Employee Found Alive Inside Cubicle

Whistles of relief could be heard throughout the offices of Crenshaw & Bick when Walter Gatch, 57, presumed dead at his desk since Monday morning, was found alive by janitorial staff.

 

“When he didn’t blow the smell of burnt Pop Tarts all over the office this morning, I went by his cubicle to check on him,” said Andrew Miron, 26.  “And there he was, just kind of slumped over on his keyboard. Naturally, I suspected the worst.” 

When asked why he didn’t report the possible death to management, Miron stated that had it been true, it really would have been a shit ton of paperwork. Never mind the fact that his timesheet was still due. 

“Actually, I was pretty sure he was okay,” he added. “Yeah.” 

Throughout the day, several other employees expressed half-assed concern for their co-worker when his out-of-office auto reply from Friday failed to be turned off, and when Gatch suddenly fell out of his chair and onto the floor where he remained until approximately 6:00 p.m. 

“We all thought he was a goner for sure,” said Gatch’s administrative assistant of seven years, Megan McNulty. “I mean, all the signs were there: slumped over, no contact with anybody for an entire day, an odd smell emanating from his cubicle. It was a pretty text book case of somebody dying at their desk and everybody in the office knowing about it but doing absolutely nothing.” 

It was not until Monday evening that janitor Harvey Ferber, after emptying the once thought dead man’s recycle bin, witnessed Gatch casually get up off the floor, click Print in his Microsoft Word document, and walk over to his printer as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 

“He’s alive! He’s alive! I shouted,” said Ferber, demonstrating the excitement and relief he felt upon realizing that Gatch was still of this world. “As you may or may not know, these things don’t usually turn out so well for janitorial staff.” 

As of press time, Gatch was headed home to his wife who thinks he died three years ago.

Tear in Space-Time Continuum Linked to Incomplete Timesheets

Despite several friendly reminders issued throughout the day on Friday, not a single employee of Burke & Wagner, P.C. has bothered to complete their timesheet before leaving for the day, resulting in a potentially serious tear in the space-time continuum.

"Yep, that looks like your classic Schwarzchild wormhole," said head of Payroll, Michelle St. Pierre, shaking her head and crawling backwards out of the black, swirling, vortex located in the third floor IT supply closet. "Last time we had one of these was the day before Thanksgiving."

As twenty-seven somewhat bewildered employees from an alternate version of Burke & Wagner emerged from the wormhole, twenty-seven employees from the original version of Burke & Wagner emerged happily into the parking lot to begin their Fourth of July weekend.

Don't let this happen to your office

"They never take me seriously," said St. Pierre, ducking into her office to avoid running into the slightly thinner, twelve-toed, version of herself rounding the corner. "They're always too busy for timesheets. Well tell me this, how do they think they're going to get paid? And what do they think is holding together the fabric of the universe?"

It is a little known fact among the scientific community that failure to complete ones timesheet, particularly after receiving an email reminder with a clip art sun waving an American flag at the bottom, will cause the opening of a once thought impossible "traversable wormhole” that can be used to cross between universes. It will also cause HR to be super bitchy.

“If this happens again, I’m not sure our universe will survive it. Timesheets need to be completed by 5:00 p.m. on Fridays for a reason, no exceptions!” shouted St. Pierre as her office, both legs, and left arm flickered in and out of existence. “Well, except for Dave who showed up from Universe 176Q a few months back. He can’t enter a timesheet with just a dorsal fin, but he turned out to be one hell of an engineer.”

Judgment Day a Clerical Error, Not Word of God, Reveals Secretary

Alright, I hate to admit this. But Harold’s been taking a lot of heat and I feel kind of responsible, so let me just get this off my chest.

May 21, 2011 was a typo.  

It was a Monday morning and Harold brought me over this crumpled up sheet of notebook paper that literally looked like he had pulled it out of a McDonald’s to-go bag. He’s 89 years old, you know, and sometimes he gets confused. One time he gave me a plastic cup from Six Flags and told me it was the Holy Grail.

“What the f#ck is this, Harold?” I asked him. Traffic had been an absolute bitch, and I really just wasn’t in the mood. I mean, the page was totally filled with chicken scratch - even into the margins. Usually I’m pretty good at deciphering his writing, like when he asks me to type up a blurb on annihilation. I can always pretty much tell the difference between “complete obliteration of all mankind” and “writhing helplessly in eternal torment,” even if his “n’s” sometimes look like “u’s.” It just takes a little bit of practice.

