DeskyGal

Office Ramblings from a DeskyGal

[deksyofficegal]

Friday Daymare

I love Friday. It’s my favorite f-word. Today is Friday, and it feels fantastic.

 The thing that’s so great about Friday is that it’s immediately followed by Saturday and Sunday. That’s not to say that Loverboy’s got it wrong. No, I work occasionally the weekend along with everybody else, but working on a Saturday and/or Sunday doesn’t seem to tarnish that shiny Friday feel.

 However, on a Wednesday or a Thursday morning, when my dreaded iPhone alarm goes off, robbing me of that peaceful transition between lucid dreaming and natural waking, I sometimes have what I’ve come to describe as Friday Daymares. You know that feeling when spring rolls around and you wake up in daylight for the first time, and you scream (either audibly or in your head), “Oh my god! I’m late!” Well, Friday Daymares have me screaming out, “Oh my god! It’s Friday!” which is immediately followed by the fear that I’m not going to be able to finish everything I need to get done in this last-day-of-the-week.

 Real Fridays are fab. Mid-week-Fridays are mad.

[deksyofficegal]

Bad Day

You kick up the leaves and the magic is lost They tell me your blue skies fade to grey You stand in the line just to hit a new low You're faking a smile with the coffee to go

 Ugh. What’s worse than having to work a full 8 or 9 hours when you’re sad. Maybe your boyfriend broke up with you. Maybe your best friend just told you he’s getting tested for Crohn’s. Maybe that wild college roomie who travels on business and calls once every other month for a wild night while she’s in town texted at 6am to come clean that she did sleep with Brady and she’s sorry she threw up on you that one time—she’s joined AA and is already on step 8. Maybe you cracked the screen of your iPhone. Maybe you just got that dentist bill and of course the insurance is only covering 20% of the cost. Maybe…

 Who cares!

 The point is that I’m having a bad day, and even humming a Daniel Powter song isn’t going to make me feel any better. I’ve just got to slog through. I’m 18 minutes into the shift that’s gonna make me constipated (mentally and physically). I’m probably going to get a migraine. But I’ve got to keep going. Work demands it, DeskyGal. #SingleTear

[deksyofficegal]

The Lunch Room

Sometimes the worst thing about a day at the office is the lunch room. Mine is bright and cheery and has a fantastic view of the best city in earth--that's Portland, Oregon in case you didn't know. It looks like a room straight out of the catalogue of CB2 or Dot & Bo, but that doesn't stop it from smelling like fish when Manny from Customer Relations decides sardines in a can are better heated on sourdough toast. Or that Dot from Accounting isn't going to comment on the fact that you're eating canned soup for the third time that week and asks you if you've read about what microwaves do to the nutrition of your food. (Microwaves kill the nutrition in your food, in case Dot hasn't talked to you yet.) I would consider eating at my desk, but that's what Kamie in Marketing did, and they had to fumigate the whole floor she was on: ants. How embarrassing. I wouldn't want that to be me.

Guess it’s off to the lunch room for this Desky Gal.

[deksyofficegal]

Spanx

Mission: to help women everywhere feel great about themselves and their potential. 

And it’s not just the company saying these things. Social channels are a-twitter with @Spanx mentions:

Ready for a night out! #thankgodforspanx

Not the most flattering dress on me but hey, its batman and robin! #comicsdress #spanxplease

Had a little too much bbq this Memorial Day weekend? SPANX to the rescue! #loveyourcurves #spanx #spanxsavestheday

Because we are Wedding Dress shopping this weekend....  #spanxlife #sayyestothespanx

Well, I’m here to tell you....THEY ARE NOT COMFORTABLE!

Don’t let those smooth curves and high sales fool you. They’re tiiiiiight. I’m sure that doesn’t come as a surprise to anyone, and it shouldn’t come as a surprise to me either. 

DeskyGal says, #RatherBeLumpy.

[deksyofficegal]

Officewinter

Michael Moore bought a gun, Ann Coulter embraced the idea of food stamps, and Jeannie Mead from fourth grade finally agreed to go out with Chad Dertwiler. You know how I know all this? Because hell hath finally frozen over. That’s right, it’s summer here in the northern hemisphere, but that also makes it Officewinter. Move over La Niña and El Niño, a new weather phenomenon has come to town, La abuela con los pezones duros. That’s The Grandmother with the Hard Nipples for those of you who aren’t fluent en Espanola but still enjoy a little Weather Channel banter.

  I know this is nothing new to anyone who’s sat at a desk longer than it takes to figure out which long shelving aisle is hiding the book you’re finally ready to read. By the way The Shining, like all the books you want to read, is, of course, located in the aisle that leads right back to the bathrooms. Moreover, it’s near the end of the aisle, so you can smell the multi-layered odorous clouds the homeless guy left in there for the poor unsuspecting intern who thinks they want to be a librarian but already hates people.

  The point of this is that it’s fucking freezing here at the office. I can barely move my stiff, frozen fingers, and I’m going to need someone to get me a coffee with whiskey in it soon so I can stop reading the same two-sentence email over and over again. Like the true hypocrite I am,  I’m also sick of catching all the whispers in this frozen hell: “…need a sweater…,” “is it just me, or…?,” “..thermostat police…” 

[deksyofficegal]

alRIGHT?

I’m furiously banging on the keys, trying to create as much noise in my area of the office as possible. My stomach is growling something fierce. I’m worried about having a crazy bowel attack of the worst sort any moment now, and I fear that I may have to leave the office afterward, never to be heard from again.

  In the meantime, I’m creating keyboard clatter which I’m hoping will cover the sound of the ferocious gurglings and moanings and odd squeaks that are coming from behind my abdominal wall. Should anyone hear these, they will most likely assume that I am sick with some sort of horrific, contagious parasite that will eat me from the inside out and then move on to its next humiliated victim. I’m tempted to believe this myself—it’s just too loud.

  In fact, I’m surprised I haven’t yet heard the words that would open a sink-hole of mortification for me:

“Ummm, are you alRIGHT?”