Every once in awhile I’ll make a decision that’s even dumber than the 1984 “I’m going to not only buy but also wear the shit out of these striped Espirit pants” decision. And that dumb decision came last night, when I said, “I’m going to leave the door open so the cats can sleep here if they so choose.”
They so chose.
Good GRAVY that was a ridiculous evening. Why do we have so many cats? I had nowhere to put my feet. I was like Princess Diana at those land mines.
Anyway, I survived it, and now my capri khakis and I are going to get into the car with Dodi Al Fayed.
But that story is not why I gathered you here today, although knowing me I could have made a whole post about how dumb it is to sleep with 86 cats. It runs in my family. My Uncle Leo was a teacher, and my cousins Katie and Maria went to his school. I can’t imagine going to school with a parent but there it is. Anyway, when Katie was in kindergarten, my Uncle Leo walked past Katie’s classroom, where apparently it was her turn to do show and tell but she had failed to bring something to show and then inevitably tell.
“These are my tights,” she began, twisting her leg to and fro. “My tights are white, and they came from…”
She made lemonade, is what she did. She pulled show and tell out of her ass. Probably literally, because remember how uncomfy those tights were? All I can recall is doing that dance where you pull ’em up. Pull, leg leg, pull.
But again, this is not why I called you here. I CALLED you here to tell you I had an actual adventure that involved leaving the house and going to work! I KNOW!
Yesterday I got a task at work, wherein I have something like 100 charts to look at, and I am to compare them to one presentation I had to download, then to another place I had to access online, then also go into a third place and make the changes I find, then also get a Word doc going to tell a person about all the changes I made.
On a laptop.
I don’t know if you HAVE a laptop, but if you do not I will clue you in on something: The screen isn’t big. For an hour I tried toggling back and forth between all the things, but since THREE of the things I was looking at all showed exactly the same information, I just had to make sure we transferred it right, I kept losing track of which document I was proofreading (and this IS proofreading, not copy editing) and which documents I was using for comparison.
I tried getting onto my desktop computer. My phone the other day told me, “You have not used this desktop in 160 days. Do you still want it to be part of the cloud?” And I was all, YES. I do not want my desktop that I paid 11 million dollars for to get offa my cloud. Has it really been that long? Yeesh.
But when I fired my desktop up, it no longer knows the stuff I have going on at work. Formerly, I’d work all day at work and then go home to my desktop—which is mine and not work’s—but somehow the good people at Apple made it so all the junk I was working on at work would be on that computer too. It was so convenient. And now it’s gone.
Finally I realized that to do this job correctly, I was going to have to print out the stuff I was proofreading. And it IS proofreading, did I mention? Sometimes just proofreading is delightfully untaxing. No rewriting, no worrying about how something is laid out. Just, does it match? Ah, it’s like a spa.
It was already 3 p.m. when I made this executive decision, so I just got in the car and went to work. I was wearing a long-sleeve workout shirt, the kind that’s thin cotton but has a hood that you’d never use. I was also wearing black yoga pants, but I wouldn’t call them black, exactly, as they were more fur yoga pants. Oh my god, there was some Edsel on there, and also some Lily. They were like mink pants.
Also it was the longest ride in, ever. I only live six minutes from work, but I hit every light, even those lights you never hit, where they only come on if some yahoo hits the button for the walk/don’t walk thing. One guy hit that and rolllllllllled across the street at the speed of tar, in his wheelchair, and I realize I am a horrible person that I was all, “COME ON” to the guy in a wheelchair, just trying to get his drink on at the Angel Convenience Store that I never ever go to as it looks unsanitary. Everyone here in this hood just thrives on that Angel Convenience Store. I feel like it must get robbed on the reg. I’d BE an angel if I went in there.
What are you called when you’re dead but in hell? You aren’t an angel. What would you be?
Oh my god, anyway. I’ve talked 8 hours and haven’t even gotten to work yet.
So finally I pulled in and my parking area, fmr., that was always full and you were lucky to find a spot in there, had two other cars parked in it. I walked in and there are still “social distance” signs up from those heady days of early March that I wasn’t part of since I was home recovering from surgery. Did you know I had surgery?
The lights were off, but I could see way down–I work in an old mill so it’s just a huge room–that someone was there, in accounting. I thought of saying hello but remembered my fur yoga pants.
I got to my desk, where the calendars still read February, and noted a line of ants on my desk, ants I promptly and gleefully murdered. Then I turned on my computer with my smile and I need to get over that line and discovered?
Printer was out of toner.
HOW? No one’s BEEN there since 1842, unless that guy in accounting is printing off mathlete competition invites or something. I called IT, who have been coming in every day. They’re on another floor.
“Go downstairs to the Garden Level and try the printer there,” said IT. “I’ll hook you up to that printer from here.”
Computers are a miracle.
“Griff has a whoo de blackerdle,” said the IT guy, so I sat at Griff’s desk and hooked my laptop up to Griff’s blackerdle, and Dear Griff: I am probably having your child now.
It worked, and next thing you know I could hear the printer on the Garden Level (I worked down there for years. Garden Level is a euphemism for basement.) whirring out my pages. There were a TON and I had to open each chart and print it individually. It took forever, so I had plenty of time to observe Griff’s desk and note that he’s filled out a subscription card to Golf Digest.
Anyway, once I printed everything, I got to the printer, and?
Found some stuff that belonged to the owner of the company. I mean, they weren’t state secrets or anything, but I think they probably just got sent to the wrong printer and there they were for everyone to look at.
And that is how I ended up on the pretty floor at work, the floor with all the exposed brick and giant old-mill windows, delivering papers to THE OWNER OF OUR COMPANY, praying to god and all the Angel Convenience Stores that she would not be there BECAUSE CAT YOGA PANTS OH MY GOD.
As I walked the long walk down the pretty floor and to the owner’s office, I kept sort of pulling at my pants like they were my cousin’s tights. I was hoping some of the fur would fall off as I pulled, kind of like Pigpen when he has that cloud behind him when he walks. “Why couldn’t you have just PULLED ON SOME JEANS before you left?” I admonished self.
The owner of our company is impeccable. She has never, in nearly 10 years of my knowing her, looked anything less than perfection. Even when I’ve run into her outside of work. Perfection.
I won’t keep you in suspense a moment longer: She wasn’t there. And I likely left a trail of dander that I hope will not kill some allergic coworker when they do return to the office.
Anyway, I’d better go proofread some charts. I don’t know if I mentioned I have a lot of charts to look at today. Also I own some cats. Did I mention that?