out of the cage

okay, okay. I admit it. I went out with him (Fantastic Young Man) last night and ditched my Sister Slumber Party. I am a horrible person...with a somewhat valid justification. The plan was that he was going to leave around 9 However, we were going to my Intern Appreciation Night (read: Party! yessssssss) and got off to a late start. Then we got lost (and it really was MapQuest's fault). After finally finding the place it was almost 9 already. Well one can't arrive at a professional-social function to which one has RSVPed for two and then immediately leave without eating or drinking anything, can one? So we ate, we drank, we mingled. He was sociable and adorable and just great in general. I didn't want him to go. And besides, by this time it was surely too late to attend the Sister Slumber Party, right?

Well apparently not, because I got a call around midnight - by this time I was actually back home - from my BROTHER wondering if I was okay. Turns out my sisters had been trying to reach me to see if I was okay, but I was in such a state of euphoria that I didn't even bother to check my messages. Good grief. Yes, I should have called to report that I was not coming over after all. On the other hand, this is why I hate making plans in the first place - because then people worry about you.

It is funny actually, because most of the time they have no idea what I am up to and they are not worried. I could be doing any dangerous and deadly thing and they wouldn't care because they did not know about it. Yet they think that just as we are about to get together (though they knew I was attending a party beforehand) THIS is when I am crumpled unconscious and bleeding in the middle of the road. I have actually gotten in a car accident (not a very serious one, but still) and no one was worried!

Anyway, now that the moment is over I am obviously feeling a little post-infatuation guilt. I feel bad that I blew my sisters off, especially since one is visiting from California and I never get to see her. And now last night, which could have been fun sister bonding, is over and who knows if I will even get to see her again before she leaves town. On the other hand, spending the night with Mr. Sexy sure was fun...

work related

It's been busy here in the mortgage business - month end, you know. I have been processing like there is no tomorrow. Although if there really were no tomorrow and we all knew about it I suppose people wouldn't be going to all of the trouble that taking out a loan entails. They would be spending time with their family or skydiving or whatever they need to get done before the apocalypse. And if there were no tomorrow I would certainly not be sitting in this office processing loans. Although clearly I'm not processing or doing anything that could be called work right now. If pressured for explanations I could call it work related since I am writing about work, now couldn't I?

Yet, cold, hard truth be told, I am presently residing in one of those inertia moments. Having done actual work nonstop for several hours - perhaps even days - straight, I came to one of the final things on my to-do list. This to-do item entailed making a copy and sending it to a broker. Well, since a coworker had taken over the copy machine for what promised to be awhile, I went back to my desk where I began to do nothing. I told myself it would be a small break, just until the copier was free. But now quite some time has gone by, so much that she has gone from the machine but may now be using it again, in which case why should I even bother to walk over there? Instead I will eye the one remaining Kiss lying lonely in the chocolate jar on the corner of my desk and contemplate how this single Kiss coincides with my Last Day here, which seems appropriate. Conclusive. I should be happier about getting set free, but I am actually a little bit sad.

Speaking of Kisses, things are still on with Fabulous Young Man. Thinking of him makes me smile and gives my heart a little flutter. Oh he is hot and sweet. A smarty as well. Stylish. Easy-going. This list could go on and on. I know this excitement won't last forever, but it sure is nice for the moment. I am daydreaming...

...Back at the Office it's time for lunch. Because it's my Last Day we are going out to eat. On the company account, naturally. It may have been one of the most mind-numbing jobs I've ever had, but at least they're sending me off with a grand farewell. And scared but excited I must move on with my life.

workin' fo' free

I started my internship this week. I can't be flip or bitchy about it in any way. It is fun. I get to hang out (unpaid, mind you) in a beautiful old office building overlooking a peaceful park. The energy there is somehow casual and highly professional at the same time. The best part is that I'm not fetching coffee or opening mail. There's not even too much fact checking. There is actual writing, which gets edited and therefore I get feedback. Shocking, I know, but the people there seem to actually respect the interns.

Perhaps in time I will have some humorous tales to tell. I could probably expound upon the very English-Major-esque intern who is training me in, but I am not going to because he is nice and I feel a little bit sorry for him because he doesn't have a job yet. It is a position I may very well find myself in when my six months are up.

