Static Cling = Office Whore

Tights with dresses is currently a fashion rage. And I love it. I mean I have been eating it up all winter. However, tights often result in static cling. Static cling I have learned is the devil. DEVIL. I hate it almost as much as I hate Vera Bradley.

It is by far the worst when wearing a sweater dress. Today, however, I am actually wearing a dress that is more of the cotton family. Mental note: this material also results in static cling.

It is one thing to experience this when out shopping, or out to coffee or even out at a bar. However it is quite another thing to experience this when walking down the hallway in your office whilst attempting to appear professional. When walking, my knee length dress will suddenly become a mini dress. Before I know it I am balancing my coffee in one hand while attempting to pick my dress out of my crotch with the other. “Hi boss. Don’t mind me! Just picking my front wedgie, be out of your way in no time!”

Today it got really bad when I so boldly decided to get a water and coffee from the kitchen. This left me with no hands left to pull my dress down while walking back to my desk. I don’t think I have ever walked so fast in my life.

I know this is not just in my head. This realization is thanks to payroll Patricia who is one of those people you love because she does not hesitate to speak her mind. That is until it is about you. I nonchalantly mentioned that I needed some static guard and does she know anyone who might have some? She told me who had it hiding at her desk then proceeded to say that I better get some “earlier before later because my dress is currently hugging me in all the wrong places.” In girl code, this statement can also be interpreted as “I saw you walking in the hallway and you look like the office hooker. Change your dress slut.”

My Car is Getting Discriminated Against

I got in a car accident around a week or so ago. (By the way it was not my fault and I am wholly standing by that argument.) Anyways, I have not written about it yet because there is really nothing funny about it. It sucks. However, while driving around in my banged up automobile, certain things have come to my attention.

The accident involved me driving in my lane and the girl in the lane next to me merging into my lane while I was still there. She, after crashing into me, realized what happened and stopped while I stupidly kept driving out of shear shock. In that instance my driver’s side mirror got ripped off. So, this ridiculous damage to the left side of my car has now joined forces with the previous dents from street parking incidents on the right side of my car. On top of this, some hoodlums in my neighborhood stole my silver Honda sign off of the front of my car. If my car was a child it would most certainly be taking the small bus to school. That was horrible. Pretend I didn’t write that.

Long story short, there were no open appointments at the body shop until April 7th. So I have been driving this vehicle all around Baltimore for the past week. In doing so, I have noticed that people are not so nice to people with messed up cars. They most certainly will not let you in their lane. I have watched as they see my turning signal and then see my car. I can read their faces as they think, “hell noo that bitch isn’t getting in my lane!” And honestly, I don’t blame them. I mean come on, I don’t even have a side mirror. As I sat for a straight 10 minutes waiting for someone to let me into the street from my parking garage it occurred to me: dented cars are comparable to a three-legged dog. When you see one coming down the street you stare and feel really bad for it and wonder what could have happened for it to get that way. But no matter how bad you feel, there is no way that you are getting anywhere close to it. I don’t know how many three-legged dogs there really are walking the streets but you get my point.

It figures that this situation would happen to me just as roll down your windows season approaches. Yesterday the weather was beautiful. All I wanted to do was roll down my windows and play some music. Coming to a stop light whilst alone in your car and blaring music is embarrassing enough. This situation just begs for people to look at you and the last thing I want right now is people associating my face with my car.

As much as I would like to say that the situation with race is improving, I think we all know that it still very much exists. On a larger front we have the recent situation with Obama and his minister. And on a page closer to home, we have my car. The other day I was once again waiting for someone to let me into the street from my parking garage. I watch an SUV pass by, then a Mercedes, etc. And then, someone stopped and waved. As touched as I was I noticed that it wasn’t a stranger but another Honda. And of the same color, type and year. True story. Hondas helping Hondas. Maybe there will come a time when others will reach out as well. Someday, we shall overcome.

I Sincerely Apologize if This Offends You but…

Vera Bradley needs to die. If no one else does, I am going to take the first stand, find her and go all Mortal Kombat on her ass. I’ll pull a Raiden and give her death by lightning bolt. “Raiden wins”..Vera Bradley DEAD. I’m not messing around.

Annoyance #1: WHY tell me WHY does everybody love the stuff? Everyone does. It’s everywhere. Burning my eyes.

Annoyance #2: It looks like someone took their grandmother’s quilt and made a purse out of it.

Annoyance #3: It’s so teacher. I picture my first grade teacher in her little heart turtle neck and ABC pin pulling coloring books out of her Vera bag. And she’s 80. (not really but you get my point)

Annoyance #4: She has gotten so big that I think there is now more merchandise. And full luggage sets. So Vera fans everywhere can travel in “style.” And make me go blind.

Annoyance #5: She’s got an ego. From what I have learned from the Office Hater, who is a big fan of course (very fitting), she will come out with a new style and make it go extinct almost as soon as she releases it. This forces Vera lovers to buy an excessive amount of her hideous bags so that they can get the new style before it is no longer available. Which forces Vera haters such as myself to see a new bag from their local office Vera lover EACH DAY.