But this thing was ridiculous. It was all kinds of crazy calculations that he must have spent the entire weekend working on even though it was 75 degrees outside. He was somehow multiplying words like Trombonement (or maybe Atonement?) with other words like Heaven and then squaring whatever bat shit crazy number he had come up with. At least I think he squared it. Maybe he just drew a little seagull next to it. It’s hard to know for sure since my boss is a stark raving lunatic. In any case, when I got to the end of the page it said:

Judgment Day =  

But where it had a date, he had crossed it out and rewritten a new one over it. But then he crossed that one out too, and he circled it and drew an arrow pointing to the back of the page, and then on the back of the page he crossed that date out and drew another arrow to the front of the page, and then I had to turn the whole thing sideways and follow another arrow down to the footer and there, in between a note about the Great Tribulation and something about his car being ready for pick up at Toyota, please see Rick in the service department, it said “May 21, 2011.”

Except he had spilled some kind of dark beverage all over it, so maybe it really said March 21, 2017 or May 21, 1986, or maybe it said “Judgment Day = 6 rolls of toilet paper from Target.” I really couldn't tell. I was so frustrated by that point that I was pretty much just praying for the world to end as soon as possible. Unfortunately it didn’t, and the next thing I knew Harold had grabbed the paper from my printer and was announcing to the world whatever date I had half-assedly typed.

Now normally I would apologize to those of you who gave away all your earthly possessions on account of my mistake. But unfortunately, they do not pay me enough to care.

Wait...when?

Yeah, Um, About Saturday...

So Saturday is Doomsday, huh? Judgement Day, The Rapture, that stuff that started happening after Frodo threw the ring into Mount Doom. Whatever you want to call it, the world is supposedly coming to an end.

So let me ask you this: why the hell couldn’t it wait until Monday?

Come on, man! This week has been ridiculously irritating for me. Between Snorks Phelgmstein and the Great Sudafed Famine of 2011 a few rows over, this awful weather, and the influx of people saying “knock-knock” before entering my cubicle, I’m at the end of my rope. All week I’ve been counting down until the weekend when I can relax and take my kid to the zoo, or watch Lifetime movies. But how am I supposed to concentrate on a movie when all of my pious neighbors are rapturously floating past my window? That’s going to be distracting. Nevermind when the lava starts pouring through my skylights. I mean, I have the ability to pause live t.v., but Charter barely even works on a good day.

I get two stinking days off. TWO. And now, depending on what time we are all scheduled to perish on Saturday, I’m going to get like half a day at most.

Now just imagine The Rapture happening on Monday instead. You drag yourself out of bed, get stuck in traffic, and then, just as you spill some coffee because you drove over that same roadkill that’s been in the middle of Route 20 since last Wednesday, it happens. Trumpets start going off, angels are shooting out of trees, and look! Over there! F-ing A! There goes your office building, swallowed up by a belching, sulfurous, lake of fire. Now that would be Heaven.

But apparently if you were a Hebrew school drop-out, there aren't any favors coming to you during the end of days.

So, instead, I created this lovely Someecard for you to send to your friends, coworkers, and those people handing out pamphlets at the train station. I shall have the last laugh after all. Well, until Saturday.

Click to send this card

Spring is in the Recirculated Air

The nice warm weather is here at last,
Snowy commutes, a thing of the past.
Sleeves rolled up and sunroof down,
Sunglasses on, we peel outta town.

We stop for iced coffee, a morning perk,
Not even thinking that we’re headed for work.
Britney’s blasting and we’re singing along,
But eventually we notice there’s something quite wrong.

That thing, up ahead, what is that?
Shit.

The office has finally come into view,
Only one more traffic light between it and you.
You think and you ponder for any way out,
You panic and sweat and you finally shout:

Son of a bitch!!!
Do I really have to go in there?

We park our car in the lot and then sit there in it,
Listening to the radio for just one more minute.
At 8:37 we open the door,
“Goodbye Mr. Sun, I shall see you no more.”

:(

We trudge up the stairs to a day full of shit,
80 degrees in the lobby, but 50 where you sit.
Your skin that was warmed by that glorious weather,
Now stuffed inside a gross cardigan sweater.

F*ck you HVAC.

So we purchase at Target some coconut lotion,
To remind us of beaches and days by the ocean.
And to make the torture more complete,
Bob Marley on our iPods…on repeat.

We think these things will help curtail,
The agony of our windowless jail.
These little reminders of beautiful places,
Thousands of miles from these hideous faces.

No offense.

So what to do but mope and pout?
Retirement age is too far out.
Lottery tickets are religiously bought,
Too bad Prince William’s tied the knot.

Harry is still available!
So what if he dressed up like a Nazi for Halloween?
We could QUIT OUR JOB.

I guess we’ll have to make it through,
With coffee runs and lunch til two.
Come in late and sneak out early,
Try to stop me, Boss. You ain’t that burly.

Sigh.

Whoever thought you’d feel most alive,
During your Monday morning drive?

