don’t know who he is. And he lives in the suburbs. And I don’t like to date people that live in the suburbs, because I’m always worried they’ll try to trick me into moving out of the city. But I’m wondering if I should at least call him, and tell him that I appreciate the gesture, but then lie and say that I’m seeing someone. Lying can be such a useful tool at times.
So. Should I call him back to let him down politely, or is it nicer to just not call him back at all?
I think I might take my question to Liz (Of Killerific fame) at the new advice blog she’s started. She seems full of the sage variety of wisdom. Or full of something at least. Sugar maybe.
Also, rest in peace Kurt Vonnegut. I hope Kilgore Trout is waiting to greet you in the afterlife.
-EEK
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
I'm Better At Public Speaking Than Jesus
Man I’ve been busy just working, working, working. This weekend, a friend (from college) that had recently moved to Minneapolis from Chicago came back into town to visit, and his newly pregnant wife asked me how I was doing.
“Really good,” I responded, “I just got a promotion at work, so I’m really excited about that.”
“Who are you dating right now?” she asked.
“Oh…uh…nobody really. I don’t know. I went out with a guy a few weeks ago.”
I shrugged.
“How was that?” she asked.
“It totally sucked. I had to get drunk just to survive the ordeal.”
She looked at me as if I were a sad, sad person, which prompted me to take a giant gulp of the glass of Prosseco I was clasping in my left hand. She was totally judging me.
***
At work last Friday, this guy asked me to speak during this meeting for a few minutes about my new role in the Company. I’ve always been fine with public speaking, and have generally never felt overwhelmingly nervous in front of an audience.
I discovered a limitation to my aforementioned nonchalance, though, when I discovered how many people were attending this meeting. There were about three hundred in the auditorium and then another four hundred dialing in via phone. My allotted time slot of ten minutes was towards the end of the meeting, so I had a good two hours to get myself all worked up and nervous.
When the time came, I went up front and spoke in an embarrassingly tremulous voice. The entire time, crazy thoughts (I think prompted by anxiety?) were revolving through my head. Thoughts like:
1. What if I just threw the microphone at the audience? I should do it. Throw it. do it do it do it do it do it. Or…
2. What if I just started crying hysterically and pushed the podium over so that the presentation laptop and all the other crap sitting on it came crashing to the ground? Or…
3. What if I run away and hide in the girl’s restroom until five pm? I’ll bet everyone would be too stunned to follow me out of the auditorium right away, and then by the time they did they wouldn’t know where I’d gone…
That hot guy from marketing was there. He tried to smile at me afterwards, but I pretty much refused to make eye contact with anyone for the next two hours. I also couldn’t stop blushing, which just made my face feel like it was hot and sweaty for most of the afternoon.
Afterward, one of my coworkers came over to tell me that I did a good job. My boss said the same thing. I thanked them, but didn’t believe them. I figured that they were just saying that because they knew I’d tanked and wanted to make me feel better. I frequently think those sorts of thoughts when people compliment me, which could be a reason to seek some sort of therapy. But. Therapy’s expensive and life’s too short. So. Screw it. I’ll just say ‘thanks’ to the person, and continue entertaining my crazy inside thoughts.
Today, hot marketing guy emailed me to ask if I would mind meeting to provide him with further clarification of what my goals for 2007 will be in regards to my new role. I’m not entirely certain about what he wants, but he’s good-looking, so I said yes.
“Really good,” I responded, “I just got a promotion at work, so I’m really excited about that.”
“Who are you dating right now?” she asked.
“Oh…uh…nobody really. I don’t know. I went out with a guy a few weeks ago.”
I shrugged.
“How was that?” she asked.
“It totally sucked. I had to get drunk just to survive the ordeal.”
She looked at me as if I were a sad, sad person, which prompted me to take a giant gulp of the glass of Prosseco I was clasping in my left hand. She was totally judging me.
***
At work last Friday, this guy asked me to speak during this meeting for a few minutes about my new role in the Company. I’ve always been fine with public speaking, and have generally never felt overwhelmingly nervous in front of an audience.
I discovered a limitation to my aforementioned nonchalance, though, when I discovered how many people were attending this meeting. There were about three hundred in the auditorium and then another four hundred dialing in via phone. My allotted time slot of ten minutes was towards the end of the meeting, so I had a good two hours to get myself all worked up and nervous.
When the time came, I went up front and spoke in an embarrassingly tremulous voice. The entire time, crazy thoughts (I think prompted by anxiety?) were revolving through my head. Thoughts like:
1. What if I just threw the microphone at the audience? I should do it. Throw it. do it do it do it do it do it. Or…
2. What if I just started crying hysterically and pushed the podium over so that the presentation laptop and all the other crap sitting on it came crashing to the ground? Or…
3. What if I run away and hide in the girl’s restroom until five pm? I’ll bet everyone would be too stunned to follow me out of the auditorium right away, and then by the time they did they wouldn’t know where I’d gone…
That hot guy from marketing was there. He tried to smile at me afterwards, but I pretty much refused to make eye contact with anyone for the next two hours. I also couldn’t stop blushing, which just made my face feel like it was hot and sweaty for most of the afternoon.
