My Office



Exhibit 1: My old office.

My office has always been like a second home (or a glamorous episode of Hoarders, you pick).  One, because I work a lot, and two, because I like everything to be visually appealing-- often an extension of my unique and charming personality. However, my job isn't the type where you sit in a cubicle working on TPS reports, (Way. Too. Pretty. For. That.) So the contents of my office are often least what most expect. Because my place of biz is not a typical office, the actual structure of our offices are just made from any old space one can fit a desk, and a 1968 government issued IBM. (Mine is named Dolores) Exhibit 1 is my old office, and has been for 5 years. I am not sure what it was before it was an office, but it has a counter top, broken cupboards, and a sink filled with hair. Maybe a cafeteria, maybe an embalming room.

The desk was split down the center, (and was like that from the start,) hoisted up on some old hunks of wood, with the drawers taped close. I always assumed it would collapse on me rendering me paralyzed from the waist  down requiring a powder blue Shetland pony dyed powder blue to match my eyes so I wouldn't feel so bad being a cripple, to pull me around in a mini chariot. This would of course be the alternative to an unsightly wheel chair, because everyone knows wheel chairs smell like band aids and pee. Well this tragedy did not happen exactly like I always dreamed it would, but nonetheless the desk  came crashing down like a major natural disaster! I had to think quick because I knew unless I hauled the way the debris on my back like a work donkey, it wasn't going anywhere, and I had TPS reports...to report. So I did the best any very feminine McGyver type would do--I formed the junk into a new shape, covered it with an old Estee Lauder table cloth, and called it a bistro table. It got me through a couple of weeks, as I was too busy with Black Friday and all, to really work on my TPS reports. But yesterday morning things took a turn. Due to the tragic demise of the desk, the rubble left an unpleasant odor that could only be described as dusty makeup rotten smelly dead animal carcinogens. Because this is not a "real" office, there are not Molly Maids who come late at night and cleaner 'er up. You try to just make due when faced with adversity. That's why I wore gloves to type, and wore a surgical mask if I was going to be back there longer than usual. You know, if I was interviewing someone, or making decoupage. I try to take the trash out nightly, because with my 23 diva misfits, it is not uncommon for them to stash away a meaty onion sandwich in my trash. And the holidays really are quite lovely for the copious quantities of ethnic foods brought in by my diva misfit step children. I love tabbouleh as much as the next, but it can get quite pungent after being out for 6 days straight. Everyone knows I have OCD and like everything clean, neat and orderly, but 23 kids and their constant mess often pushes me to my breaking point. And the kids' mess doesn't even count the eleventy billion signs, posters and boxes that get thrown in there too. Not too long ago, a coffin sized box fell over on me wedging me into a wall for over 16 seconds. I was just like that baby that fell into a well... If the baby in the well wore high heels and had to ruin her mani digging herself out while maintaining some sort of lady-like decorum. Obviously way worse for me.

 

 

Exhibit 2: My new office.

 

So yesterday I decided, unless I was going to start wearing some flat, thick rubber soled sad nurse shoe, I could not live like this. So I grabbed my clipboard of fake documents, and went "real estate shopping" before the store opened. I wanted my new office to be  far enough from my 23 diva misfits that their lazy tails couldn't find me, but not too far that I couldn't find them. My only other true requirement was a 1968 gov't issued IBM, as Dolores had become disconnected during the desk disaster of 2012. Finally after an hour and a half (an hour and 20 I was trying on dresses) I found a new home under the stairs  I am a glamorous treasure troll. The walls aren't painted, I don't think there is heat, but there is a desk, 43 old mini lockers and a computer from my grandparents era! So vintage.  I was over come with joy! I hung up my coat, threw my handbag in the third locker to the left, under the one that smelled like roast beef, and spun around with glee! And you realize when I say "spun around" I mean tip toed in a half circle so as not to lose an eye from an old fixture or slip on the unfinished concrete.

Because it's still really difficult to think about my loss with the old office, I haven't really returned for too many belongings. I moved in with just the important things I would need on a daily basis. As you can see from Exhibit 2, that included a mirror, a straightening iron, and my Detroit souvenir multi tipped pen.
The moral of the story is this, I may not have a secretary, or a view, or a ceiling or a a floor... *looks left, looks right.* That's all.