Staff Meetings - The Story of My Life

Today we had another staff meeting. I love staff meetings because they give me a chance to get away from my desk and there’s always some kind of unidentified cafeteria food that they call “catering”. I’m right next to the conference room, so I usually get first wind of any really good fruit spread and first pick of the drinks.

One of my favorite co-workers is the one I work the most with. He’s from Guadalajara or some place like that and talks with an accent. I call him guy-with-an-accent. But I have a strong suspicion that he might be gay. Which is actually great, because when you work closely with someone of the opposite sex, it’s good not to have any tension at all. He’s also one of the snazziest dress people I know too. He always looks like he’s walked straight out of a J Crew ad and has completely mastered the three quarter sleeve roll-up better than any man I know. He actually dresses better than me, which sometime makes me mad because I have not only tried to become the least productive person in the office, I also aspire to become the best dressed. And I was well on my way for a while, probably because I’m the youngest person and one of the few office workers who can fit into clothes from Banana Republic. So people would walk by me and say “You look nice today,” and I’d feel great, but then they’d walk a little further and I’d hear “Whoa! Guy-with-an-accent, that’s a fabulous shirt!” Damn him. I think I’m gonna put chewing gum in his chair.

Much of our office is fashionable challenged. One woman in particular, whose role and title I haven’t quite figured out yet, but who has a really nice office and always manages to squirm into my lunches out with the manager for no apparent reason. Really, on my “welcome lunch” she just sort of appeared at the stool next to me and my manager at a restaurant and ate lunch with us, but didn’t introduce herself or say a word. But anyway, she’s generally regarded as the craziest dressed person. She has some weird fashion sense where she goes for really bright colors that don’t really match. Every now and then she’ll manage an outfit that slightly matches and as I pass her in the halls I’ll think “Yes! We have a winner! Someone finally turned on the lights while they were getting dressed!” And in those moments I can’t help but be a little proud of her. But today, at a presentation about liquefied natural gas (insert joke here), I sat behind her. I suddenly noticed that she was wearing a jacket that was apparently too small, because she had a giant rip down the back seam! I thought about pulling her aside and letting her know, and perhaps adding, “and while we’re at it, you do know that bright green and fuchsia don’t match, right?” But then the thought crossed my mind that maybe this was all part of her weird fashion “look” and that it would be totally rude to imply that a rip in a jacket wasn’t cool. However, I’m a little excited by the fact that when she gets home tonight and takes the jacket off, she’ll have to figure out how many people saw her like this.

But back to guy-with-an-accent. Last month was his turn to be the guest speaker at our monthly meeting. See, at every monthly meeting, after the usually office house cleaning and discussion of who’s doing their work and who isn’t (during which I keep a low profile) someone is picked to tell their life story. Literally. They get like 10 minutes to tell everything that’s happened to them up till now. It’s usually like “I was born with a calculator in my hand and became an accountant here, then moved here and became a different kind of accountant…“ It goes on like this for days. So last month was guy-with-an-accent’s turn. Everyone was all excited to hear about his life and, for me, most importantly, to hear the answer to the nagging question “what’s with the accent?” He started to tell us about how he got some nerd accounting job in America and that’s what got him his citizenship and there was apparently dancing in the street in his hometown or some shit like that. I also came to learn that in Mexico, you have like 14 names. You take your mom’s maiden name, your dad’s last name, and about four others for good measure. Our manager insisted that he recite his full name to us. I could have hit her with my stale dinner roll. He proceeded to take the next 15 minutes to say every Hispanic name I’ve ever heard, and by the time he was to Juanita, I tuned out. I think he was just making them up as he went along. But my co-workers were mesmerized, as though they were looking at some strange animal in the zoo that they couldn’t quite understand and desperately want to just poke with a stick.

