Wednesday, November 24, 2004


If I'd known that adulthood would involve stretches of picking "natural cinnamon and streusel topping" from a vending machine coffee-cake out of my scarf, I might not've signed up. Or, at least, I would've gotten a pass to get out of the first few periods.

In other not-so-grown-up moments, yesterday I got called into the VP's office to discuss "the timecard situation." It's not as dire as it sounds; he called in all of the editorial assistants to confirm that, indeed, we can sign in and out for lunch and get paid for the actual hours we work, instead of having an hour a day automatically taken out of our checks. The VP then tried to make a joke about how we should take a full hour, lest we end up old and over-worked like him, and, ha ha ha, how we obviously think he's so stern because look, one of us brought a pad to take notes! He then turned towards me, and said "Well, not that you need a pad, you seem to think writing notes on your hand is just fine. I guess we're not bringing you to any exhibits."

To which I responded, "I AM an exhibit."

He dismissed us shortly thereafter without so much as cracking a smile, and I sat around my cube feeling pretty smug for a while. Granted, no, the way to ingratiate yourself to upper management is probably not through unmitigated wise-assery. But come on, I really couldn't care less. I'm not exactly aiming to rocket to the teetering heights of scientific publishing aristocracy.

In exchange for writing Kai's gym paper (sidenote: why make fully-grown people, people very near to being certified to manage your health and well-being, attend gym class? Nevermind the exercise in total absurdity that is forcing them to crap out five hundred words assessing their personal levels of fitness? Isn't that your job, Coach Drank-your-way-out-of-a-shot-at-the-Minor-Leagues-and-into-this-moronic-position?), I was treated to Chili's last night. I got in either a real or imagined fight with our waitress, who was arguably curt with me the whole time. For a final flourish of surrealism, the couple at the next booth over prayed for SO LONG before eating. Kiddos, I believe in my heart of hearts that Jesus doesn't want your tacquitos to get cold. You don't need to say a whole rosary every time you eat a Tic Tac.

I just got paid, and I can leave fifteen minutes early today to catch the earlier train home. Today could be worse.

(Note: That is not a dare.)


Blogger JMH said...

Great writing!!!!!!!

12:15 PM  

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