Afterward, one of my coworkers came over to tell me that I did a good job. My boss said the same thing. I thanked them, but didn’t believe them. I figured that they were just saying that because they knew I’d tanked and wanted to make me feel better. I frequently think those sorts of thoughts when people compliment me, which could be a reason to seek some sort of therapy. But. Therapy’s expensive and life’s too short. So. Screw it. I’ll just say ‘thanks’ to the person, and continue entertaining my crazy inside thoughts.
Today, hot marketing guy emailed me to ask if I would mind meeting to provide him with further clarification of what my goals for 2007 will be in regards to my new role. I’m not entirely certain about what he wants, but he’s good-looking, so I said yes.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Something Old, Something New, Someone Tired, Something Blue
I'm not giving in. And, also, I'm not addressing the half empty yet. I'm full of empty promises, which I'm assuming you've already noted about my personality. I do have something to share, though. I wrote it about a year and a half ago in a fit of boredom at work, and I think that if I were to ever write a novel, this would be a portion of the first chapter. So. If you're in the mood to read on...
Glancing down, she considered the scab residing on her left knee and lightly traced her fingers across its grooved surface. The heat and humidity today were oppressive, but she was too young to notice. She stared aimlessly at the small house across the street as her fingers mapped and remapped the hardened grooves. After a moment, she leaned lazily back against the concrete steps where she was sitting and tugged down on her loose cotton skirt.
She was bored. She knew that it would be hours before her mom got home from the dance studio and considered walking down to say hello. The desire for a coke propelled her to her feet. She would go down and ask for money. In response to her sudden movement, the black dog lying in front of her lifted its head from the sidewalk.
“Come on Tippy,” she said, “Let’s go inside.”
The dog lumbered into a standing position and gazed up at her expectantly.
“Let’s go inside, Tippy.”
She tapped her hand against her thigh emphatically. The dog wagged his tail in response and took a step forward. She reached down to take a hold of his metal collar and opened the screen door behind her to guide him indoors. Rather than cooperate, he backed up lowering his head away from her in an effort to relinquish himself from her grasp.
When she let go, he backed up out of reach all the while maintaining an expectant expression. Deliberating for a moment, she opened the screen door and walked into the house returning with a thin slice of cheese wrapped securely in plastic. Standing in the doorway, she unwrapped it and tore it in half. She folded the larger half into her mouth. The dog shifted on his feet transferring all of his focus eagerly onto the remaining cheese.
“Speak Tippy.”
He sat.
“Speak Tippy.”
He pawed at the air and whimpered.
“Speak Tippy.”
He barked twice – softly and then louder.
“Good dog.”
She backed into the dim foyer of the house while offering the cheese in her hand to entice him inside. Once the dog was securely in the front hall, she wedged her lanky frame between him and the door before handing him the reward.
To exit, she had to squeeze through an opening only a few inches wide because the dog insisted on pressing his head stubbornly against her in an attempt to go back outside. When she’d managed to get out, he stood behind the screen whimpering and scratching at the woven metal – creating unpleasant scraping sounds that reverberated through the quiet house.
Ignoring this, she began to walk down the steep hill. Three days ago at about the same time of day she had run down this hill chasing her brother as he rode his bike. She’d fallen just before she’d reached the bottom and now had a thick, hard scab on her knee and sore palms. Today she was more cautious.
Reaching the bottom, she turned left onto Forest Avenue. She strolled down the mottled sidewalk enjoying the pungent shelter of the hovering dogwoods and magnolias that lined the pathway. When she reached the elementary school, she veered right to cut through the parking lot and playground. Her brother was playing basketball with the neighbors. Three brothers that her mother had coined ‘the three boys.’ She walked over to lean against a goal post wanting them to stop and talk to her. They continued their play, acknowledging her briefly with a – “Hey Kat. How’s it goin’?”
After a few moments she abandoned the goal post and walked the remaining distance across the playground until she reached the chain link fence separating it from the whitewashed houses on the other side. The gate was only thirty feet away, but she chose to shun the traditional means of exit and instead climbed over where she was, hiking her skirt up to a scandalous degree in order to do so. No one noticed.
On the other side of the fence, she paused for a moment to gaze up at the town’s courthouse. It was a four story red brick building with the yellow county jail jutting out like a tumor from its north side. The town’s only elevator and blind person both resided within this building. She had gone to visit them on a girl scout trip the prior year.
At the outing, they’d all been allowed one ride in the elevator. She’d felt her stomach plummet as it whirred smoothly to the fourth floor and couldn’t help pressing her palms against the cool mirrored walls with deep reverence. She was impressed.
“Cut it out, Kat,” her troop leader had said guiding her away from the wall by her shoulder, “You’re smudging the glass.”
Upon reaching the fourth floor, they went to the District Attorney’s office. Kat was not interested in him. Being the troop leader’s husband, she had seen him on a regular basis for several years now. More impressive was the view from his office. It provided a northward panorama of the valley patterned with the squat brick buildings that comprised the heart of her town.
“Hands off the window, Kat,” her Troop Leader admonished from the door of the office.
They weren’t allowed to take the elevator back down. She noted that the corridor of the stairs was lined in a mint green tile exactly like that of the cafeteria at her school. Downstairs they walked into the DMV office on the first floor to look at the blind man.
