Catch Up

I'd really like to say that I don't have as much time for blogging and myspace surveys as I used to because things are really picking up at work, but I, unlike you, am not a goddamn liar. The truth is, I've been reading thesuperficial.com archives dating back to 2004. Also, I've been the learning geography of the Middle East and Africa. Between all my learning and making of tea, I barely have time to pretend that I'm busy working.

In other news, there was a brief period of excitement on Monday when I felt something out of the ordinary on the inside of my cheek. Upon inspection in the mirror, I found two dark red/black bumps that appeared to be some sort of plague. Fairly certain that I would pass out from the sheer grossness of it all, I mentally prepared to go home early, but alas, after talking to a dentist and an "ophthalmologist"(jeff), I was assured that it was probably not the plague. (Although, Jeff did suggest that it might be hoof in mouth disease. Jeff's so funny.) As disturbing as my mouth plague was, I was strangely sad when it disappeared overnight. Was it a dream? A figment of my under-utilized imagination? A good possibility, but at least it occupied some of my vast mental power for a while.

A final note: Pat, my domestic partner as you may know him, has gotten what I call "the boot" by the Akron Beacon Journal after a short few months. Allegedly, they did major lay-offs and cut 40 people or something, but I know that it's all part of god's plan to make Pat a male dancer. So if you know of any clubs that are hiring, let me know. Have a blessed day.

The Sun don't shine, or remember names

I've been at my job for almost two months now. I mention this only because today marks the fifth time that the president and CEO of the company has failed to remember my name while introducing me to another person. Now, with a whopping 14 employees working for him, Sunny (yes that's his name) cannot be expected to remember every single person's name. The fact that I can spend all day reading blogs on myspace and learning state capitals (Montpelier, what?) without a single person caring does not make me feel insignificant. However, I take some offense to being what is apparently just another nameless white girl.

The strange thing is that Sunny is very good with the names of the strippers who work here. I mean, Sarah, Erica, Christina - I can barely keep them straight. But i suspect that after so many lap dances, a girl starts to leave an impression. A gigantic fake-breasted impression. I should think that by being the only non-stripping white girl, my uniqueness alone would set me apart from the rest and warrant a name, but I guess it's foolish to think that in Sunny's mind, I'll ever be anything but that little biscuit who doesn't take her clothes off for money. I'm just saying that if I'm ever the CEO of a fake publishing company, I will require name tags to be worn at all times. Or I will mandate that all employees show me their tits. Hollaaa!

Stay out of the kitchen

One of the best and worst things about my job is that my desk is right outside the kitchen. On the plus side, I get to see what everyone eats and when they eat it. My close proximity also allows me to make tea and survey the cupboards whenever i please. In the minus column, I smell everything that is cooked, including delicious buttery popcorn, that leaves me hungry and resentful of the snackers.

Chris, the temp, has, hands down, the most disconcerting food habits. (Chris also has the wost job in the world, that being calling people and peddling books and outrageously expensive commemorative plaques. I feel a certain kinship with him because I suspect he also hates his life.) Shortly after he started here, I took note that he brought Chinese leftovers for lunch. I took note, as the refrigerator was broken and he was forced to leave the styrofoam container out on the kitchen table. I was jealous, and understandably so. I had only a peanut butter sandwich and a helping of baby carrots for lunch that day. My lust for fried rice grew every time I entered the kitchen. When finally, Chris sat down for lunch, a calm washed over me. At least the rice would be gone soon so that I could get back to pretending to work.

On my next trip into the kitchen, the savory smell of rice still lingering, I saw in the trashcan, the open styrofoam box, full of rice. It looked as if Chris had applied some soy sauce, raised his fork, then decided "No, fried rice is not for me." I was so so sad. Sad that no one got to enjoy the rice. Sad that it is disgusting to eat veritable strangers' leftovers out of the garbage. So sad.

I've come to accept that there will be days when popcorn is popped and soup is heated and I will be dissatisfied with my own meager lunch. But today, Chris took an early lunch around 11 am. This time he had a prepackaged frozen carton of chicken fried rice. Everyone who wandered into my kitchen-adjacent office during the 5 minutes or so that it was in the microwave commented on the delicious permeating smell.

As usual, I was angry. I didn't bring anything for lunch today, because I wasn't hungry when I left home at 8:15, so I couldn't imagine being hungry any time in the forseeable future. Chris probably saw me staring at the glowing microwave turntable and commented, "It's cool that they have soy sauce here." I paused before replying, "Yes. That is cool." I tried not to watch him eat, busying myself with "work," but when he finished and returned to his conference room, I went straight to the kitchen, and couldn't help but glance at the trash. And there it was. A paper plate, full of chicken friend rice and a few empty packets of soy sauce. I don't know why he does it, but I hate Chris. Because one of these days I'm going to be caught eating out of the trash and no one will see how it's all his fault.