Yes, I like it there. So much, in fact, that I think I might just move in after awhile. I mean, it would really help with the rent issue since, as I may have mentioned, they're not paying me. I wouldn't go so far as to bring a sleeping bag, but I could fashion a makeshift matress out of back issues and other publications from the well-maintained library. Then if I couldn't sleep I'd have my pick of great reading material right under my nose, hands, ears, feet, and every other body part. I could get some good reading done. Plus I would look quite dedicated; maybe they would think I was the best intern ever and offer me a job. Oh wait, I think the English Major is already doing this. And no, I don't actually think that they will offer me a job. This, like my musical, is a fantasy. A wonderful one, although I don't really want to sleep on magazines.

I Can't Wait for Sunday

Oh Carol at Bremberg Bank, I don't care if you send that Verification of Mortgage.

Oh Sarah at Quality Insurance, I will live even if you never make those changes to the Loss Payee Clause.

Why and how? Easily and with a flourish, because I have taken a mental vacation to the Land of Infatuation. I may still sit here, uncomfortable in the same position for eight hours straight, but my brain is intoxicated with desire. I now think it is of vital importance to look up my horoscope, then his, as well as how our sun signs interact. The astrologist predicts that the outlook is good, thank you very much.

Call me crazy. I won't deny it. In fact, I may just gaze at you with a silly half smile and then start softly singing the lyrics to a song entitled I Can't Wait for Sunday, which is being performed in the musical inside of my mind.

Sunday...
I can't wait for Sunday
The most magical day
oooof the weeeeeeeeeeek

Thursday...
whyyyyyy is it Thursday?
Oh the time it just drags
I can't stand it, no nooooo

Oh Sunday
I can't wait for Sunday
for that's when I'll see
my lover agaaaiiiiiin
As you can probably tell, it's a first rate musical, a little bit like West Side Story except there are no rival gangs and in the end the protagonist lovers end up together. So really it's almost nothing like West Side Story or any successful musical ever written. Furthermore, I don't really like musicals, and that is why this one is destined to remain locked in my mind only, forever. I know this must be a great disappointment.

The one thing that is better in my musical, and that I wish I could share with you, are the costumes. Yes - big, flouncy, sexy dresses and lots of flying around, making them ruffle, puff, flow and do everything a dress is meant to do. Oh, how I love my musical.

chivalry

Today I am being paid to sit at a desk, eat Hershey's Kisses, and daydream about the fabulous young gentleman I got to know over the weekend. I'm not complaining, I could do this all day. Of course, every once in awhile I do have to answer the phone in a show of solidarity for those who actually are working, which I do in a dazed, chocolatey voice.

I also signed some papers. It's a very strange thing; I get these papers from the woman in charge of Documents. On company letterhead they say, "We certify that these documants are true and exact copies of the originals." Then there is a line I need to sign. This is all fine and dandy, well and good. I really don't have anything better to do than to sign these papers. But I do wonder about one thing. What does she use them for? I am certainly not making any copies for her. Perhaps she does her own copying and then simply inserts the signed document, but if that's the case then why must they bear my signature? Wouldn't hers be just as good or - dare I say - better? Nevertheless, there I sat, signing away...I don't ask too many questions.

After an entire morning of such leisure, I noticed that a coworker was leaving to pick up her take-out lunch from Olive Garden. In my everlasting quest to find a way out of my cage and still get paid (but under the ruse that the most productive thing I could do at this point was to enable her continued behind-the-desk production), I offered to go instead.

I got a little lost on the way, but didn't mind as I was listening to some good DJ Shadow (and, may I remind you, still getting paid). I got unlost fairly quickly and made my way into the Olive Garden. This took some patience because I got stuck right outside the door behind an ancient man moving at the speed of ten tiny steps an hour. On the upside, the thoughtful Olive Garden staff members were there holding the doors for him, and since I was right behind they held them open for me too. Yes, doors - plural. This was no single threshold, but a vestibuled multi-entrance entryway. I patiently baby-stepped behind this man for several minutes, but as soon as we were in I shot around him like an Olypmic sprinter out of the blocks, lunging for the finish line - er, reception counter.