He was older than her parents and wore a sweater despite the repressive heat. He showed them his cane prompting Kat to maneuver closer for a look. He walked behind the counter and showed them the stamps and forms that he used for his job. He showed them his typewriter with its Braille keys. He showed them his book that he’d brought to read during his lunch hour. He let them run their hands over its bumpy pages. After her turn, she remained near him and reached out to touch the thin, white cane he’d leaned against the counter. Before she could touch it, the leader intercepted her hand and held it in a firm grasp against her side. The man read them a chapter from his book. It was about a girl their age whose daddy was a public defender in Alabama.
Afterwards, the troop walked outside and stood in the parking lot to wait for their parents. Kat had been told to walk down to the dance studio to wait for her Mom to get done with work. Before she could leave, her Scout Leader walked over.
“How’s it going at home? How’s your Mom?”
Kat fingered the unevenly sewn badges on her green sash before responding, “She’s fine.”
The leader stood for a few moments looking down at her.
“Well,” she said finally, “I’ll see you in a few weeks Katherine. Tell your Momma to call me if I can help with anything . . . Okay?”
Kat moved her foot forward an inch to step on the red ant walking across her path. Her response was a mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.”
Her mom owned the dance studio. It was housed in a tall, skinny red brick building. When she arrived, her mom was busy teaching the seven year-old ballet class. Her younger sister stood amongst them at the bar half-heartedly lifting and lowering her leg in beat with the classical music playing on the record player. Kat walked to the front where her mother stood. Her back tall and straight, arm raised in a graceful arc over her head as she directed the gaggle of distracted little girls in front of her.
“Hi, honey. What’re you up to?”
“Nothing.”
“Do me a favor and lead these girls through the rest of their warm-up. I need to prepare today’s deposit before the bank closes.”
Kat kicked the filthy, untied keds off her feet and reached out to grasp the textured metal bar. Her mom walked into the reception area and sat down behind the heavy wood desk.
“Honey, you’re supposed to be a role model. Back straight … tuck in your seat … that’s my girl.”
Kat’s older sister usually worked at the studio after school, but she was a cheerleader and there was a football game that night. After completing the bar exercises, Kat walked out to the center of the room and told the class to begin their floor stretches. Everyone listened except for her little sister, who walked into the reception area to lean against the desk where their mother was sitting.
“Other room, Lucy. Go do your stretches.”
“I don’t like ballet,” she complained.
“Too bad. You have to take it until you’re thirteen … after that, you can decide for yourself.”
Lucy sighed before walking back into the other room and sitting down next to Kat who was methodically leading the girls in their stretches until their mother reentered the room.
“Kat, honey. Come run this down to the bank for me.”
“Can I have some money for a coke?”
“Sure.”
Lucy looked up at her mother and sister standing above her.
“I want a coke, too.”
“You can have one when you’re through with class.”
Kat walked into the reception area and pulled her mom’s purse out of the desk drawer. She fished around for fifty cents and after locating it grabbed the deposit bag off of the desk and headed down the street to the bank. She considered the bank to be the most glamorous building in town. Steps stretched across the entire front of the building and were comprised of what looked to be luxurious white marble marred by soft gray stone threading throughout. Four large white washed columns decorated the front expanse and the wooden door was comprised of wide, dense oak that was heavy to open. Every time she walked up or down the steps of the front of the building, she imagined that she was entering or leaving her private home.
After exiting the bank, she crossed the street to Mr. King’s Barber Shop. Inside she asked for a coke and without a word he walked over to a cooler to remove one of the glass bottles. He opened the bottle and handed it to her. She took a sip and then handed him the fifty cents she was grasping in her sweaty hand. After taking a second sip, she breathed in, unconsciously savoring the smell of aging wood, stale shaving cream and something metallic that she couldn’t place.
“Thanks.”
“You be good now, ya’ hear?”
“Yes sir.”
For years now, probably since she was old enough to talk, they’d replayed the same short conversation, rarely deviating a single word. After taking another sip and enjoying the dim, air-conditioned interior for a moment longer, she left and went back next door to the dance studio.
She sat at the desk for an hour drawing cartoon people with a ball point pen on the scrap paper her mother kept at the desk. She took tiny sips of her coke hoping to make it last for as long as possible. Lucy told their mom on her when she refused to share.
“Luc … just get money out my purse and go get one of your own.”
Lucy walked behind the desk to retrieve her mom’s purse from the drawer. She was impeded by Kat who was blocking the drawer with her foot.
“Move your foot.”
“What?”
“Move your foot.”
“I can’t hear what you’re saying.”
“Mo-om.”
Kat moved her foot out of the way and began rotating around and around in the wheeled chair using the edge of the desk to maneuver. Lucy jerked the heavy brown purse out of the drawer and dug through it for change.
At seven, the last class ended and Lucy, Kat and their mom left, exiting out the back of the studio to the alley where the family’s tired, cream-colored Ford Tempo was parked.
Glancing down, she considered the scab residing on her left knee and lightly traced her fingers across its grooved surface. The heat and humidity today were oppressive, but she was too young to notice. She stared aimlessly at the small house across the street as her fingers mapped and remapped the hardened grooves. After a moment, she leaned lazily back against the concrete steps where she was sitting and tugged down on her loose cotton skirt.
She was bored. She knew that it would be hours before her mom got home from the dance studio and considered walking down to say hello. The desire for a coke propelled her to her feet. She would go down and ask for money. In response to her sudden movement, the black dog lying in front of her lifted its head from the sidewalk.
“Come on Tippy,” she said, “Let’s go inside.”