So anyway, after that marathon, we all filed back out of the conference room and the biography ended there. Or so I thought. All around the office people were buzzing with conversation about guy-with-the-accent’s amazing life story. They made it sound like he’d swum into San Diego harbor on a raft made of popsicle sticks, wearing a barrel or something. Hmm... not many struggling immigrants I know shop at the Armani Exchange and have Louis Vuitton wallets. People were getting very worked up about it, dropping by his cubicle to give him a pat on the back and try to speak to him in his native tongue. “Hola guy-with-accent! Como esta?” But sure, I guess his story was awe-inspiring. If awe-inspiring means managing to distract me from the fly buzzing around the room for a few minutes. But actually I’m really beginning to like guy-with-an-accent. He’s become my friend who I can exchange puzzled looks with during a meeting, or pass funny notes to about the person who’s talking. I can do all this with someone who I can happily consider my well-dressed, gay office friend.

So today’s “featured speaker” is the laugh-loud girl. I’ve mentioned her in my previous blogs. She seems very exciting about revealing her life to the whole office over cafeteria food. But more power to her. She’s been wandering around the office giving people a preview, telling everyone “It’s not going to be too exciting because I’m leaving out ages 17-25!” She then proceeds to cackle loudly. Now, I’m sure in your day, laughs-loud-girl, you had a grand old time and met many the odd fellow, winning him over with your ungodly laugh. However, I have trouble believing that anyone with your penchant for animal print blouses, white nylons, and inexplicably frizzy hair would ever have a “wild” story to tell. So I’m betting this one’s gonna be a snooze fest.

I can’t wait until the day I get to tell my story at a meeting. I think I’m gonna make stuff up. Cause really, it wouldn’t be very exciting to hear “I was born, not to long ago, grew up, played it safe, and now I’m here sharing cold cafeteria food with you people! Pass the rice pilaf, please?” People are so intrigued with other peoples lives that I think it’d be fun to just have fun with it. Then I’d have people stopping by my cube afterwards being like “I had no idea you traveled the world with a champion water-skiing team! And how you spent the summer before college de-clawing blind koalas? That’s just great Heather!”

Wise thoughts on Wisdom Teeth

Last Friday I got my wisdom teeth out. I had a trippy experience with the anesthesia for about an hour, and then was sent home for a pain-filled weekend of fun. Here are some of the troubles I encountered with my swollen cheeks:

I’m popping Advil’s like tic tacs. I laugh in the face of the warning label on the back, recommending a max of six per day. Ha! I have six for a snack. I usually stir about 12 into my morning oatmeal, and then pop a few more on the drive to work. I can grab and take a handful of Advil from my bedside table without even opening my eyes in the morning. I take handfuls of Advil in the shower. I take Advil while I’m getting dressed (one between pulling on each sleeve.) Then, during the morning meeting I’m slipping them into my mouth from my pocket. I even doodle little Advil people on my notepad. (It’s all I think about.. and in case you’re wondering, the Advil man looks kind of like the Blood Mobile Man, a drop of blood with a face and a cape) I have a bowl of “party mix” on my desk that is only Advil (in assorted types: gel tabs, circles, and ovals).
The Wal-Mart family pack of Advil can’t begin to meet my needs. I’ve emptied tubs of the stuff and my room is littered with empty Advil bottles. I’ve become rather partial to the gel form, because then I can swallow more than six at once. (Am I making anyone nauseous?) I feel like I should be studied by the Advil Institute and give them advice on how to better bottle or prepare their next batch of Advil. When I complained to my dentist over the phone about the pain he said “Are you taking Advil?” I was stunned in silence. Am I taking Advil? Perhaps you would like to come to my apartment, if you can open the door through the piles of empty Advil bottles, and look for my Ibuprofened little body. I’ll be the one in the kitchen, with the blood shot eyes and fat cheek, baking an Advil cake.

