Oops, I Did It Again

While reading, have you ever run across a word that, based on your age, reading level and experience, should be absolutely clear to you within the text?

You have. Right? And so have we all. For me, that word is “pigeon.” I know what a pigeon is – I’ve held a pigeon, I’ve fed a pigeon, I’ve eaten a pigeon (not the same pigeon – I have a strict policy against eating animals with whom I’m personally acquainted.) But for some reason, the word “pigeon” in print never fails to baffle me.

Pig-eonWhat’s a pig eon? Is that like a dog’s age? Pige-on? Pig-pig-pigeon. Pigeon. Oh. OH. PIGEON.

Even if no one can hear your inner monologue, it’s embarrassing. Like, “showing up to your ACT test with a sunburn so severe it looks like leprosy” embarrassing. But it’s even worse when your brain blips actually manage to escape your mouth. In my past four years of working as a professional, I’ve managed to say (or shout) the following in the workplace:

“I really don’t do well with people aiming balls at my face” – when asked to join a Nerf football game.

“Colin Webster? I thought you were saying ‘colon, Webster,’ which is probably why we can’t find his nametag.”

“I’m definitely worth two men” – both bastardized and said in a room full of men.

We all have our moments.

Some of us more than others.

For instance, if you’ve never informed a coworker that “Amy Schumer is a national goddamned treasure” with a director standing behind you, then I salute you.

If you’ve yet to interrupt a conversation with a stranger by screeching “SMASH THE PATRIARCHY!” (low blood sugar may have been involved), I congratulate you.

If you haven’t replied to a British person’s apologies over stepping on your bag with “Well I’m sorry for dumping all your tea in the harbor,” I worship you.

And if you’ve never slipped on wet marble tile in front of three dozen lawyers and joked that you should’ve have had so much happy in your lunch hour, you’re probably my hero.

Long story short: I made it weird.

And I’ll be making it weirder here again.

Love,
Your Gal

Giving Good Desk

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Back in the halcyon days of my early twenties (remember those? When ramen noodles were an acceptable dinner and you looked so damn cute in your Forever 21 jackets?), I was installed at my very first grown-up desk.

Having previously only experienced the cramped joys of hot-desking at a work study job, I was thrilled at the prospect of having (and decorating) my very own slab of Ikea’s finest green lucite. I decided I’d always have fresh flowers and would dedicate a whole drawer to healthy snacks and supplements to share with the rest of the office. My plastic paradise would be immaculate!

Of course, three very important things happen when you’re a) the closest desk to the door and b) the most junior person on staff:

1. Your desk turns into an absolute garbage dump.
Stray packages, doggy chew toys, Palm Pilot chargers from 1999, scribbled-upon Post-Its, half-chewed pens, denatured plutonium – if you can name it, it will end up on your desk. And it will somehow asexually reproduce, leading you to believe that spontaneous generation is totally real.

2. Fingerprints, fingerprints, fingerprints.
Have a little pressed powder and a makeup brush you don’t care about? Great. Dust your desk for fingerprints. It’s fine to feel a little bit faint – normal even! Just put your head between your knees and breathe deeply until the bad thoughts go away.

3. You will hold Sharpies and Dry-Erase markers for ransom.
Everyone who has ever worked in an office has thieved one of these items. It is a rite of passage, and it is a fact. Keep your favorites in your purse.

Four years and five desks later, I’m slowly learning to accept the fact that unless I suddenly start working for Poppin (or Kate Spade’s office line) there’s a really good chance that my desk will never be the pristine space I’ve dreamed of.

Of course, that hasn’t stopped me from color-coordinating the hell out of everything on it and hoping for the best. So there’s that.

Love,

Your Gal