The dog lumbered into a standing position and gazed up at her expectantly.
“Let’s go inside, Tippy.”
She tapped her hand against her thigh emphatically. The dog wagged his tail in response and took a step forward. She reached down to take a hold of his metal collar and opened the screen door behind her to guide him indoors. Rather than cooperate, he backed up lowering his head away from her in an effort to relinquish himself from her grasp.
When she let go, he backed up out of reach all the while maintaining an expectant expression. Deliberating for a moment, she opened the screen door and walked into the house returning with a thin slice of cheese wrapped securely in plastic. Standing in the doorway, she unwrapped it and tore it in half. She folded the larger half into her mouth. The dog shifted on his feet transferring all of his focus eagerly onto the remaining cheese.
“Speak Tippy.”
He sat.
“Speak Tippy.”
He pawed at the air and whimpered.
“Speak Tippy.”
He barked twice – softly and then louder.
“Good dog.”
She backed into the dim foyer of the house while offering the cheese in her hand to entice him inside. Once the dog was securely in the front hall, she wedged her lanky frame between him and the door before handing him the reward.
To exit, she had to squeeze through an opening only a few inches wide because the dog insisted on pressing his head stubbornly against her in an attempt to go back outside. When she’d managed to get out, he stood behind the screen whimpering and scratching at the woven metal – creating unpleasant scraping sounds that reverberated through the quiet house.
Ignoring this, she began to walk down the steep hill. Three days ago at about the same time of day she had run down this hill chasing her brother as he rode his bike. She’d fallen just before she’d reached the bottom and now had a thick, hard scab on her knee and sore palms. Today she was more cautious.
Reaching the bottom, she turned left onto Forest Avenue. She strolled down the mottled sidewalk enjoying the pungent shelter of the hovering dogwoods and magnolias that lined the pathway. When she reached the elementary school, she veered right to cut through the parking lot and playground. Her brother was playing basketball with the neighbors. Three brothers that her mother had coined ‘the three boys.’ She walked over to lean against a goal post wanting them to stop and talk to her. They continued their play, acknowledging her briefly with a – “Hey Kat. How’s it goin’?”
After a few moments she abandoned the goal post and walked the remaining distance across the playground until she reached the chain link fence separating it from the whitewashed houses on the other side. The gate was only thirty feet away, but she chose to shun the traditional means of exit and instead climbed over where she was, hiking her skirt up to a scandalous degree in order to do so. No one noticed.
On the other side of the fence, she paused for a moment to gaze up at the town’s courthouse. It was a four story red brick building with the yellow county jail jutting out like a tumor from its north side. The town’s only elevator and blind person both resided within this building. She had gone to visit them on a girl scout trip the prior year.
At the outing, they’d all been allowed one ride in the elevator. She’d felt her stomach plummet as it whirred smoothly to the fourth floor and couldn’t help pressing her palms against the cool mirrored walls with deep reverence. She was impressed.
“Cut it out, Kat,” her troop leader had said guiding her away from the wall by her shoulder, “You’re smudging the glass.”
Upon reaching the fourth floor, they went to the District Attorney’s office. Kat was not interested in him. Being the troop leader’s husband, she had seen him on a regular basis for several years now. More impressive was the view from his office. It provided a northward panorama of the valley patterned with the squat brick buildings that comprised the heart of her town.
“Hands off the window, Kat,” her Troop Leader admonished from the door of the office.
They weren’t allowed to take the elevator back down. She noted that the corridor of the stairs was lined in a mint green tile exactly like that of the cafeteria at her school. Downstairs they walked into the DMV office on the first floor to look at the blind man.
He was older than her parents and wore a sweater despite the repressive heat. He showed them his cane prompting Kat to maneuver closer for a look. He walked behind the counter and showed them the stamps and forms that he used for his job. He showed them his typewriter with its Braille keys. He showed them his book that he’d brought to read during his lunch hour. He let them run their hands over its bumpy pages. After her turn, she remained near him and reached out to touch the thin, white cane he’d leaned against the counter. Before she could touch it, the leader intercepted her hand and held it in a firm grasp against her side. The man read them a chapter from his book. It was about a girl their age whose daddy was a public defender in Alabama.
Afterwards, the troop walked outside and stood in the parking lot to wait for their parents. Kat had been told to walk down to the dance studio to wait for her Mom to get done with work. Before she could leave, her Scout Leader walked over.
“How’s it going at home? How’s your Mom?”
Kat fingered the unevenly sewn badges on her green sash before responding, “She’s fine.”
The leader stood for a few moments looking down at her.
“Well,” she said finally, “I’ll see you in a few weeks Katherine. Tell your Momma to call me if I can help with anything . . . Okay?”
Kat moved her foot forward an inch to step on the red ant walking across her path. Her response was a mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.”
Her mom owned the dance studio. It was housed in a tall, skinny red brick building. When she arrived, her mom was busy teaching the seven year-old ballet class. Her younger sister stood amongst them at the bar half-heartedly lifting and lowering her leg in beat with the classical music playing on the record player. Kat walked to the front where her mother stood. Her back tall and straight, arm raised in a graceful arc over her head as she directed the gaggle of distracted little girls in front of her.
“Hi, honey. What’re you up to?”
“Nothing.”
“Do me a favor and lead these girls through the rest of their warm-up. I need to prepare today’s deposit before the bank closes.”