Git-er-dun is Gittin Old

What’s worse than Milhouse from The Simpsons screaming “Wassup!!” after it’s no longer cool? Having to listen to your coworkers spew out similar lame catchphrases like they’re going out of style. Which they did, um, five years ago. 

Lately at my office there has been an excessive use of the phrase “git-er-dun,” when implying that an item of work needs to be accomplished quickly. To make the exchange even more torturous, the second person in the conversation usually repeats “git-er-dun” back to the first person as a sort of confirmation that “yes, indeed, this must be gotten-dun.” 

Coworker 1: “ So tomorrow I’m going to call Roger and have him Fed Ex me those plans. I don’t care if his wife is having octuplets. Git-er-dun!!”

Coworker 2: “Git-er-dun!!” 

Tell me, what possible gain could there be by a catchphrase, that you’ve heard hundreds of times on television, being repeated by the loser in the next cubicle? He’s certainly not going to make it sound any better than the original. His timing will be off, his tone of voice will be all wrong, and he’ll probably use it in reference to something totally lame.  Take “Wassup!” for example. It originally aired in a beer commercial in 1999. Pretty cool. Now take a 65 year old attorney saying it as he walks into the office on a Monday morning in 2004.  Not so cool.  And yes, that actually happened. 

I kill me!

I can’t say that I’m surprised at the use of catchphrases by the same people who are in love with corporate jargon. It makes sense that somebody who enjoys the phrase “grab the low-hanging fruit” would also ask“whatchu talkin bout Willis?” when unsure of what the IT guy just told him about his printer. 

I’m just saying that before you blurt out that witty catchphrase you’ve been dying to use, ask yourself these three simple questions: 

1) Can it be found stamped on a t-shirt at Ames? 

2) Has your dad already used it? 

3) Was it originally coined by ALF? 

If you answered yes to any of these questions, it is probably wise to just let it go.  For the love of God, let it go. 

Local Secretary a Total Fricking Rock Star From Mars

After clearing a multi-drawer paper jam from the photocopier with her fire-breathing fists, local secretary Barbara Peterson has declared herself a total fricking rock star from Mars.

"This insurance agency can't process me. You can't process me with a normal brain," said Peterson, 64, heading into the kitchen. "Oooh look, somebody brought bagels!"

Peterson first entered the spotlight as perfect and bitchin back in May of 2009 when she singlehandedly located a missing Word document from Wilson Insurance Agency's server.

"Look what I'm dealing with, man, I'm dealing with fools and trolls," said Peterson, motioning to long-time boss Marvin Cohen, 43. "They lay down with their ugly wives and their ugly children and just look at their loser lives and then they look at me and say “I can't process it," well, no you never will, just stop trying. Sit back and enjoy the show."

While generally referred to as "okay" and "nice I guess," by most co-workers, several have expressed concern over Peterson's refusal to particpate in the "You Finish It You Fill It" coffeemaker policy, despite the sign clearly posted on the wall.

"It was written for normal people, people that aren't special," said Peterson. "People that don't have tiger blood, you know, Adonis DNA."

No I will not pick up your dry cleaning

"She most likely does not possess Adonis DNA," said Marvin Cohen. "Nor should she continue referring to her co-workers as trolls. I've been meaning to speak to her about that."

"Look," said Peterson," I'm on a drug. It's called 'Barbara Peterson.' It's not available 'cause if you try it once you will die. Your face will melt off, and children will weep over your exploded body."

While it remains unconfirmed whether or not ones face will actually melt off after trying Barbara Peterson, it has been confirmed by administrative assistant, Megan Myers, that Barbara Peterson will certainly bore your ass off.

School Vacation Week...Again?!?

As I pulled out of Dunkin Donuts with relative ease this morning, I realized that there were noticeably fewer cars on the road than usual. "That's weird," I thought. "Yesterday was the holiday that everybody except for me had off. What's going on?" And then it hit me.

School. Vacation. Week.

F*ck.

Being the constantly evolving person that I am (Hello, sweet potatoes? Why did I hate you for so long?) I have grown to accept the fact that teachers might actually need all the vacation time that they get. While I'm sitting in my cubicle writing blog posts, they are trying to get those Bieber-loving punks to pay attention to math and science and that coma-inducing torture device known as The Odyssey. It's got to be grueling, I get that now. That's why this article isn't about the teachers. It's about the kids. What do the kids need all this time off for?

I have a family that I would like to spend more time with. After working for ten years I finally get 3 weeks of vacation which I must ration. But high school kids, they don't want to spend time with their families. So what do we do? We give them 12 weeks of vacation which they spend trying to get out of the house. Perfect.

