Written by I’m finding it extremely difficult to get motivated today. Usually, I can go back into the deep, dark bowels of the office and find someone to yell at, and that gives me a quick pick-me-up.
You know, things like, ‘What the HELL are you doing?’
or ‘Why haven’t you finished that yet? You think I’m paying you to sit on your ass and smoke cigarettes and drink coffee?!’
or ‘Who do you think you are, putting those files over there?!’ (even if – - especially if – - that’s where the files are supposed to go.)
I even went into Luthereen’s office to make fun of her. (Not Luthereen Flynn in Purchasing, because I’m scared of her, and not Luthereen Willis in Receiving. She’s too new for tomfoolery. And not Luthereen Morgan in Advertising. I’m afraid she’d walk out.) It was Luthereen McIntyre over in Research and Development. She’s always an easy target. Just the right kind of ‘look’ at her and she’ll burst into tears!
Well shit!
I walk into her office, and there she is with a big, half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir. ‘Luthereen, you look like hell today. Where did you get that thing you call a dress?’
She glared at me, a little bit of wine dribbling from the corner of her mouth, and shouted, ‘Bring it on, bitch!’
I decided discretion was the better part of valor, so I left her office.
Then I ventured over to Otisette’s cubicle. (Not Otisette Williams in Accounts Payable, not Otisette Meyers in Bindery, not Otisette Phillips in the Pressroom, but Otisette Eckersly in Data Processing – the gal with one blue eye and one green eye.) I started singing Don’t it Make My Brown Eyes Blue. That usually gets her going. She arched her back like a cat, spit on the floor and yelled, ‘Damn you! Damn you, you simpering little faerie!’ Then she threw her stapler at me.
I think they’re upset because I shortened their lunch hour to 45 minutes.
I was looking in the Suggestion Box last week. Two suggestions, unsigned: ‘Shove that new lunch policy up your ass, fella.’ and ‘Have you ever chugged a pint of bourbon in 45 minutes? Barely enough time to even taste it!’
There was also one of those notes with letters clipped from magazines: ‘ONE HOUR for lunch, or somebody will PAY’
The one saving grace this morning was going to CletusAnne’s office. (Not CletusAnne Worthington in Building Maintenance, not CletusAnne Simmons in the Cafeteria, but CletusAnne Ritter in Promotions.) She had just made a big bowl of rum punch.
‘CletusAnne, this needs a bunch more rum for it to be any good.’
Her lip quivered a little, ‘Oh, sir, I’m……I’m sooooo sorry! I’ll try to do better next time. Please……I’m sorry, really!’
It brought a smile to my face. This afternoon will be better, I’m sure.
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