Kat kicked the filthy, untied keds off her feet and reached out to grasp the textured metal bar. Her mom walked into the reception area and sat down behind the heavy wood desk.
“Honey, you’re supposed to be a role model. Back straight … tuck in your seat … that’s my girl.”
Kat’s older sister usually worked at the studio after school, but she was a cheerleader and there was a football game that night. After completing the bar exercises, Kat walked out to the center of the room and told the class to begin their floor stretches. Everyone listened except for her little sister, who walked into the reception area to lean against the desk where their mother was sitting.
“Other room, Lucy. Go do your stretches.”
“I don’t like ballet,” she complained.
“Too bad. You have to take it until you’re thirteen … after that, you can decide for yourself.”
Lucy sighed before walking back into the other room and sitting down next to Kat who was methodically leading the girls in their stretches until their mother reentered the room.
“Kat, honey. Come run this down to the bank for me.”
“Can I have some money for a coke?”
“Sure.”
Lucy looked up at her mother and sister standing above her.
“I want a coke, too.”
“You can have one when you’re through with class.”
Kat walked into the reception area and pulled her mom’s purse out of the desk drawer. She fished around for fifty cents and after locating it grabbed the deposit bag off of the desk and headed down the street to the bank. She considered the bank to be the most glamorous building in town. Steps stretched across the entire front of the building and were comprised of what looked to be luxurious white marble marred by soft gray stone threading throughout. Four large white washed columns decorated the front expanse and the wooden door was comprised of wide, dense oak that was heavy to open. Every time she walked up or down the steps of the front of the building, she imagined that she was entering or leaving her private home.
After exiting the bank, she crossed the street to Mr. King’s Barber Shop. Inside she asked for a coke and without a word he walked over to a cooler to remove one of the glass bottles. He opened the bottle and handed it to her. She took a sip and then handed him the fifty cents she was grasping in her sweaty hand. After taking a second sip, she breathed in, unconsciously savoring the smell of aging wood, stale shaving cream and something metallic that she couldn’t place.
“Thanks.”
“You be good now, ya’ hear?”
“Yes sir.”
For years now, probably since she was old enough to talk, they’d replayed the same short conversation, rarely deviating a single word. After taking another sip and enjoying the dim, air-conditioned interior for a moment longer, she left and went back next door to the dance studio.
She sat at the desk for an hour drawing cartoon people with a ball point pen on the scrap paper her mother kept at the desk. She took tiny sips of her coke hoping to make it last for as long as possible. Lucy told their mom on her when she refused to share.
“Luc … just get money out my purse and go get one of your own.”
Lucy walked behind the desk to retrieve her mom’s purse from the drawer. She was impeded by Kat who was blocking the drawer with her foot.
“Move your foot.”
“What?”
“Move your foot.”
“I can’t hear what you’re saying.”
“Mo-om.”
Kat moved her foot out of the way and began rotating around and around in the wheeled chair using the edge of the desk to maneuver. Lucy jerked the heavy brown purse out of the drawer and dug through it for change.
At seven, the last class ended and Lucy, Kat and their mom left, exiting out the back of the studio to the alley where the family’s tired, cream-colored Ford Tempo was parked.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
The Half Full
Generally speaking, I’m the sort of person that runs on an even emotional keel. I don’t experience dramatic shifts in mood, which is probably a good thing. I think this is because I’m an optimist, and easily pleased (i.e. have low standards). So. I’d consider myself to be happy most of the time. Not maniacally happy. More of a content, laid-back sort of happy.
Over the past few weeks, though, good things have been happening, and I think maybe they’re causing increased levels of dopamine or serotonin or possibly crack-cocaine in my brain or something because I’ve been feeling relentlessly cheerful. Even more so than usual. Like the world is my oyster. Or, maybe there’s a conspiracy in my favor. I know that things will eventually settle back to normal so before they do I’m going to take the opportunity to relish them.
Here’s a list of what’s making me happy:
1. My aforementioned promotion. I’m officially a cog in the machine that is middle management, and my new desk has a sweet view of the parking lot. Some would say that the forest preserve located on the other side of the building is more picturesque, but not me. I prefer observing people and their related vehicular activities to nature. Maybe that’s why I like living in the city.
Also, the monetary perks that go along with it (the raise, stock options and bonus) are great, but besides that, in a cheesy sense, getting promoted is surprisingly validating. It’s really helped fuel my delusions of grandeur.
2. My new 40” Samsung LCD TV is arriving between noon and four tomorrow. I can’t decide. I’m either going to name it Telly Savalas, or Katticus (after this psychotic cat I once had that I was really attached to). I’m leaning towards Telly Savalas.
Telly Savalas will be replacing Limpy (my scuffed, ten year old 19” Orion TV with the blown speaker that my parents gave me as a high school graduation gift). Limpy will be temporarily relocated to an area adjacent to the garbage cans in my alley with a sign that says “I still work!” after which, he will hopefully be adopted by the mysterious people that troll Chicago’s yuppy-northside-neighborhood alleys looking for tossed furniture/electronics/miscellanea to load onto their already overburdened trucks. I’m assuming the stuff they take either stocks their weekend garage sales or ends up in some sort of a consumer goods heaven.
