Office pet

At ten minutes after seven I park on the first floor of the parking garage, as opposed to the sixth where everyone else gets shifted. I stroll past the guard booth, sunglasses covering the worst of a face devoid of makeup. The girl in the booth waves and smiles and I return her greeting, just like every other morning. She likes me, thinks I’m funny. “Girl, you are just too much”, she always says. And I am, of course, but not exactly in the way she means.

I unlock the backdoor, walk through the kitchen and around the corner. My office is the second door on the right; the first is a storage room full of gadgets I’m glad I know nothing about. I unlock it, flip the switch and throw my handbag on the desk. Light floods the tiny room from the single florescent panel and it looks exceptionally bright after the damp shadows of the parking garage.

Three walls are papered in pale blue and the back wall is papered in white with small blue flowers. It was a doctor’s exam room when this suite belonged to a medical practice years ago – the mirror and paper towel dispenser are still on the wall over where the sink used to be. I often wonder, when work is slow and concentration is slippery, exactly how many people have been naked in my office. It just so happens that work is often slow and concentration is, more often than not, slippery.

The desk is a hand-me-down from assistants past – an old, unattractive brown affair with chips missing from corners and pieces of sticky tape that would require too much effort to remove. When I returned here (after a two year absence) it was against a side wall, leaving the computer visible to whoever decided to stand in the doorway. The woman they’d joyously gotten rid of in order to have me back was denied the privilege of moving the furniture, told that it would take the IT department sending someone to redo wires and such.

After two weeks back in the saddle I’d said to my boss, “I want to move my office around.”

“Ok”, she’d replied, then immediately pitched in with the rearranging of furniture. The manager in the office across from mine bundled up wires and reattached lines for me in record time. Then, I decided my walls were far too empty and they requested that someone from engineering build me a large set of shelves to hang. And a few weeks later, just like that, there were two men in uniform attaching a beautiful set of off-while shelves high upon the wall behind my head. I’ve always had a “thing” for storage.

This morning I notice that the big plant on my pretty white shelves is flowering. I usually can’t manage to keep a cactus alive. Indeed, the current resident of the blue bowl isn’t the original. I killed it almost immediately.

“You’re not going to water it”, the boss had said, sounding simultaneously amused and exasperated, after I picked it up at a farmer’s market on one of our famously long lunch breaks.

But I was in love with the bowl and imagining how the spidery vines would trail attractively down the front of my barren new shelves, so of course I bought it anyway. And for awhile it was perfect. But as predicted it was never watered and soon died, the dirt clumping together and the dead leaves crinkling up and curling in on themselves. It stayed like that for months before a fairly new employee from up the hall offered to repot it for me.

“I’ve got a plant that will look just lovely in it. Would you like me to take it home and fix it up?”

“Sure”, I’d said with a shrug. “Why not?” She was the same woman that had left a coffee cup (with my initials on it) on my desk at Christmas, along with a candy cane and a pack of cocoa arranged inside with red tissue paper.

And so this morning, the tiny pink blooms sticking up in the air make me smile – because they’re pretty, because they were free, and most importantly...because they came with their own watering lady.

I head back toward the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee. There’s a cup, two packets of creamer, three packets of Splenda, and a stirrer already waiting for me by the pot.

I amble down the hall, stirring the contents of my cup long after the packets have dissolved. It’s habit; I’ll stir it continuously after each sip. Stopping in the boss’s doorway, I lean against the frame and cross my ankles. I’m wearing leggings, a long shirt, and flats – the sort of outfit she’s repeatedly told me she hates. She looks up from a stack of paperwork and frowns at me, but before she can complain about my tardiness or my attire I say, “So guess what”, and launch into a dramatic story about someone I know.

Most arguments or complaints can be avoided if I have a decent story to share. She gets distracted easily and once I’ve given her something “juicy”, she always feels the need to one up me. It works even better if I ask her for “advice”. And so begins our 30 minute to an hour morning “visit”. By the time it’s over, she’s forgotten to be angry and it’s time to get to work.

It’s 8 o’clock when I log into my computer and kick my shoes off under the desk. Plugging in my little space heater, generously donated by another employee because my little office gets chilly, I warm my toes while I check email. A steady stream of people, from the larger, all female department we share the suite with, keeps the walkway in front of my office ringing with noise. Dragging their bags and their lunches, removing their coats and saying good morning to each other and to me – but I wish they wouldn’t. I wish they’d go through the front door instead; it’s closer to their area anyway.

