Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho It's Off to Work I Go...

So, as Lydia and I have mentioned before, I work freelance. Which is a really fancy way of saying, "sits by the phone and hopes to hell it rings so she can get outta this house before she loses her ever-lovin' mind."

And in its own way, it's sort of predictable. In that, when something bad happens in the world, my phone rings. I've become mutated by this little quirk, and say things like "oooh, a volcanic explosion in Iceland that's basically shut down Europe? Sweet."

And then off I go to Workity Land for two or three days, like I'm in some Disney amusement park. I put on fancy shoes and white(!) pants, which we all know are im. pos. uh. bul. to wear around children. Though I will say I spend that half hour after the kids get up, but before I leave,  playing this dodge-and-weave game with the IHPs.

  • "Yes, Iloveyoutoopleasedon'ttouchme." (semi-crouch with hands up like you're a major league catcher)
  • Here, I'll kiss you from across the room *mwah* no no stay there!" ('Newlywed Game' big air kiss followed by flapping arms like you've been attacked by invisible bees)
  • And, the best: "I'm gonna miss you too (palm their forehead and stiff-arm 'em) "Oh you are sooo adorable and I love that you have peanut butter hands just for ME (spin them around facing away from you with your hands around their wrists) "you be a good boy and wash up for me OK?" (deftly walk them to bathroom, turn on water, plant kiss on cheek, run like hell) 
I think I've actually whistled while I was walking toward my office...I get to go get a Starbuuuucks, and then play with bi-yig kids, and e-e-eat lunch ow-wout...and they're gonna pay-ay me...like I'm bragging all sing-songy. To myself. I think people assume I'm singing along with some Zac Efron song on my Precious, and then get a little worried when the see no earphones. "oh, she's actually just talking to herself...super."

And then I walk into work, and it really is like I'm in a Disney movie. Snow White to be exact. Because everysingleperson in that office in one way or another is one of the Seven Dwarfs. And, you can rest assured they're in your office, too. Shall we?

Doc: Unlike the paternal-like and possible medical degreed figure of these miniaturized, facially well-tressed tree dwellers (oh, that's elves...right...hovel dwellers?) the Office Doc has his own mini-armada of followers,  a stomach that enters the room long before his face does...and a title he hasn't earned. You're basically waiting it out for the pension, white loafers and condo in Talahassee. You're a super boss, by the way...in the way that the Hardy Boys is a super mystery book. Thanks for helping me learn or something.

Sleepy: He has no wife, no kids and no life. And yet, every day, it's just another version of "Well, you know...late night...really tired." Dude. Are all your Risk and World of Warcraft cyber-buddies in Belarus or something? I don't want to think about you being up all night. Because in my mind it involves 1-900 numbers and creepy versions of rock-paper-scissors. Great. Now my brain hurts. You're a gem in the meetings by the way. Because every once in a while, when the moment is ripe for a wry quip, you say something the-call-is-coming-from-inside-the-house-y and we all just can't wait for the meeting to be over soon enough. And, chances are, it ends really, really soon. So thanks. Even though you've given me the skeeves for the rest of the day. Oh, and while we're at it, no, I don't need you to walk me to my car. Ever. I'm pretty sure I'd rather deal with the thugs. Thanks.
Grumpy: Remeber when George Costanza thought that, by looking pissed off and frustrated all the time when his boss walked by, he'd be perceived as being busy? Yeah, that's you. And you, like him, did nothing. And, it's not like it you're a cheery guy who has to pretend to be all irritated. You just are. Let's be clear here. You're a dick. We ALL think so...and there's jack-all we can do about it. Because you, like Doc, have a title you didn't earn, don't deserve, and totally exploit. And, hey, how about the next time we have to talk, you consider looking at my face? If you're going to waste my time checking out the twins, let's not be grumpy about it, OK? Douche.

Happy: She's *awesome*. She makes brownies, organizes all the office parties and is the clearing house of all matters of gossip. You kind of have to love her. Until you find out that she makes twice your salary and you're pretty sure she does NO work. Oh, and the latest gossip? It's about you. And Sleepy. And his claim that he "conquered your purple territories." And, now I need to go take a shower. And I'm pretty sure I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.
Bashful: The guy everyone makes excuses for. "Oh, Tom's not that great with people, ask Jim instead." Or, "I think we should have Doris take on that project, Tom's got so many fires burning." And he never says anything in meetings, because, you know, he's sorta shy in front of a group of people.
Puh-leeze. The truth of the matter is, this guy does nothing, thinks nothing, and works his ass off making sure he never has to work his ass off. He doesn't say anything in the meetings because he has no idea what the meeting is about, and even if he DID, he's too busy playing solitaire on his Blackberry to know what's being said. You haven't received an e-mail from this guy in years. Unless it's about the Hot Tub/BBQ/Karaoke Party at his house next Friday after work. And then you realize it's possible he and Grumpy spend too much time together.

Sneezy: He's like a personal version of the CDC. Seriously, it's gross. This guy has every communicable disease known to man. He alone keeps Kleenex in business...and when Lefty sees him and his first reaction (Lefty's, not Sneezy's) is "ewww, he needs a tissue" you know it's bad. Because Lefty considers boogers to be an apertif. He's the reason the rest of the office uses sick days for acutal sickness and not just a day to blow off and go play hooky. Thanks. Now go home.

Dopey: The only genuine guy in the whole office. You're a moron, we all know it, and we LOVE YOU. You actually accomplish sh*t. It may be rudimentary, it may be that I get a FedEx package two days after it arrived in the office, but you know my name, look at my face and bring me stuff I need. Plus, when you ask me to walk me to my car, it's because you're truly a gentleman, not because you want to give Happy some ammunition for tomorrow. The rest of the dwarfs know better than to say something crappy about you in front of me. Except for Grumpy. I haven't warned him.  I'm just waiting for him to go off on you so I can send what's left of his balls into orbit. It's gonna be a great day. So, thanks in advance, Dope. I keep a pair of steel-toed stilletos under my desk for just the occasion.

After about four days with the lot of you, the IHPs are looking better and better. At least I can send them to their rooms. So, until the next time I see you, I would love it if you'd maybe consider being more like regular people and less like, well, yourselves. And I promise not to say a word about the IHPs. Which seems like a totally great deal to me.

Oh, the news is saying there's an earthquake? Fantastic. I can hear the phone ringing already.

xo, Kate

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