3. 60 degree temperatures. That’s right. Next Tuesday in Chicago, Tom Skilling is predicting that we’ll hit 60 degrees. I believe him.
4. I’ve inexplicably lost four pounds. You could say that it’s from not obtaining almost all of my nourishment from restaurants, and you’d likely be correct. The interesting thing, though, is that I haven’t been careful about what I’ve been eating. I’ve mostly been loading up on peanut butter sandwiches and salami sandwiches and grilled cheeses and candy and dressing laden salads for dinner. On Sunday I somehow got it into my head that those tiny fingerling potatoes roasted in olive oil with a little bit of salt would be good in a tossed salad loaded up with avocado, gorgonzola and tomatoes. Let’s just say I was right. It was like incorporating french fries into the salad to make it a little less salady.
I must eat smaller portions or something when I eat at home.
5. This hot marketing department guy at work somehow knows my name now. Instead of merely saying ‘hi’ when we pass each other in the hall like we usually do, he’s started saying ‘Hi Emily’. After three years, I still don’t know his name so for now I’m sticking with my standard ‘hello’. It feels like progress, though.
6. This (probably insane) man that rides my train has nicknamed me ‘ponytail girl.’— which is weird since I wasn’t wearing my hair in a ponytail the day he started calling me that. I love having a nickname, though, so I’m thinking maybe wearing ponytails will become my new thing. Also, he insists on shaking my hand every time he says it.
7. News headlines this week have been fantastic. Here’s a few that have really touched me:
Designer Vaginas
Shove It Up Your Ass!
Flaming Torch Used in Daylight Bank Heist
In order to make my obnoxious glee slightly more palatable to the outside world, I’ll try to provide you with a list of things that undermine said glee in tomorrow’s post.
To be continued…
-EEK
Over the past few weeks, though, good things have been happening, and I think maybe they’re causing increased levels of dopamine or serotonin or possibly crack-cocaine in my brain or something because I’ve been feeling relentlessly cheerful. Even more so than usual. Like the world is my oyster. Or, maybe there’s a conspiracy in my favor. I know that things will eventually settle back to normal so before they do I’m going to take the opportunity to relish them.
Here’s a list of what’s making me happy:
1. My aforementioned promotion. I’m officially a cog in the machine that is middle management, and my new desk has a sweet view of the parking lot. Some would say that the forest preserve located on the other side of the building is more picturesque, but not me. I prefer observing people and their related vehicular activities to nature. Maybe that’s why I like living in the city.
Also, the monetary perks that go along with it (the raise, stock options and bonus) are great, but besides that, in a cheesy sense, getting promoted is surprisingly validating. It’s really helped fuel my delusions of grandeur.
2. My new 40” Samsung LCD TV is arriving between noon and four tomorrow. I can’t decide. I’m either going to name it Telly Savalas, or Katticus (after this psychotic cat I once had that I was really attached to). I’m leaning towards Telly Savalas.
Telly Savalas will be replacing Limpy (my scuffed, ten year old 19” Orion TV with the blown speaker that my parents gave me as a high school graduation gift). Limpy will be temporarily relocated to an area adjacent to the garbage cans in my alley with a sign that says “I still work!” after which, he will hopefully be adopted by the mysterious people that troll Chicago’s yuppy-northside-neighborhood alleys looking for tossed furniture/electronics/miscellanea to load onto their already overburdened trucks. I’m assuming the stuff they take either stocks their weekend garage sales or ends up in some sort of a consumer goods heaven.
3. 60 degree temperatures. That’s right. Next Tuesday in Chicago, Tom Skilling is predicting that we’ll hit 60 degrees. I believe him.
4. I’ve inexplicably lost four pounds. You could say that it’s from not obtaining almost all of my nourishment from restaurants, and you’d likely be correct. The interesting thing, though, is that I haven’t been careful about what I’ve been eating. I’ve mostly been loading up on peanut butter sandwiches and salami sandwiches and grilled cheeses and candy and dressing laden salads for dinner. On Sunday I somehow got it into my head that those tiny fingerling potatoes roasted in olive oil with a little bit of salt would be good in a tossed salad loaded up with avocado, gorgonzola and tomatoes. Let’s just say I was right. It was like incorporating french fries into the salad to make it a little less salady.
I must eat smaller portions or something when I eat at home.
5. This hot marketing department guy at work somehow knows my name now. Instead of merely saying ‘hi’ when we pass each other in the hall like we usually do, he’s started saying ‘Hi Emily’. After three years, I still don’t know his name so for now I’m sticking with my standard ‘hello’. It feels like progress, though.
6. This (probably insane) man that rides my train has nicknamed me ‘ponytail girl.’— which is weird since I wasn’t wearing my hair in a ponytail the day he started calling me that. I love having a nickname, though, so I’m thinking maybe wearing ponytails will become my new thing. Also, he insists on shaking my hand every time he says it.
7. News headlines this week have been fantastic. Here’s a few that have really touched me:
Designer Vaginas
Shove It Up Your Ass!
Flaming Torch Used in Daylight Bank Heist
In order to make my obnoxious glee slightly more palatable to the outside world, I’ll try to provide you with a list of things that undermine said glee in tomorrow’s post.
To be continued…
-EEK
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Hurray for Me
I found out yesterday that I got that promotion. Wheeeeeeeeee. Victory lap.
End celebration.