Point #2: Kids do not own and maintain homes. Kids sleep until noon on Tuesday and then go off to the beach. I sleep until 6:00 a.m., spend the day at work, and then come home to laundry and cat puke. If you're reading this and saying "well you're an adult and they're just kids," save it. If you're old enough to sext, you're old enough for some responsibilities. Say it with me!

Sure homework sucks, but so do emails with red exclamation points next to them and guys with pit stains hanging around your cubicle. Work is a billion times worse than school. So here's what I propose - listen up Department of Education. High school kids should get two weeks off per year just like the rest of us. High school teachers can still take twelve weeks. For those twelve weeks that they don't have a teacher, high school kids can go get jobs. Don't worry, companies love cheap labor. And if the kids don't like it, they can become teachers when they grow up. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure I just found a solution to the teacher shortage.

P.S. On my way back from lunch I passed by a driver's ed car full of teens learning how to commute to work. Nice hustle.

Local Secretary Not Sure Where Carl Is Right Now

Contrary to popular belief, local secretary Margo Waters has disclosed that seriously, she has no friggin idea where boss, Carl Dickerson, is right now. Maybe he's out at a meeting, or in his car, or being eaten by alligators. What is she, his mother?

Waters has offered to check his Outlook calendar, as if that will make any sort of difference. You can just stand awkwardly behind her chair while it takes six minutes to load. "Oh look," said Waters, pointing to the words 'Private Appointment' blocked out from 12:00 p.m. to 1:00 p.m. "Let me use my psychic powers to tell you what that's supposed to mean."

It being lunch time, and Dickerson being in his early to mid-fifties, he may have either gone to Subway for an Italian BMT or to his proctologist for a colonoscopy. It's really just guesswork you annoying ignoramuses. Do you not see that Waters, 32, is trying to order something from Babies R Us right now?

"Take this morning," said Waters. "I slipped in real late and was kind of nervous, but then I realized that Carl was nowhere to be found. You think I was going to start asking questions?" Waters expressed a similar sentiment when Dickerson failed to show up to her mid-year performance evaluation after being mugged and left for dead.

"He ain't here, he ain't here," she added.

When pressed by co-workers for comment on Dickerson's morning whereabouts, Waters took into account her boss's eating habits and familial structure, surmising that he could have been off having a massive heart attack or possibly hosting an intervention for that loser son of his who interned here a few summers ago. But really, he may have just overslept. What does she have, a GPS on the guy?

Waters, who really doesn't have time for this, also warns of the futility and total stupidity of bothering to ask when Dickerson is expected to return from wherever it is that he went - particularly if she is entering timesheets or reviewing a take-out menu from Arby's. "I don't have to know where he is every second of the day, alright?" said Waters. "It's not like I'm his secre.....oh."

As of press time, Dickerson was spotted leaving Centerfolds Gentleman's Lounge on Route 20 and will not be returning to the office.

Carl?  You in there? 

An Open Letter to Old Man Winter

Dear OMW:

Yeah, you. Pry those bony icicles you call fingers off the remote control and come talk to me for a minute. What did we do to deserve all this? Did someone insult you? Did someone say "Hey look at Old Man Winter, he hasn't even caused an ice age in 20,000 years! He's soooo lame!" and hurt your feelings? If so, I apologize. Apparently they didn't know what kind of cold-hearted elfin bastard they were messing with. But I know this - while you're hanging around in your bathrobe, picking ice crystals out of your beard, and watching Maury Povich, some us have a little place to get to called work. I mean, fine, you're pissed at us. I get that. Wave your little wand, say your little rhymes, and make it snow if you really need to prove your worth. But could you at least cool it during rush hour? You are literally killing us here. We are crashing our cars and sitting through three hour commutes just to avoid wasting another vacation day. So please, just go take a shower, have a cup of coffee, and relax. It's only January for Christ sake, ever hear of pacing yourself?

And now, on top of everything that we've been through, you decide to crank out below zero temperatures? Are you kidding me, Old Man? Did that meteorologist from Channel 7 slip you a fifty so he could have a severe weather alert to rant and rave about on Sunday night? Hey, when Old Man Winter's such an easy sellout, why not pay him a visit? Everyone knows he left all his morals back in the Blizzard of '78. I hope you're real proud of yourself.

I'll leave you with this one piece of advice - if you don't cut it out soon, Karma is going to be a real bitch. You may be big, tough, Old Man Winter now, but before you know it you'll be locked up in the nursing home playing Bingo all day with Father Time. And when you see him, would you do me a favor? Tell him I said thanks a lot for Daylight Savings.

Jerks.

Welcome to City Hall: Please Press 1 for Dr. Kevorkian

For me, there is no better time to hate on city hall employees than a three day weekend that I am forced to work. With Monday being MLK, Jr. Day, and me having spent the entire day in my cubicle trying to telekinetically move an avocado, let's not waste another minute.