I grumble good morning in response to their chirps and they smile at me indulgently as if to say, “That Alyson. She’s not a morning person, but we just love her to bits anyway.” None of them ever get angry with me, no matter how rude I am. They treat me like a combination of court jester and adorable, destructive puppy.

When the big boss comes breezing by, it’s another matter entirely. “Good morning Sunshine”, he says to me, not pausing at all in his race for sanctuary. He always calls me Sunshine, never uses my real name, a fact the entire office never fails to find amusing. He likes people even less than I do and trying to catch him in the hallway is about as easy as nailing Jell-O to a tree. He’s always afraid he’ll get stuck talking to someone so he keeps his head down and his feet pumping like pistons. An enormous key ring jingles on his belt loop, alerting everyone that he’s on the move.

I am just the opposite. I pad through the corridors in my bare feet, scarlet toenails vivid in the florescent lighting, the four leaf clover tattoo on my left foot defiantly uncovered. Quietly I pull the stack of mail out of the slot by the front door and leaf through it as I walk. I’ve long thought that my stealthy hallway approach was more satisfactory than the big boss’s loud sprint – the cheek pinchers, as I like to call them, never even know I’m there.

I manage to avoid everyone until early afternoon when the boss pokes her head around my door. “Are you coming with us to lunch today”, she asks.

I tilt my head and pretend to consider it, though I really have no intention of going anywhere. “What are they having”, I reply. She quotes the menu and sighs when I make a sour face. “No”, I say, “I don’t think so.”

“Fine, be that way”, she says without heat. It’s the same thing she says every time I decline to join them and, for the past few months, that’s been quite often. I used to go every day, but the truth is that I usually desperately need the alone time. As long as I make an appearance once a week, she’s kept mostly happy.

When they return an hour later, she hands me a packet of chocolate chip cookies. “Here, you ungrateful little shit”, she says grinning. She’s forever bringing me things.

The afternoon drags by. Sometimes I think its worse, being on the bottom floor and on the side of the parking garage, because there aren’t any windows. I once had a nightmare about being locked in the suite, with the entire lot of them, and all the clocks had stopped working. I wandered around jerking on doors and screaming that it was time for me to be let out, while they stared at me with creepy smiles on their faces. It was very Girl Interrupted esque. Thank god I only had it the once – though now that I’ve mentioned it, it will probably happen again. That’s how those things work with me.

At four thirty the boss prepares to leave. Stopping in front of my office, she says the same thing she says every afternoon. “I’m glad you got to see me today.”

“So am I.”

“You’re such a liar”, she says, and we both laugh...just like we always do. But then a terrible thing happens. She deviates from the script.

“We’ve hired someone to fill that position I told you they might make. Some young girl. We might have to move offices.”

“Where would we move to”, I ask.

“I’m not sure yet, but there’s a possibility we could get cubicles or have to share an office.”

Her face is smooth, resigned. Mine, on the other hand, is incredulous – jaw hanging open and eyes wide. “Give up my office?! Move?!”

She shrugs. “We don’t know what’s going to happen yet.”

Immediately after she’s gone, I’m lost in thought:

If I lose my office, I lose my freedom. If we move suites, who will water my plant? For that matter, where would I put a plant? What about my lovely shelves? What about the...wait a minute. Did she say ‘young girl’? Surely not.

The possibility of another young woman being in the office doesn’t sit well with me. And I’m surprised by that because I’ve always moaned about being the youngest in a sea of old people, with no one to relate to. Now that it’s a certainty, that she’ll be here, I’m just not sure it’s in my best interests.

Right now I’m the only one that walks around barefoot, the only one that wears leggings, the only one that comes in looking like she’s just rolled out of bed, the only one allowed to make off color jokes at the department lunches. I’m the only one that leaves rude notes on the refrigerator and the only one that has to listen to my boss talk about her vagina. I’m the youngest, funniest, cutest, grumpiest...I’m lots of “ists”. And there’s a possibility that this new girl could knock things off balance.

The big boss walks by my door while I’m staring into space, imagining a bleak future sitting in a cubicle next to some perky girl that everyone likes more than me.

“Goodnight, Sunshine”, he says, pausing briefly. “Will you be here much longer?”