I was greeted begrudginly by the oh-so-friendly hostess, who must have seen that the old man actually did enter before me because she kept looking at him hobbling his way toward her, clearly thinking that he should be helped first. Unruffled, I informed her of my mission, "Hi. I'm here to pick up a to-go order."

"Oh. They'll help you over at the bar."

She began to help the old man and the line of customers that had accumulated behind him. I looked at the bar. Not only were there zero patrons sitting at the bar, there was no waitstaff tending to it. I raised my eyebrows but said nothing as I turned and marched past the leagues of lunching businesskind. I approached the bar and stood, looking for any soul who might care that I was standing there. No bartender, no server, no cook took notice (much less pity) on my attention seeking gaze, so there I stood. Looking. Waiting. Trying to appear friendly so as not to scare off any would-be Help. Still nothing.

I looked back at the hostess. By now she had seated the man as well as the queue that had formed behind him. I marched back over to her.

"Hi," I smiled. "I'm here picking up a to-go order and, well, I waited at the bar and no one came to help me."

"Oh...sorry," she said in a not very apologetic tone. "I'll find someone." In fact, she sounded a bit annoyed that I needed more help than she had initially given.

She ventured into the kitchen as I strolled back to the bar. We may not have had the best repoire, but by way of her Hostess Magic my food did appear. I paid and left with two bags full of food.

I drove back to the office, grabbed a bag in each hand and headed across the parking lot. I was just about to put one bag into the other hand so that I could open the door when I realized that the man also approaching the door was going to open it for me. I don't know how you know when someone is going to do this for you, it is just womanly instinct. And he did.

"Thank you," I said on my way through, hurrying so that I could catch the elevator that had just arrived on the first floor. I pressed 8 as the man also climbed aboard, pressing 4. I stepped back and as the elevator doors slid to a close my nose began to itch. We got to the fourth floor I realized that I had refrained from transferring one of the bags to the other arm in order to have a free hand with which to scratch, for if I had done that it would have shown that I had in fact been capable of opening the door on my own. In other words, if I had done that there may be one less chivalrous man in this city, nation, world, and as every woman knows we need all the gentleman we can get.

At long last he deboarded and the doors closed once again. I scratched my nose, rode up to the eighth floor and entered the office with a flourish, feeling useful, kind, generous, and very corporate feminine, ready for my afternoon of answering, autographing, and Kisses both real and imaginary.

it's Over

It's Friday again. Hard to believe how fast the week flies by when you're *not* having fun. Perhaps because we are actively blocking out any memory of how that time is spent even as we are spending it. My "boss" recounted a story in which he was taling to his friend on a Monday morning.

"What?" exclaimed Friend, "It's eleven o'clock already? In five minutes it'll be Friday!"

hmmm. I think that's a bit of an exaggeration. But that's just me.

And seeing as it's Friday, I have an admission: I am only working here one more week. I have known this since my first day here, when I found out that I got an internship at a great local magazine. Since the internship is only part time (and unpaid), I asked Boss Man if I could go part time here.

Nope.

So now I have to find something part time that pays well. Pronto. Is this going to happen? Probably not. So I'm back to the drawing board. Well, at least I won't be going crazy anymore.

files files files

My brain is fried from proccessing four horrible files today. Four may seem to you like a small number, but think of it as four one to two hour visits to Hell and you might begin to realize why it seems so large to me. My only relief came from other mundane tasks to be done between files, like shredding paper or filing other files. Files, files, files - my life now revolves around this word. Sometimes I would catch myself chanting it as I deviously snuck away from my desk to attend to "other important tasks" right in the middle of processing - this was out of a dire need to ward off a meltdown of the screaming variety.

The person who kept trying to send a fax to the phone line was not helping.

Ring Ring. Come Lord Jesus. No! ..."General Mortgage..." MEEEP! MEEEP!

This happened at least twelve times in one hour.

In this time of trial, chocolate was my true ally. Except even the chocolates were making demands with their bossy little wrapper phrases.

Listen to you heartbeat and dance.
Send a love letter this week.
Discover yourself.

Luckily we ate them all. I was actually happy to see them go. Never again will I purchase anything with the word 'promise' on it or attached to it in any way. From now on I am only buying chocolate with beer and footballs on the packaging. What would those say inside?