A good part of my job involves having to request information from city and town halls all over the state. Below is a transcript of every city hall conversation I have ever had:

Recorded Message: Welcome to the City of ______ . Due to our website not being updated since the original launch of the Internet, you are calling to obtain basic information. Please press 1 for the City Clerk, 2 for the Building Department....

90 Year Old Woman: Good afternoon, Building Department.

Me: Hi, I was just trying to find out where to get a copy of a building permit application?

90 Year Old Woman: A building permit application? Hey Marge? Do we do building permits here? Oh, no, you need the Zoning Department. 

Me: But this is the Building Department and I need a building application.

90 Year Old Woman: Yes, I'll transfer you. 

80 Year Old Woman: Good afternoon, Zoning Department. 

Me: Hi, I'm trying to get a copy of a building permit application?

80 Year Old Woman: Why would I have a building permit application? No, honey, you need to call the Building Department.

Me: I did. They just sent me to you.

80 Year Old Woman: Perfect, I'll transfer you.

Recorded Message of 90 Year Old Woman: Welcome to the City of _____ Building Department. Our office hours are 11:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m. Monday through Thursday. Please leave a message. 

Me: {Dead from telephone cord strangulation}

No matter what question you have for a particular department, it is guaranteed that they will have no idea what you're talking about. If you ask the City Clerk about a marriage certificate she'll transfer you to the DPW. Looking for the dog officer? Ask the Town Planner a few questions, he'll get you there. Need to check your property taxes? The Assessor will gladly transfer you to Meals on Wheels. It never fails. Perhaps, in some kind of Jack Nicholson/The Shining kind of way, it has to do with town offices being located inside creepy abandoned elementary schools. Perhaps it's because most of the employees can remember watching first run episodes of Leave it to Beaver. Or maybe it's just the fact that they get every single holiday off and are milking their cushy jobs for all they are worth. Don't even get me started on Evacuation and Bunker Hill Days if you hit the God damned lottery and work in Suffolk County.

Whatever it is that makes you do the things you do, City Hall, just remember that I hate you. And if you're hiring...call me.

Closed for Arbor Day

Snow Day

I watched a lot of QVC this weekend.  I watched well over 12,000 sets of prune colored sweatsuits fly off the shelves and into the homes of people such as Belinda from Houston who fails to realize that three easy payments of $19.99 is way too much to pay for loungewear - even if the sales lady tells you that it can be dressed up with a nice pair of heels.  Heels, Belinda.  Not Crocs. 

Anyhow, midway through touting a pair of faux fur lined clogs that are capable of keeping your feet dry and, from the sounds of it, curing cancer, the sales lady mentioned that in order to make it to QVC in the middle of a blizzard, she had to stay overnight at the local hotel. Which leads at last to my main point: 

The Only Reasons Secretary4Life Would Ever Stay at a Hotel in Order to Make it Into Work During a Blizzard:

1. Since splitting with Vanessa Hudgens, Zac Efron has publicly announced his burning desire to find a 32 year old socially awkward secretary with whom to share his life.  In order to find a candidate with enough dedication to be considered worthy of betrothal, he is to begin his search of East Coast civil engineering firms immediately following a major blizzard.

2. In possession of a winning $132 million Powerball ticket, I am planning to give my two weeks notice the day of said storm.  Giving two weeks notice for any other reason, such as finding another shitty corporate job, can certainly wait until the weather clears.  But the sheer filthiness of my riches requires that I book a junior suite at the Red Roof Inn, get wasted on Clamato juice and vodka, and drive my smug self into work without delay. 

3. The first fifteen people into the office will be cast as extras in the yet uncontemplated 2020 remake of Lord of the Rings. 

Anything other than that, I'm taking a snow day. 

Welcome! The Murderous Rampage Just Ended

It's so good to finally meet you!  Can I get you some water or a coffee?  Please, have a seat next to the chalk outline of our last Administrative Assistant, and I will be back in a jiffy. 

Love that sweater, by the way.  Ann Taylor?  Just as soon as I get this blood stained paperwork out of the way we can get started.  We've been swamped this morning, what with the arrest, the questioning, the police shootout. You know how Mondays can be.  Especially now that we're down a person. 

 
Let me just start by saying that we have a real good group of folks here.  Richard, the gentleman you saw being led out in handcuffs, he'll be your immediate supervisor.  Unfortunately he can't be here to meet with you right now - personal matter - but with any luck he'll plead self defense and be back in time to start your training.  That other man, the one who ran by like a rabid dog, that's Dave.  You'll be working closely with him as well.  He's frothing at the mouth right now, but after the inevitable restraining order that you will have placed on him is lifted, you'll find he's a real pleasure to work with.  God love him, it's like he doesn't even remember decapitating the Fed Ex guy.  So, do you have kids?