“No sir, I’m almost finished. Did you need anything else?”

“No, Sunshine. I’m fine. Have a go...”

“I heard ya’ll filled that new position”, I blurt out.

“Yeah...sure did.” He looks at me expectantly.

“Um, just out of curiosity...how old is she?”

“Oh”, he thinks for a moment, looking toward the ceiling, “I’d say she’s about 45, but I’m not exactly sure. Why?”

I narrow my eyes, then remember who I’m talking to, and smile. “Just wondering.”

“Ok”, he says, looking confused. That’s how he always looks when talking to me – confused or amused.

We say goodnight again, he walks away and I gather my things. I wonder if my boss told me she was “young” to scare me, knowing I wouldn’t like it, or if she really is young to her...because she’s in her 60’s.

Then, as I’m walking through the kitchen, intent on the back door, something on the counter catches my eye. And I smile because, obviously, I was being silly. It doesn’t matter if that woman is 25 or 45 – I’ve got this shit on lock.

There are two packets of creamer, three packets of Splenda, a stirrer, and a cup with a big note on it that says “HA HA HA” already sitting by the pot. Apparently she knows how to work me, just as well as I know how to work her.

*Unrelated note: The videos will be posted by Friday.

Online dating - the saga begins

Day One

While filling out the required profile information, I notice that some options are quite limited.

Apparently I can only choose “I prefer not to say” on the drop down box labeled “Do you want children?” That’s not an option under the labels of smoking, drinking, height, body type, or religion. And frankly I find it disheartening that my options to choose from under body type are only thin, athletic, a few extra pounds, and Big and Tall. None of those describe me adequately at all. I debate on whether to email the company and suggest the choices “voluptuous” and/or “how you doin’”, but ultimately decide that there’s just no time for that.

It takes me the better part of an hour to write the three small paragraphs that make up the “about me” section because I keep changing my mind about what to say. I decide against using quotes from Wedding Crashers at the bottom, hit save and move on to picture selection. This is where it gets tricky. I don’t really have many pictures that A) look good (I’m not very photogenic and only manage to take one decent picture every blue moon), B) don’t show cleavage, and C) don’t show me engaged in drunken revelry.

I eventually decide on four pictures total, only one of which was taken while sober, but at least my makeup seemed to be holding up ok. The cleavage turns out to be largely unavoidable. Pun intended.

I go ahead and save all of the work I’ve done so I can get a basic overview of what it will look like. I can edit later.

There are three messages in my inbox already. I have no idea how that’s possible. Either these men have lightening fast fingers or this website is very sneaky and publishes as you’re writing. I don’t think I approve of either of those choices, but I click on the first mail anyway.

It’s from a nice looking guy with a shaved head that looks to be about my age. But even though I have a particular fondness for shaved heads, I recognize the cocky, “this is my come hither you lucky woman”, face immediately. I laugh. When I read the one line message, I laugh even harder. “u wanna have sum fun”.

Oh dear. Not even two hours into this and I’m being harassed by the illiterate. No, I don’t think I do want to have “sum” fun. I’ve never much liked numbers. Although, I’d be remiss if I didn’t give you a lesson when you so very clearly asked for one: You – Brain + Creepy Come Hither Face = Never Going to Happen.

The second message is from someone named Matt (with a bunch of numbers behind his name all alluding to his, I assume, favorite sexual position – one which I myself have never been very fond of due to concentration issues etc.) who doesn’t have a picture. It says, “Hey girl you lookin’ good”.

Aside from the fact that our sexual preferences may not be found on the same page of the Kama sutra, there’s one other issue. Terrible though it may sound, I have no intention of getting involved or meeting up with someone that won’t display their picture. As I said in my recent I-can’t-believe-I’m-about-to-do-this-shit post, there’s a possibility that the creepy SpongeBob is lurking. And however farfetched it may seem to you, I wouldn’t even take that risk with your body, let alone mine. I am perfectly capable of putting lotion on my own skin, thank you very much. Yes, Matt, I believe I picked those pictures specifically because I was lookin’ good. Unfortunately I cannot return the compliment. Your blank square is...a nice shade of grey.