My new boss reminds me of my old Sunday school teacher. After she made the offer, and I accepted, she said sternly, “I hope you’re ready. We have high expectations for this.”
I was too busy contemplating my new stock options to really concern myself with (or respond to) anything she was saying, but afterward when I was reliving the moment in my head, I became paranoid.
Did she say that because she’s heard bad things about me? Or was she trying to imply that this new job is going to require crazy hours?
Who cares? This is awesome.
-EEK
End celebration.
My new boss reminds me of my old Sunday school teacher. After she made the offer, and I accepted, she said sternly, “I hope you’re ready. We have high expectations for this.”
I was too busy contemplating my new stock options to really concern myself with (or respond to) anything she was saying, but afterward when I was reliving the moment in my head, I became paranoid.
Did she say that because she’s heard bad things about me? Or was she trying to imply that this new job is going to require crazy hours?
Who cares? This is awesome.
-EEK
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Career Alternatives
I had some down time at work this morning, and, instead of hanging out at the water cooler (we don’t have one), I signed up to attend one of the many classes the human resources department offers in our company’s learning center. The object of the course was to learn how to leverage the skills of different intellectual types in a project setting.
At the beginning we had to take a multiple choice question test in order to determine our type. The test told me I that I was a Visionary Philosopher, and then listed the types of jobs my brain would be good at…
Archaeologist, Detective, Psychologist, Sculptor, Architect, City Planner, and Chief Executive
Once I saw my career alternatives, I immediately stopped listening to the course instructor and instead began imagining my life as an archaeologist.
I’ve only actually met one archaeologist. She was a professor that I had when I studied in Rome. Her mother was full-blooded Native American, her father was Italian, and she (as their offspring) was an impossibly pretty combination of the two cultures. In fact, she was one of those people that seemed to exist separate from their surroundings in a sort of vacuum. As the program shuttled us around in a filthy tour bus for the field trips we frequently took , everyone’s appearance would slowly devolve into hobo-like dishevelment, while she somehow remained flawless. Her clean, white linen shirts retained their freshly-ironed appearance. Her shampoo commercial hair was full and bouncy. Nothing seemed to touch her.
And when she spoke about archaeology, you realized that behind all of that unrumpled perfection was an intelligent person. On one field trip to a town called Volterra, we visited the Etruscan tombs that she’d personally helped to excavate. As we walked into one of the grass domed structures, she pointed out that she and a colleague had been the first people inside that particular five thousand year-old tomb. She said that when they opened the door and stepped inside, for a split second they both saw the perfectly preserved body of an Etruscan Warrior lying there before it suddenly disintegrated into nothing when the corrosive outside air flooded in behind them. She said that at first she’d thought she’d imagined it until her colleague indicated that he’d seen the exact same thing.
Archaeologists are cool.
After the class was finished I spoke to the human resources person for a few minutes and, at one point, asked her if she had the answers to the test. (I’d missed three of the forty questions and wanted to know why.) She handed me the answer key, and I took a look at them. In one case I hadn’t been able to figure out that a pattern of numbers represented the squares of whole numbers. It was one of those questions where you had to figure out which number didn’t fit in the group.
“Who would know that?” I asked her accusingly.
She shrugged and laughed at me. She didn’t realize I was being serious. Afterward, she said that I must have a specifically curious mind, because a majority of the class attendees didn’t ask for the answers. That’s when I pointed out that one of my suggested careers had been that of a detective.
She started laughing again, but I ignored her and started thinking about how cool being a detective would be. I wouldn’t want to be the kind that works for the police, but would prefer to be the self-employed, private kind. I could run around in tweed suits and carry a magnifying glass and ask an incessant amount of questions. I loved Nancy Drew as a kid, so I would probably just mostly try to be an adult version of her. Hopefully people would describe me as wily.
Is it too late to change my mind?
What strikes me now as I finish typing this, is how I didn’t retain any of the supposedly relevant information on how to effectively work with the other intellectual types. This may imply that I have a tendency to veer off course, but I think I’ll opt not to dwell on that. After all, visionaries have more important things to consider. Like what they're going to have for dinner.
-EEK
At the beginning we had to take a multiple choice question test in order to determine our type. The test told me I that I was a Visionary Philosopher, and then listed the types of jobs my brain would be good at…
Archaeologist, Detective, Psychologist, Sculptor, Architect, City Planner, and Chief Executive
Once I saw my career alternatives, I immediately stopped listening to the course instructor and instead began imagining my life as an archaeologist.
I’ve only actually met one archaeologist. She was a professor that I had when I studied in Rome. Her mother was full-blooded Native American, her father was Italian, and she (as their offspring) was an impossibly pretty combination of the two cultures. In fact, she was one of those people that seemed to exist separate from their surroundings in a sort of vacuum. As the program shuttled us around in a filthy tour bus for the field trips we frequently took , everyone’s appearance would slowly devolve into hobo-like dishevelment, while she somehow remained flawless. Her clean, white linen shirts retained their freshly-ironed appearance. Her shampoo commercial hair was full and bouncy. Nothing seemed to touch her.
And when she spoke about archaeology, you realized that behind all of that unrumpled perfection was an intelligent person. On one field trip to a town called Volterra, we visited the Etruscan tombs that she’d personally helped to excavate. As we walked into one of the grass domed structures, she pointed out that she and a colleague had been the first people inside that particular five thousand year-old tomb. She said that when they opened the door and stepped inside, for a split second they both saw the perfectly preserved body of an Etruscan Warrior lying there before it suddenly disintegrated into nothing when the corrosive outside air flooded in behind them. She said that at first she’d thought she’d imagined it until her colleague indicated that he’d seen the exact same thing.