At first I was afraid of taking a narcotic. But Vicodin hasn’t done anything for me, except make me lie awake in my bed thinking “Am I in some placebo group or something?” I’m now convinced that anyone who’s addicted to Vicodin would get the same high from chewing a stick of Trident. And I had a lot of hope for the Vicodin. I mean, it’s gotta be one of the scariest words ever. Vicodin. It’s kinda like vampire, but kinda not. Imagine if someone were named Vicodin. I would always be scared of them. There probably is someone out there named Vicodin, in like Yemin or somewhere. I sure don’t wanna meet them. And when you tell people you’re taking Vicodin, it has like the scariest connotation. People at work said “Are you taking anything?” I’m like “Yeah, sometimes Vicodin.” They all immediately gasp and take a giant step back. It has a perception to be eerily powerful or something. But I’m here to tell you, people, it’s not. And trust me, I was one of the believers once too. I thought the only people who should be taking Vicodin were people who like fell off a ski lift onto a metal spike and then were run over by a dog sled. Not a little girl who was in a dentist chair for about an hour and had her tooth tapped, and then left. (Seriously, that’s all I felt.)

I’ve forgotten what solid food tastes like. If Jell-O doesn’t make it, I don’t know what it tastes like. Today was my first day with any type of real food. I was pretty nervous. And I have to chew like an old lady… really slowly and straight up and down.. no sudden moves. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve come to appreciate the fact the McDonald hamburgers are flat as a pancake and lack any substance. You don’t have to open your jaw or chew at all… they just sort of slide in like a punch card.

It’s been five days. Five days! And I’m still puffy and in pain. And everyone has their two cents to put in about the situation. But I know something’s up. My concern now is no longer that I’m going to live through the anesthesia (since I did) but that the left side of my face will be numb forever. You might laugh at this, but it could happen. Now, I recall having the consultation to discuss such things with the surgeon guy a few days before the actual event. (We shall refer to that as “the day which shall not be named”) He was showing me a panoramic x-ray of my mouth, which I was so mesmerized by that I stopped listening to what he was saying. I seem to remember now him pointing out some white lines along my gumline that he said were nerves that can sometimes get stretched. Stretched? What are they, jump ropes? These are NERVES! Aren’t they kinda important? Are they gonna sproing back in place, or am I gonna be paralyzed forever? Now I wished I’d paid more attention during that consultation, but at the time, a funny looking bird appeared at the window, and all I can remember from then on is “blah blah blah tooth, blah blah blah permanent paralysis, blah blah blah, do you consent?”
So I really don’t know what was going on in my mouth when I went in for surgery. For all I know, I could have agreed to something totally different. “So, during the consultation, we agreed that you should have all of the teeth on the left side of you mouth moved to the right, right? OK, here we go! Count back from 100!” Cause really that’s what it feels like he did.

** An interesting blog side note: My spell checker insisted that Vicodin should be spelled “Vic ODin.” No, mister computer. I’m not referring to the jolly Irishman who owns the pub down the street, Mr. O’Din. I’m in fact referring to the completely inert drug Vicodin, whose name is highly commonplace. Thanks, Mr. Spellchecker. Vic O’Din of Hoboken, Ireland is glad you’re thinking of him, but he agrees that you need to get out more.

Office Rule #58 (Death by Chocolate)

Let your co-workers know about your likes and dislikes early on. More to the point, let them know what things you like to eat, and what things will kill you.

I made the mistake of not telling anyone in my office that I’m allergic to dairy products. In hindsight, my first day should have been like this: “Hi, my name is Heather and I’m allergic to milk.” Not only then would everything be clear, but my co-workers would have probably regarded me as the “new weirdo” and would have left me alone. My co-workers have a tendency to nag and try to hang out in my cubicle. I wish my cubicle had a door. Then I could lock it. Or at least pretend to be on the phone when they come by and gesture through to sound proof window to come back later, like my boss does.

