When the cat's away

I kind of hate the saying, "when the cat's away," mostly because i don't like cats, and i definitely don't like thinking of them as being in charge ... so let's change it ... when the boss is away ...

on this dreary, slow Friday it took all my energy to merely get myself out of bed and to work, and i am now spent for the day. my boss is on a mini-holiday in west palm beach and i am taking advantage of every boss-free minute.

the day started by ordering coffee for the department courtesy of THE MAN, which then extended to lunch, again, courtesy of THE MAN.

since work causes copious amounts of stress, (and knots that seem to have permanently attached themselves to my shoulder), i figured a fitness center massage was in order during the work day as well.

eventually, this tough day will conclude at the Ice Rink in Rockefeller Plaza at the Korbel Elite Curling Competition, where I will schmooze with pseudo-sports writers, and of course, lots of complimentary champagne.

oh yeah, as i type this, i am listening to my ipod via my boss's sweet bose sound system whose new home is on my desk.

who needs west palm beach when you can vacation right here at the peacock?

yes, i'm being a freeloader today, but every other day i pay a high price for being here. THE MAN owes me this day.

Flushed Away

Here's the thing.

Does anyone like to go to the bathroom at work? I mean, really?

Maybe it's just me.

My place of employment is an octogenarian. In fact, I deem work Octogenarian. God bless the buiding in all its splendor, but damn the place is a crusty old man. With improper plumbing to say the least. My floor is the worst offender of the lot.

So how in the world can that make the bathroom at work better? It doesn't. We call Facilities at least once a day, and here's why.

In the not-to-distant past I was said bathroom during the early evening hours. And I was not alone. I hear footsteps on the cold, hard floor, then the lock clicks on the door two stalls down.

Fine. Great. Everthing's good.

Until mere moments later I hear a flush, the panicked scream, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god..." There's the slam of a door opening and the clickety-clack of a guilty perp fleeing the scene.

Still in the prime of Summer I look down at my flip-flopped feet and see dirty bathroom water rushing towards me. It creeps along the floor at a record pace, daring me to remain untouched by the in-san-i-tary of it all.

Will I make it?

Will I survive?

More imporantly,
Why can't the building fix the god damn plumbing situation?!

Thanks to quick reflexes and the sweltering heat that put me in an easy cotton dress, I escape in one clean piece , but will remain forever in fear of Stall #2.

You can never go home.

You just can't. You might think you can but you're wrong.

I went to homecoming this past weekend. My college - Prayalot University - decided to host our 5 year reunion during homecoming, which kind of annoyed me because by this weekend we were really at 5 and a half years. I was asked to join the homecoming and reunions committee which I dutifully did, although I didn't actually do any of the work required. I just wanted it to say "Reunions Committee" under the "Hi my name is ExPage, B.A 2002" sticker I would be given. I volunteered to work the check-in table at the pre-game tent party, even though I had already payed $25 to go. Call me Super Alum. I checked in no one I knew. No one from my class showed up. Except the people I dragged.

The football game sucked. Don't they all? Well, at a D3 school they do. Right before the new Homecoming King and Queen were announced, I sat down with a former classmate of mine who was at the game with her 2 beautiful daughters. Maisie was 4 and Ashley Lou was 1. I informed Maisie that all the candidates for king and queen were fakes. Yours truly was the real king. I was homecoming king in 2000 with my beautiful queen - and now former roommate - Queen. I pointed out Queen to Maisie and informed her that in addition to me being the REAL king, Queen was the real queen. Maisie turned to her mother, and I kid you not, goes, "Mommy, I thought Jesus was King."

Prayalot University.

I took a gulp of the Coors Light that I had skillfully hidden in my back pocket, smiled, and went back to my perch on the bleachers.