The position itself involves pretty basic administrative work.  Data entry, filing, never and I mean never looking inside the second floor broom closet, I swear to God if you touch that closet you will not live to see the light of day, answering phones, opening mail, you get the picture.  It's not glamorous work, but we make an honest living here.  Are you feeling okay?  If the mutilated Cabbage Patch dolls are making you uncomfortable, feel free to place them on the floor with the others.

 
We also offer an excellent benefits package that includes seven million dollars toward legal fees, a safe house in Stockhol - oh, pardon me, that's our Project Manager's benefits package. For an Administrative Assistant we offer two weeks vacation, unlimited visits to the emergency room, and access to our wonderfully secluded vacation home in Maine should we ever need to imprison -  I mean reward - you for your dedication.  That lake is gorgeous, and so very deep. 

One last thing, it's really just a technicality, but I will need to check your references before we can offer you the position.  The last thing we need is to hire ourselves a nut job. 

The Joy of Office Secret Santa

Every Christmas the girls in my office used to do a Secret Santa swap. We are a small office, so this usually worked out to be four admins, the receptionist, and the token female CAD worker that my company keeps on hand to fend off affirmative action. A few years ago, we made the unfortunate decision to end the Secret Santa tradition. The reason had something to do with saving money, or saving time, but I can tell you that one year I received a cookie jar in the form of a cat wearing a Christmas sweater, so it sure as hell wasn't my idea to pull the plug. Cookie jars shaped like cats in Christmas sweaters were put on this planet, and the clearance aisle of Ocean State Job Lot, to be made fun of. I talked about that cookie jar for months. I photographed my cat looking at that cookie jar with an expression on his face that said "I hope you didn't bring this broad home for me." Right up until the moment that the Salvation Army truck hauled its ugly ass away, that cookie jar brought me tidings of great joy.

And that, my friends, is the beauty of the Secret Santa swap. Sometimes you get something good and sometimes you get something horrid. Sometimes the woman who wears Gucci boots pulls your name, and sometimes it's the woman who wears pink corduroy overalls. Life is a crapshoot and Secret Santa is filled with crap. But at least it gave us a few minutes of giggly anticipation and holiday cheer in the conference room, and to me that was well worth the twenty-five bucks.

I bring tidings of great joy, and a tinny version of Don't Worry Be Happy

Now the only tradition left is that all the girls chip in to purchase a gift for our Branch Manager - a gift that usually costs us more than the $25 Secret Santa swap would have. He is supremely wealthy and we are all terrified of him. How the holiday joy abounds! My thought is that he could probably live without another gift card to that place where you get your hair cut by a woman in spandex shorts, and we could reinstate our little gift exchange. Perhaps then, instead of wanting to stick my foot out as he walks past my cubicle with yet another new golf club perched upon his shoulder, I could tip my hat, tuck a festively wrapped Big Mouth Billy Bass underneath my arm, and head gleefully into the conference room.

Secretary4Life's Thanksgiving Table, Literally

In order to improve our lousy, ungrateful, attitudes, a fellow administrative assistant suggested that each day we try to think of something that we are thankful for at work (besides a paycheck).  As everybody knows, there is no better time than Thanksgiving to be halfheartedly thankful for all the things that you sort of appreciate around the office.  And if forcing myself to come up with positive things to say about secretarial work passes the time until I'm sinking my teeth into a juicy turkey dinner, then let's get started:

Item of Thankfulness	Thankfulness Meter
Last week I was thankful for the leftover pickles and Cheetos I found in the kitchen.   Right before that discovery I was thankful for my Starbucks coffee.	After mixing the three together, not so thankful.
We are both thankful that we didn't work as secretaries before photocopiers were invented.  If somebody needed ten copies did the secretary have to type up ten copies?  Or did bosses not even ask for ten copies because they could instead chase you around the desk grabbing at your ass?  It seems likely that in a time of unrestricted sexual harassment, secretaries may have had it made.	Thankfulness re-evaluated and canceled out
My admin friend is thankful that I taught her "Alt-0176" makes the "degree" symbol in Word.  Okay look, I'm thankful when the IT guy fixes my printer and when I remember how to freeze panes in Excel, but I'm not about to bring it up over Thanksgiving dinner.	Thankfulness exaggerated
I am thankful for the free packets of Advil in the kitchen. It's nice of this place to say "We realize we are causing you physical pain, we accept it, and here is a little something to treat the symptoms instead of solving the underlying problem."	Thankfulness depressing and accompanied by a shoulder shrug
My admin friend is grateful that there are bowls of Halloween candy around the office. Though yesterday she said, and I quote, "I'm about to puke from eating Halloween candy, don't let me eat any more no matter what I say or do."	Thankfulness self-destructive
I am thankful that none of the barf-worthy insects in my cubicle have ever crawled out of something I was holding.	Thankfulness sincere
Finally, I'm thankful that I get the day after Thanksgiving off.  Nameless satanic corporation that I work for, in this one instance you are relatively decent.  I won't even bring up the fact that you have no respect for MLK Jr., Washington, Lincoln, Columbus, and all war veterans.	Thankfulness bittersweet, slightly resentful, but genuine

 

Happy Thanksgiving everybody.  Enjoy your time off, and remember, the pilgrims worked way harder than you ever will.