Bros before Hoes
Discover your carborator
Buy yourself a copy of Playboy

Come, Lord Jesus

This is wierd. Every time the phone rings I look at it in horror. I know that I am supposed to pick it up and say something, but I can't remember what because the ring startles me, causing the phrase "General Mortgage" to dash from my brain leaving me with..."Come Lord Jesus." I am not kidding, I have the urge to say grace. The ritual before-dinner grace of my childhood. The grace I had memorized before I even knew the meaning of the words because it was simply a string of sounds we said before eating - comlorjesusbeorgestanletheesgifstousbeblestamen. The grace that, since leaving home at eighteen, I have said only when I am back in the home of my mother.

I know this is not what I'm supposed to say, so I just wait and stare at the telephone. Usually within one second the correct phrase reenters my head and I can take the call. Sometimes it doesn't return. My eyes widen, my breath catches in my throat. There comes a time when I have to pick up - you can't be the person who is supposed to answer the phone and then just not do it. So I pick it up. I draw a breath. I say, "General Mortgage."

For one call, that breath took a full two seconds. I am sure the person on the other end wondered what was going on, but I couldn't say what wanted to come out. Come Lord Jesus. I mean, where did this come from, some file cabinet in the depths of my mind reserved for memorized passages one must recite on command?

"You want me to say 'General Mortgage' when I answer the phone? Let me just file that right here, next to 'Come Lord Jesus.' Alright, wonderful. Ready to go."

Except that I keep pulling up the wrong file! And if that's the case, how did the newest phrase get filed next to the oldest? Why aren't the Pledge of Allegience, the Lord's Prayer, the Preamble to the Constitution, Bedtime Prayers, or my Miranda Rights popping in as well?

Like I said - this is wierd.

promises

I am now at my desk surrounded by tin-foil wrappers from the lovely chocolates that I bought during my Target adventure the other day. We all thought it would be fun to have some chocolate in the office, but I am the one who has to sit here and look at it all day. It really is a no-win situation because I am either thinking I should be eating it, thinking that I shouldn't be eating it, or eating too much of it.

To make matters worse, I picked two bags of Dove "Promises" which, as you may know, have a little phrase on the inside of the wrapper akin to the fortune in a fortune cookie. Now, if there's one thing I hate it's the fortune cookies that don't house fortunes at all, but instead give you these trite little bits of advice like, "To open the doors to your success, open doors for others," or "Fear is but another obstacle on the road to greatness." Please. I want the fortune that says, "You are next in line for a promotion," "You will soon meet your soul mate," or even "A treacherous friendship will soon reveal itself through betrayal." I don't care if it's bad, give me a Fortune! Well, the sayings inside of the Dove Promises are like the worst fortune cookies, but much cheesier. Let me cite a few examples:

Lose yourself in a moment.
Naughty can be nice.
Don't think about it so much.
(And my favorite...) Buy yourself flowers.

Buy yourself flowers? Come on. Now I've never really gotten the whole guy-gives-girl-flowers thing, but I'm guessing that if you wanted someone to buy them for you, buying your own wouldn't be a very great substitute. Maybe they should keep going - buy your own birthday present, buy your own engagement ring, then your own house, and throw your own bridal shower. In reality, we would all probably be a lot happier this way, but it just isn't how things are done. Or maybe I just shouldn't "think about it so much." Ha! Okay, little piece of tin foil sitting on my desk, I'll take it from you.

The only thing these Promises really say to me is, "We know you're a woman because you are eating a chocolate that was in a bag with the word 'promise' on it, so we are going to fill your head with cliche woman-talk." Now, I like sitting down with my dark chocolate and watching Sex in the City as much as the next girl, but please, don't give me this stereotypical nonsense. Besides, the only reason I bought the Promises was that I like Dove chocolate and these things are individually wrapped. Now I feel bad for the two men in the office who have to eat them. On second thought, I feel bad for all of us - and I still haven't gotten my fortune.

p.s. Temptation is fun...giving in is even better.

p.p.s. Wink at someone driving past today.

