We Get It, Snow.

Chickadees – long time no blog. Again, I hate that phrase with an all-consuming, Hulk-smashing passion, but once again, I must admit it’s the truth.

Another truth is that I’ve been dealing with home repairs for more than a month now; that, combined with the suddenly Arctic nature of the Northeast means that I’ve been relying fairly heavily on something other than publicly provided transport to make it anywhere in the city in less than two hours.

Am I a born-and-bred, dyed-in-the-wool Yankee? Yes, the genuine article, and so I promise you I DID attempt the two-hour commute song-and-dance (for reference, I can usually make it in 35 minutes); however, over the past few weeks I’ve been relying more and more heavily on cabs, Ubers, Lyfts and independent busing services to ensure I make it home before 10pm.

But because I am a perpetual optimist and because I am possessed of a fine and hearty Puritan constitution, I decided last Friday that because my grocery delivery was scheduled for 7:30pm and because much of my work was done, I would leave the office at 5:30 and brave the train.

Big mistake.

5:30pm: Leave office.

5:40pm: Arrive at appropriate train platform. Wait.

5:50pm: Wait.

6:00pm: Wait.

6:15pm: A train! Oh, wrong line. Decide to backtrack to station where trains begin. Genius!

6:22: Arrive at new station. Wait for correct train.

6:35pm: Waiting.

6:50pm: Waiting.

7:00pm: Hooray!

7:15pm: Train is stuck in station due to unknown issue (incompetence suspected. Issue is also possibly that “man with shovel” is ineffective snow removal system.) Go above ground and grab a cab.

7:20pm: HOLY TRAFFIC BATMAN.

7:55pm: Jump out of cab at new train station, having paid $70 to go one mile. Wait for  train.

8:15pm: No train. Decide to backtrack, get on any train, ride it halfway to the end of the line and then cab it home. Genius!

8:20pm: Wooohoooo, on a moving train! Phone battery at 40%.

8:32pm: Off the train! Walk 1/4 mile to main road. Phone battery at 39%.

8:33pm: Call an Uber. Phone dies. Huh?

8:34pm: BITCHPANIC

8:35pm: BITCHPANIC

8:40pm: CONTINUING TO BITCHPANIC

8:41pm: Uber driver arrives and has a phone charger. Threaten to kiss her. She laughs, but it’s not a joke.

8:52pm: Arrive home.

9:01pm: Grocery driver arrives, apologizing for snow-related delays. Threaten to kiss him too.

9:10pm: Groceries unpacked. Hooray!

9:11pm: Pass out on sofa, bowl of grapes in hand.

11:33pm: Wake up, confused, angry and having spent $100 to go four miles.

11:34pm: BITCHPANIC

The end.

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