I Knew The Sun Was a Jerk Ever Since It Killed Me in Super Mario 3

Ok look, Sun, enough with this game.  Alright?  Just because you support all life on Earth and without you every terrestrial being would basically curl up and die, does that  mean you have to be such a bitch during our commute?  Here we are, just trying to get home to our families after slaving away at our jobs, and there you are, dead center of I-495, being nothing but a total wanker.  "Oooh look at me, I use nuclear fusion to produce kinetic energy!"  Big deal.  I could have done that in ninth grade.  Nobody's impressed by you, Sun.  Not when traffic comes to a screeching halt every time we drive around a bend and your blazing jerk rays reappear. Maybe you were hot stuff back at 12:00 p.m. when all the doctor's wives and college kids were lazing around the beach basking in your holier-than-thou rays, but guess what?  It's 5:00 p.m.  Get over yourself and just set already.  I didn't leave work so I could get my eyeballs scorched, rear-end somebody, veer off the road, and land in a tree.  And I especially didn't leave work so I could spend the rest of my night trying to watch Project Runway with a major headache.  You're sick, man.  Sick. 

 

I don't know, maybe I should give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that nobody's ever told you this before.  So I'm going to tell you now, as a friend.  People don't like it when other people get all up in their faces.  And they definitely don't like it when a 9,941 degree blazing ball of turds does it while they're trying to drive.   I'm sorry, I went too far.  Don't get mad.  Until I can get over to Target and pick up some Vitamin D supplements, I need you in my life.  I don't want this to get awkward.  

 

What the...are you laughing up there?  My rods and cones are at stake and you think this is some kind of joke?  Look buddy, not all of us have 5 billion more years to just dick around in the sky.  Why don't you get your yellow ass down here and fight me?  Let's end this once and for all.  Let's see who the real G-type main sequence star really is.  

 

For somebody who's 8.31 light minutes away, you sure know how to get on my nerves. 

 

Actually I Can Very Easily Believe That it's Been Five Years

Thank you all for the cake, and the kind words.  But actually, yes, I can believe that it's been five years.  Five days a week, 52 weeks a year, 2,080 hours, 37 million excruciating seconds.  It's not exactly believing in Santa Claus, just some simple math.  Thank you, Pam, I know that I haven't aged a day since I first walked in the door.  That's very sweet of you to say.  But on the inside, a good fifteen years have been whittled off my life - fifteen years chipped away like ice from my windshield on exactly 243 frigid winter mornings.  I can, without any trouble, believe that it's already been 334 wasted summer days, 20 working holidays, and 260 Sunday nights spent crying myself to sleep.  In fact, I keep a tally right here in my calendar, see? 

 

No, Bob, time really didn't fly by.  Monday coughed up Tuesday, Tuesday farted out the horror that is Wednesday, Wednesday vomited up a big mess of Thursday, and so on.  Over and over again each day came on more nightmarishly boring than the last, creeping slowly toward a whopping three weeks vacation and one extra personal day.  Huh? There's no extra personal day?  Oh you son of a - What's that, Mike?  It seems like just yesterday that I was learning the ropes?  Actually yesterday, the day that I spent my lunch hour photocopying status reports, feels a lot more like yesterday.  Five years ago feels like fifty years ago.  I mean, my God, I can't even remember a time when I didn't know every single one of your faces and disgusting personal habits.  The engraved clock is lovely, by the way.  Thank you.  I will put it in my living room.

 

So really, I just want to say that you have all been so helpful in making each and every minute of the past five years last twice as long as it needed to.  Barbara, the day that I showed you four times how to email a simple Word document, turned an ordinary Tuesday into a sheer time warp to Hell.  And Carl, without your constant personal phone calls I would never have appreciated the beauty of sitting silently in traffic, staring straight ahead, and wishing that a meteor would blast my car to smithereens.  Thank you all.  Each and every soul-killing one of you.  

 

Who wants cake? 

Wanted: Vampire Slayer. Experience with Microsoft Word Preferred.