Who writes these things?! I really want to know. I'd like to have a chat with them and tell them what an annoying and horrible experience it is to read such fluff. But i'd probably have to fly to New York City where I'd end up seeing that this person lives in a beautiful Manhattan loft which is paid for and then some by the production of these unconvincing statements. And that is one thing I do not want to see.

turnin' tricks

So, they've finally put me to work and oh man does it suck. They call it "proccessing files," but really it is data entry of the most mind-numbing and frustrating variety. Yesterday I was literally writhing in my chair from the pain of this task. Imagine a maze of paperwork complicated by titles and terms which may have meaning attached to them, but if so you haven't the faintest idea what that meaning might be. Numbers and letters jumbled together on a page, waiting to be untangled by your discerning eye.

I've discovered that this discerning eye would rather read the news and untangle fashion dilemmas. When I began working here, the MSN homepage would pop up again and again and I would wonder, "Who has time to read this crap?" Well friends, now I know. They are people with jobs so completely pointless (which are, ironically, the only ones at which someone like me can make a living wage) they must consume this fluff to distract their fried brains from the task at hand. Seriously. Do you remember that '80s commercial with the egg and the frying pan, "this is your brain, this is your brain on drugs..."? Well, there should be a new version for the new millennium: This is your brain. This is your brain on data entry (fry, fry, fry). People need to be warned.

I just keep asking myself, is it worth it? What are my options?!?! No wonder we live in a nation of caffeine and pharmacutical addicted overeaters. In fact, on a certain level this office is not unlike the pimpin' street scene. Replace the crack with coffee, the dope with food (preferrably of the fattening or sugary variety) or anti-depressants and you're on your way. We've got Big Daddy in the head office and all the little ladies (plus one gigilo in this case) running around, drumming up business and otherwise doing his bidding. He can throw one of us out on our ass at any time he so chooses, but for now, as a team we're bringin' in the cash. Okay, okay, we're not selling our bodies and we're not addicted to serious drugs, but it's still an interesting parallell, no? All I'm really getting at is that we're all selling something, often at the cost of honoring our true selves. It begins to suck us dry. There has to be a better way.

another day, another lunchbreak

For no apparent reason, the company president decided to order Chinese takeout for us the other day, using the company account. Evidently this is one of the perks of a cushy, if tedious and frustrating, Office Job. As I occupy the lowest rung on this corporate ladder, I was sent for pick-up. Though ecstatic at the thought of a chance to escape my windowless position in the over-air-conditioned building, I kept my excitement under wraps as I asked for directions to the restaurant:

"It's right over there," Latoya gestured out her window. "Just take a left out of the parking lot, go to the second stoplight and take a right. You'll be in the parking lot."

"Sounds close. Can I walk there?"

"Oh no. No. I want to eat toDAY."

"Yeah, you don't want to walk out there anyway," chimed in a third co-worker. "It's so busy, you'd probably get run over or something."

"Alright," I shrugged, resigned. This is, after all, Minnesota. Known within as the 'Land of Ten Thousand Lakes,' this slogan is a thin cover for reality, which would better read, 'Land of Ten Million Cars.'

Do that many people even live in Minnesota? you may wonder. The truth is, I don't know and it wouldn't matter if there were far less than that number because every man, woman and child has at least one car and many have two or three. If you drive onto my dad's property, for example, you will see one lake and at least five cars. Four are his, though only one functions on a regular basis. One belongs to my brother-in-law, who parked it there when he and my sister moved to California (go figure).

Meanwhile, noon was fast approaching at the office and I was still assigned to fetch lunch. I walked down the hall, riding the elevator down to the first floor and passing through the large, glass double doors into the summer light and warmth that is Minneapolis at its best. I walked the length of the parking lot to my car. I looked over at the Chinese restaurant. Yes, I could see it. And yes, I was still going to drive there.

Sad, I know. I lived without a car for the four years that made up my time in New York and Vancouver. Needless to say, I walked a lot. I got used to walking and in fact came to enjoy it. The distance between me and the to-go boxes was a mere jaunt compared to the grueling miles I have walked hungry and in search of a luncheon meeting place or some particular food that happened to be far away but worth it. I knew that getting in the car was ridiculous.

But I unlocked the door and put the key in the ignition. I drove out of the parking lot and through the first stoplight. At the second however, I had to stop. After stopping, I could have legally made my right-hand turn, except there was a pedestrian in front of me using the CROSSWALK. I leaned forward, clenching the wheel, glaring jealously at this fearless human who dared to enter the Land of Cars without his own two-ton bubble of armor. I cursed my co-workers for telling me it could not be done. I cursed myself for believing them.

