Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Shut Yer Plymouth

Today's blogging was delayed by some necessary hustling to get a reprint folder together before my boss's three o'clock meeting, as well as an unnecessarily long "Town Hall" meeting in the crowded sixth-floor conference room. The only way one can tell one is on the sixth floor instead of the seventh floor is the color of the walls. Beige, instead of light gray.

My day is a rainbow of light and joy, ranging from the deepest taupe to the brightest khaki.

I get a kick out of the fact that our all-company gatherings are called "Town Hall" meetings. It's got a great, old-timey ring to it. If the conference room were indeed a town hall, and the whole lot of us were pilgrims, or some such people who wear the bonnets I'm picturing on everyone, and the president of my company were some kind of Miles Standishish leader, we would undoubtedly never have made it to the First Thanksgiving. We would've stood around asking questions about whether or not the maize we talked about during the last town hall meeting was definitely, for sure going to feed everyone because two town hall meetings ago we were promised an up-to-date directory of the whole colony and that has yet to materialize so why should we believe anything that management has to say, especially when our no-sick-day bonuses are never going to be given out what with all the shake-up in HR? By the time our maize concerns were settled it would've been winter, half the colony would've frozen to death in their seats, and the rest would be gnawing their dead children in a boredom-induced stupor.

I'm convinced that the tai chi woman on my train is not only annoying, she's the Angel of Death. You may recall her mysterious appearance on the day I found out I didn't get that job I really wanted; she was the one squatting and stretching right in the middle of my public transportation breakdown. Well, yesterday she appeared on my train, like the Raven itself, and I came home to a letter telling me I hadn't gotten the latest job I applied for.

It's her fault. I swear, the flash of her white thigh emerging from under her polyester business suit bottom as she draws up her leg like a Great Dane ready to mark the whole train as her own is enough to throw off the entirety of human existence. It could've been Mother Teresa up for this job. I could've been William fucking Shakespeare, but if I had happened to notice her, right behind me, legs akimbo, it still would've been enough to suck me into her dark vortex (her metaphorical dark vortex) where nary a particle of employment can reach.

So here's to you, Mrs. Tai Chi Face, the 5:12 hates you more than you could know.

Whoa, whoa, whoa.

2 Comments:

Blogger Buckley said...

My salutations to you Kathy.

It was so refreshing and uplifting today to return to your blog after a phase of absense and find it in fine fetter.

Great to see the marvellous (blog) work continues,

James

12:06 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

Nice to see you back! How goes the jail-touring?

2:45 PM  

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