The third email is from a man, captured in profile, leaning casually against the side of a car. He’s wearing a blazer with jeans – a look I’m quite fond of, knowing how hard it is to pull off without looking sloppy or pretentious. It’s very ‘That sexy college professor I always wanted to see privately after class’ esque. “We are almost neighbors”, his message says. “P.S. – Cute pics.” Intrigued by both the picture and his claim of closeness (no one is ever my “almost neighbor”), I click the link to his profile to investigate.

He lives one town over, very close indeed, and after looking at two profiles that nearly sent me into a serious rant on the abuse of the English language, punctuation, and the sad state of our educational system, his is a breath of fresh air. Witty, informative, the correct use of “there”, and not one single “um” to be found. The only misgiving I have, so far, is his age – 39.

I’m certainly not a trophy 20 something woman and I have 4 feet of (visible) baggage. What would a divorced, 39 year old man that doesn’t have or want kids, want with me? Probably sex, I think, but I decide to message him back anyway. At least he can spell. Standards – the only form of birth control that’s free and self deprecating.

We are soon involved in prolific back and forth emails – he plays the piano, is a transplant from another state, and gets my sense of humor right away. (I’m not all straight forward vagina jokes, you know.) I’m genuinely interested in what he has to say, which doesn’t happen as often as it should, even with people I know. (No, I don’t mean you Aunt Christie. You’re very interesting, of course.)

We promise to contact each other again soon, as it is now getting late and someone is whining about not being able to use her laptop for hours. (That’s you, Aunt Christie.) And so ends my slightly successful first day of being a complete failure at meeting men the normal way – by bar hopping.

Day Two

I immediately begin giggling when I see the picture attached to my newest contact. He’s an Asian man, standing in a bathroom wearing black jockey shorts and nothing else. And while he’s certainly attractive, I vowed long ago to never take a man seriously when there’s a toilet in the background of a half naked picture. After all, Myspace was so five years ago.

After a few moments of deliberation, I decide to respond to his message anyway. How do I expect to get any material if I keep avoiding all the crazies? His message says, “Hey hey there beautiful. How are you doing?” And I respond with, “I’m well, thank you. How are you?”

“I am alright. I think I just mess up my shoulder at the gym. Hahahaha oh well. Anyway, what are u up to?”

“That sucks”, I reply. “Nothing much, just on my way home from work.”

“Cool, what do u do? Nice, now u can hang out with me.”

Hang out with you? Your pecs are clearly larger than your IQ if you think three unimpressive sentences is going to get you anywhere.

The afternoon continues to go downhill when I receive a message from Paul, whose profile states that one of his interests is “God”. Paul has chipmunk teeth.

“hey whats up? my name is paul i’m single i love sports, the great outdoors and having a good time.i’m a straight forward type of guy who is honest, loyal, respectful, caring and someone u can trust no matter what. i hope to hear from u soon so we can talk. do you have a facebook or myspace?”

Sigh. Paul, my love, haven’t you heard of capital letters? Not only that, Paul, but are you aware that you copy and pasted that entire spiel from your profile, aside from the last line, into this message? No? Have you heard of the word “effort”, Paul? What about “vagina”?

I decide to see just how far being at least semi honest, like some of my readers suggested, would get me with Paul.

“Hi. I like some sports and the great outdoors are, I suppose, alright as long as that doesn’t include camping. I’m straight forward and honest as well. I do indeed have a facebook and a myspace, but I prefer not to share them with people I haven’t yet met. I do hope that doesn’t sound harsh, but obviously, being a straight forward person yourself, you must value that in others. I’m sure you understand. However, I wouldn’t be opposed to messaging through here for the time being.”

Paul, as it turns out, did not understand.

I contemplate adding “not God” as an interest under my profile, but quickly change my mind after a small flashback of Christian, jeep sex. I must remember to keep my options open.

Later

I’m lying across my bed, reading, when I receive a new message. I’ve already had several after Paul that don’t bear mentioning (Except the one from a man that looks suspiciously like a friend of my father’s. Eww.) and I’ve become rather cranky.

I glance at my phone, half heartedly stab the open button and let out a heavy sigh when I see the picture. “What do you want, piggy?”

Just as immediately, I start laughing at how utterly horrible I’ve become in a span of only two days. I’m simultaneously amused and horrified with myself.

So this, I think, is online dating. As far as I can tell, the only differences between this and the real thing are that I’m not wearing any beer goggles and applying makeup is optional. Apparently, all you really need to be accepted is an orifice and a keyboard.