Anyway, this whole not knowing about me is starting to get worse and worse. I consider it the mark of a true friend for them to know that I’m allergic to most things under the sun. And, it’s the mark of a really great friend who will ask a waiter at a restaurant we’re at if the meal is cooked in butter, because their dear friend over here might die. But maybe I shouldn’t be so exclusive with this information. I feel like it’s a third date sort of conversation point. And in everyday life, it certainly shouldn’t be brought up if not called for, because of the inevitable questions it provokes, such as “Weird! What happens to you?! Would you die?! Like, how exactly would you die?” or “Oh my gosh, I would just kill myself if I couldn’t have ice cream. That’s so sad… don’t you just wanna kill yourself? Don’t you?” and the latest one which I seem to be getting is “So do you eat a lot of peanut butter?” Huh? I don’t get this one. Honestly, about three people have asked me that one recently. I don’t see the logic behind this one. Peanut Butter? Because, when you think of no milk products you think… peanut butter? Yes, you’re right. In fact, I subsist solely on peanut butter. Why, is that weird? Don’t you? I don’t think I’ve had peanut butter since I was in first grade and ate it with raisins on a celery stick.

So anyway, since on the first day I failed to mention my weirdness, it’s now getting too late in the game to say anything! This wouldn’t really be a problem, but I seem to have become to target of the office’s new-kid-outreach program or something. A couple times a week one of my co-workers comes by my cube with some kind of snack to give me. I’m sure they think they’re just making my day, but in reality it’s really awkward. It started off easy enough. My cubicle mate gave me a biscotti. Without even a glance at the ingredients I knew it was not Heather-friendly. “Thanks!” I said enthusiastically, and as soon as they turned the corner, I opened my bottom drawer, threw the poor little biscotti in the back and closed it, never to be seen again. So this was easy enough… I would just fill my desk drawer with these foods and pretend I ate them. (Weird, when I wrote that out it makes it sound like I have an eating disorder or something, like one day some janitor or something is gonna stumble upon my stash of dairy products and I’m gonna have a meltdown when I realize everyone’s found out)

But then, they starting wanting to see me eat the stuff they brought me! This has to do with them being too friendly. A few weeks ago someone brought me a chocolate chip cookie, and then sat down in my cubicle. Oh no! So I just stared at my friend while she told me the story of her “stupid, useless brother”, all the while the cookie starting to crumble in my trembling hand. I had to nod along with her story and just sort of hold the cookie. It must have looked pretty unnatural, me with wide unblinking eyes, nodding every now and then, holding a cookie about three feet from my body. So after she was there for a while, I started to realize I might actually have to eat this cookie! Is it really worth nearly dying over social courtesy?

But luckily, I didn’t have to decide that one, as my friend finally got up and finished her story and left. Before she left though, I of course had to thank her for the cookie, “Thanks! I guess everyone knows chocolate chip cookies are my favorite… mmmm!” When she was finally gone, and with a sigh of relief, I tossed the cookie into the drawer of no return and got back to work.

So now that all this has happened I’ve really backed myself into a corner. Now that I’ve pretended to enjoy all these things, there’s no way I can be like “Oh, by the way, just so you all know, you’ve all been slowly killing me with these foods because I’m allergic to them.” And I’ve never known such giving co-workers. Is it normal to shower the new employee with dairy products? I feel like I should stand on my chair (which might be tough because it’s a rolley chair, and me lurching around trying to balance myself might not have the same effect) and announce “Everyone listen up! Stop trying to buy my affection with food! I’m a normal person and all you have to do is talk to me!” But I haven’t gotten the courage yet, so when I see someone coming towards me with something in their hand shortly after our lunch break, I try to slip out the back and pretend I’m making copies.

In fact, I’ll open my bottom drawer right now and give you an inventory… there’s a granola bar, a Milky way, some Reese’s pieces, that biscotti (which is starting to grow fur), an Almond Joy, a few cookies, some See’s candy, some caramel Hershey kisses, a bag of Doritos, and some pretzels. Oh wait, I can eat those! Score!