Archaeologists are cool.
After the class was finished I spoke to the human resources person for a few minutes and, at one point, asked her if she had the answers to the test. (I’d missed three of the forty questions and wanted to know why.) She handed me the answer key, and I took a look at them. In one case I hadn’t been able to figure out that a pattern of numbers represented the squares of whole numbers. It was one of those questions where you had to figure out which number didn’t fit in the group.
“Who would know that?” I asked her accusingly.
She shrugged and laughed at me. She didn’t realize I was being serious. Afterward, she said that I must have a specifically curious mind, because a majority of the class attendees didn’t ask for the answers. That’s when I pointed out that one of my suggested careers had been that of a detective.
She started laughing again, but I ignored her and started thinking about how cool being a detective would be. I wouldn’t want to be the kind that works for the police, but would prefer to be the self-employed, private kind. I could run around in tweed suits and carry a magnifying glass and ask an incessant amount of questions. I loved Nancy Drew as a kid, so I would probably just mostly try to be an adult version of her. Hopefully people would describe me as wily.
Is it too late to change my mind?
What strikes me now as I finish typing this, is how I didn’t retain any of the supposedly relevant information on how to effectively work with the other intellectual types. This may imply that I have a tendency to veer off course, but I think I’ll opt not to dwell on that. After all, visionaries have more important things to consider. Like what they're going to have for dinner.
-EEK
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Something Sanctimonious
Dear God,
How are you? I’m well. Not much new is going on since we last spoke. Mostly I’ve just been staying indoors trying to survive the arctic weather you sent down my way a few weeks ago. That was a really funny joke. Oh yeah! I also sat for another section of the CPA exam. I think it went okay, but I haven’t gotten the results back yet. I’ll let you know how it goes.
So what’s new with you? Easter’s coming up in about a month, right? I’ll bet you’re excited about that. I’m pretty excited too. We just finished celebrating Presidents’ Day on Monday. I had to work despite the holiday, but I guess that doesn’t necessarily detract from its meaning. I made sure to toast Lincoln (screw those other guys) with a glass of Malbec that evening.
So, anywho. Speaking of Easter. I wanted to talk to you about Lent this year, and, more importantly, my Lenten sacrifice. Remember how for the past five years my sacrifice was that I had to make my bed every day? And before that, the year that I gave up chewing gum? And that one crazy time in college when I gave up meat for you?!
Those were good times.
I was planning on running with my old standby of making my bed again this year, but was inspired (by you? Or maybe Jesus? Hi Jesus!) with a great idea yesterday. I’m going to subject myself to the most difficult of Lenten challenges this year. Specifically for a non-domesticated, single person like me. I’m going to…
Not go out to eat for the next 40 days starting tomorrow.
You know how much I eat out. At a minimum half my meals originate from outside my home. This is going to be really hard! I’ve decided that I’m not going to give myself any Sunday dispensations either, and I love Sunday dispensations.
Okay. That’s pretty much all I’ve got. I hope you and Jesus and Mary and Joseph are all doing well. Say ‘hey’ to my Grandma Kitty and Mimi and Bompa for me.
Smell you later. (Ha, ha.)
Your lamb,
Emily
p.s. How come women can’t be priests?
How are you? I’m well. Not much new is going on since we last spoke. Mostly I’ve just been staying indoors trying to survive the arctic weather you sent down my way a few weeks ago. That was a really funny joke. Oh yeah! I also sat for another section of the CPA exam. I think it went okay, but I haven’t gotten the results back yet. I’ll let you know how it goes.
So what’s new with you? Easter’s coming up in about a month, right? I’ll bet you’re excited about that. I’m pretty excited too. We just finished celebrating Presidents’ Day on Monday. I had to work despite the holiday, but I guess that doesn’t necessarily detract from its meaning. I made sure to toast Lincoln (screw those other guys) with a glass of Malbec that evening.
So, anywho. Speaking of Easter. I wanted to talk to you about Lent this year, and, more importantly, my Lenten sacrifice. Remember how for the past five years my sacrifice was that I had to make my bed every day? And before that, the year that I gave up chewing gum? And that one crazy time in college when I gave up meat for you?!
Those were good times.
I was planning on running with my old standby of making my bed again this year, but was inspired (by you? Or maybe Jesus? Hi Jesus!) with a great idea yesterday. I’m going to subject myself to the most difficult of Lenten challenges this year. Specifically for a non-domesticated, single person like me. I’m going to…
Not go out to eat for the next 40 days starting tomorrow.
You know how much I eat out. At a minimum half my meals originate from outside my home. This is going to be really hard! I’ve decided that I’m not going to give myself any Sunday dispensations either, and I love Sunday dispensations.
Okay. That’s pretty much all I’ve got. I hope you and Jesus and Mary and Joseph are all doing well. Say ‘hey’ to my Grandma Kitty and Mimi and Bompa for me.
Smell you later. (Ha, ha.)
Your lamb,
Emily
p.s. How come women can’t be priests?
p.p.s. Do you really smite people? (My sister wants to know.)
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