InStyle magazine recently quoted Twilight star Ashley Greene as saying "I worked in accounts payable before and realized that I never, ever wanted to have an office job again." Everyday I too realize that I never want to have an office job again. I think about it when I wake up in the morning, before I go to bed at night, and from 8:30 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. Monday thru Friday. So why is it that this girl was actually able to make it happen? Let's take a look at where our paths may have diverged:

1) According to Wikipedia, when Ashley was 17 years old she had a passion for acting. When I was 17 years old I had a passion for AOL chat rooms.

2) Ashley had enough ambition to graduate from high school early and move to Los Angeles to follow her dreams. I had enough ambition to go to college and settle on a liberal arts degree that didn't involve too much math.

3) Ashley probably went on hundreds of auditions and didn't give up until she got her big break in a wildly successful movie. I went on three interviews and accepted a job with a guy who asked me for my "email number" so he could send me a fax.

As a result, Ashley landed herself the Twilight gig and 24/7 access to Robert Pattinson, while I landed myself a series of mediocre secretarial jobs and 24/7 access to regret and self-pity. But as they say, it is never too late to discover what you are passionate about and work it into some sort of enjoyable career. For those of us whose passion in life took an extra 15-30 years to present itself, my advice to you is this: Close your eyes. Imagine yourself as a pack of teenage werewolves. Imagine your career goals as a coven of sparkly vampires whose heads you must rip off with all the fury of your Quileute forefathers. If you keep your career goals in mind, put in the effort to pursue them, and be sure to sever the head completely from the vampiral spinal column, you will almost certainly be guaranteed success.

Failure shall result in an eternity at your desk job - never aging any closer to retirement.

The Non-Working Lunch

The best part of the day, aside from when you get to leave to go home, is when you get to leave to go to lunch. Bosses often try to ruin this by scheduling lunch meetings, or as they call it “a working lunch.” A working lunch means that instead of scarfing Chipotle, you're choking down something from a place called Apple Spice Junction and surrounded by pit stains. Bosses don't mind working through lunch because a) they are able to survive on a diet of cocaine and energy drinks, and b) they have no life. Never do you run into your boss at Starbucks reading a book or updating his Facebook status. If bosses had Facebook statuses they would say, “Having a working lunch.”

For the rest of us, that one hour plus round trip drive time allows us to clear our minds of corporate bile and do a little something for ourselves. If there's a restaurant located immediately outside your office, don’t go there unless you want to commit relaxation suicide. Nothing sours a lunch faster than spotting a co-worker at another table. If they’re sitting with somebody else, you may stand a chance. But what if they’re just chewing and staring straight ahead? Depending on how much food they have left on their plate and whether or not they hold a management position in the company, it is probably worth it to just chuck your lunch and buy a new one somewhere else.

The second part of lunch begins when you return to the office parking lot. If a favorite song comes on the radio, sit and listen to it for as long as possible. If a song that is sort of okay comes on the radio, sit and listen to it for as long as possible. Check your Twitter app. Floss. This is called "multi-tasking" and is valued by employers. And, depending on the layout of your building, multi-tasking involves parking far enough away to avoid being seen by those inside having a working lunch.

Doing Time vs. Doing Timesheets

I just watched a Dateline report about Joran van der Sloot and how he’s locked up in a Peruvian prison where he befriended another murderer and they work out together using barbells fashioned from sticks and water bottles. Which made me think – these guys don’t have to do shit. 

First off, they’re in a maximum-security prison, which means they’ve committed some sort of sick, heinous, crime. And if watching Lifetime movies has taught me anything, they had a blast doing it. These sickos are really living it up out there while I’m updating my boss’s Outlook contacts. Then they get caught and sent to prison where they are forced to spend all of their time sitting in a cell reading books or going outside to play basketball. Where am I during all this? Oh that’s right, sitting in my cubicle under the same lighting they used to film Alien Autopsy. According to an interview on CBS with prison expert Larry Levine “…in this prison, if you can get money on the inside, you can get drugs, you can get special food, you can get a woman in your cell. You can get just about anything you want.” Imagine that. I can’t even get a decent cup of coffee. And let’s not forget that they get all their meals served to them. For free. Granted, you are under a constant threat of getting stabbed or raped by another man, but hey, you’re a murderer. You can take it. It’s like someone telling me if I volunteered to get punched in the stomach once a week I would never have to work again. Where do I sign up?

Of course there is the whole issue of eternal damnation and having your soul roast in hell for all time. I suppose that’s where I draw the line and say “Hey, I’m just going to stay here at my desk, probably for the rest of my life, with my dictaphone and my Frappuchino and type this 5,000th letter to some boring old jerk who I don’t care about.” Because while Peruvian prison may seem like a paradise to the average office worker, at least we get to rest when we’re dead.