Pedestrian past, I took my right and began to look for an open spot. I circled the parking lot once finding nothing. I circled again, to no avail. Finally, on my third time around a spot opened up exactly halfway between the restaurant and where my car had been previously parked. I tried not to think about the fact that I could have walked here in this amount of time, saved the gas and enjoyed myself much more. I avoided thinking of what I was doing at all, lest it cause me to jump out in front of one of the many passing cars, which would have really made my driving a futile endeavor. Instea,d I enjoyed what little time I did have outside and mentally chanted my new mantra, "Up yours' ladies," 'cuz next time I'm walking.

lunch

"Is that. . .that hummus stuff?" asked coworker Latoya as we gathered around the table at precisely twelve o'clock and I began assembling a wrap.

"Yup," I replied matter-of-factly. Accounting for tone of voice and manner of eye contact the practical translation of that one word was, 'I can see that you're eating Extreme Cheese Doritos and oh man, I do not feel like having this conversation.' You see, there are a wide variety of eating styles in this world, but they can be roughly divided into two camps: Healthy Eaters and Unhealthy Eaters. Yes, I reside for the most part in the Healthy Camp. The weird thing I've found is that if I start eating around Unhealthies I am not the one getting up on my high horse and judging the food choices of those around me -- in fact, the reverse is true.

As my coworker made a face that said 'yuck,' I asked, "Have you ever tried it?"

"No, I just don't think it's something I would like."

Well it's a good thing I brought the food for me, not you, I thought. Now can we stop talking about this?

No. In jumps third-party co-worker, Rita, "She doesn't know yet that we don't care what we eat." Oh really? I hadn't noticed. The "food" you bring up from the cafeteria, Chili's, or LeAnn Chin's wasn't a big enough tip-off. Oh, and by the way, I know you're lying because when you're not ingesting mass-produced toxic gray matter you are eating salad and talking about how you bought a big box of green tea because it's supposed to help you lose weight.

Most importantly, Rita, I might notice your fast food, I might observe your junk food, but I would never comment because it's your food and your body. I am much more interested in the delicious and nutrient-rich food that I am putting into mine. So can we talk about something else now?

Maybe. Latoya asks fourth co-worker Angela, "How's that Crystal Light pink lemonade?"

"It's pretty good. And Crystal Light's not bad for you at all." Well since we're keeping tabs, that depends on one's definition of "not bad for you," 'cuz the drink might not have calories but it definitely has cancer-causing artificial sweeteners. Which, I'm sad (or maybe so glad) to say, have never actually shown evidence of helping anyone lose weight.

"Hey now," interjects Rita, "we just got done telling Suzanne that we don't care what we put in our bodies." All I can say, ladies, is that I don't care what you put in your bodies either, so let's not converse about it. And that's all I ask sweetheart.

in the office

So, I've just started my first Office Job. Do I consider this my first "real job," after serving, nannying, and other various attemps to exchange time for a little cash? I'm not sure. After all, my first day amounted to a lot of web surfing, some answering of phones, a little paper shredding, and a dash of trying-to-look-busy.

On the other hand, it does have the most business-like dress code I've encountered to date and after my third day I even bought a new bag. Actually, it was a big Purse - also a first - so even if it was from Urban Outfitters I still feel like a middle aged woman with it hanging from my shoulder. I also caught myself contemplating what kind of shoes I should buy with my first paycheck. Shoes to wear to work, of course. To understand why these things are notable you have to understand that I am no stereotypical female, the greatest indicator being that I do not love shopping. In fact, aside from grocery shopping, I avoid all forms of it as others avoid the dentist. This is probably how I have managed to get by for twenty-four years without a Purse.

I certainly don't fit into this semi-staunchy office environment, yet I adore the idea of a steady, fat (relatively speaking) paycheck. And, as previously noted, I am going to need that fat paycheck to buy myself clothes and accessories to wear to work. Not to mention gas to get to work and drinks with which to relax and forget about work after the eight hours have ticked to a close. Hmmmmmm. We'll see how this all develops.