Annoyance #6: The patterns. Little swirl here, dot dot there. Vera lovers must not be on LSD because my God would they freak out. I bet they would picture an alien mushroom asking them to come play inside his pool in a flower and then try to jump in their purse.

Annoyance #7: Vera lovers are also usually Lilly Pulitzer dress lovers which means that there is way too much matchy-matchy color and patterns happening all over their bodies. BLIND.

Annoyance #8: It has become so popular that there are now knock offs. Knock-off quilt bags. Sold at your local Michaels.

Annoyance #9: I feel that it has become very non-PC to talk about my Vera hatred. Similar to how I try to restrain from saying “gay” or “retard” too often because I might offend someone, I try to hold back my “ugh I hate that purse” language because I will probably offend someone. Because the Vera lovers are everywhere. Trying to eat your soul.

Annoyance #10: Vera lovers love to compliment each other on their newest bag. Oh my God that is so cute! When did you get it, did she just release it? Yes and you better get it soon because it is only available for two days! Don’t you just love it though? I bought a new bright pink headband and pair of crocs to match it!

Annoyance #12: Vera Bradley lovers + croc lovers= OH MY GOD. Enough said, I can’t even comment anymore on this one. Except for if the crocs have those pin thingys in them. I can’t breathe.

Annoyance #13: The boxes that the purses are sent to you in when you online order them (Office Hater) also have paisley designs on them. Because you can never have enough paisley.

I am sure I will add an update with more annoyances. Stay tuned.

“I Don’t Know…Who Am I…”

There was a guy my friends and I knew in college who had a variety of different identities. I don’t think he really knew this as much as we did. We even gave the identities their own names, talked about it over lunch and cracked up the food service guy in our college cafeteria. After a few years I am going to attempt to remember the names: Ghetto Tony= T-Money, Preppy Tony= Anthony, Skater Tony= ? and regular Urban Outfitters Dressing Tony= Tony.

My point in rehashing this memory is to say, how cool would it be to have different identities? Seriously. I already attempt this sometimes but really do not pull it off so well. For example I try to dress all hippie-like when I go to music festivals or certain concerts. The fact that I now have a tattoo is really going to help that identity look more authentic. Upon consideration, I don’t think I have any others.

Let me clarify something. I am not talking different personalities per se, that would make me a little crazy. I am more talking fashion-wise. Slap on some shades and hoop earrings and call me Miami DW. Birkenstocks and organic beer by a camp fire and label me Tree Hugger DW. Maybe I’m feeling a little sassy. Throw on a sleek dress and some heels and you can find me at the “it bar” as Metropolitan DW. I’m heading to a concert. Bartender? Send me a PBR and check out my skinny jeans. I’m Hipster DW.

Maybe I’m weird. Or possibly I need to “find myself.” But if I may get deep on you blog readers, I feel there are parts of me that are a little of each of these things. I guess I try to live in balance with all of my interests. A little bit of ying and a little bit of yang. However, I do not go too far with any of these looks because I fear I may look a fool. My friends would probably look at me and say, “ummm what are you wearing? That is so not you.” Also, now that I think about it, I probably have to get more of a life and actually go to places whose attendance isn’t limited to middle class college graduates who look like a scene from an American Eagle catalogue. That could help.

In conclusion, I am really tired today and writing blog posts to refrain from doing work. Therefore, I apologize if this post makes absolutely no sense. But also, I’m a little bit serious.

I Have an Idiosyncrasy

Hi, my name is DW and I am a hair twirler. When did this happen?

I know I have been doing this for a while because people I work with will randomly walk by my desk, stare at me until I notice them and make some weird joke about me being flustered, confused or in a daze. Usually they are right.

I realize this habit makes me look a little dumb but I see no chance of it stopping anywhere in the near future. 1) I do not plan on cutting my hair to a length that would prevent hair twirling and 2) It has become a subconscious thing. I really don’t even realize that I am doing it.

When I was little I sucked on my finger. Not thumb, but finger. I guess I was daring to be different in a retarded kind of way. Actually, that finger sucking led to my dad nicknaming me “bucky beaver”, braces, and when I refused to wear a retainer, invisiline. That is so not cool.

Is my hair twirling going to lead to bad things as well? It must look pretty unprofessional/ stupid. (Insert hair twirling in a bad blonde joke)

What would be cool is if people really do start to think I’m a flake and stop asking me to do so much. In that case, this idiosyncrasy could work in my favor…

My Baby Jesus Wears a Charm Bracelet

Today I found myself breezing through the pages of Sundance magazine. As I gazed at the stellar ring choices displayed on each page I thought about a quote I heard on a TV show. The wife on the show was complaining to her husband because her friend had started to wear a charm bracelet. This upset said wife as she wore her mother’s old charm bracelet everyday which of course in girl code labels charm bracelets as her “thing.” I think it is a perfectly sound argument. Then a lightbulb went off in my head; I need a thing. I need, I want, I must have, “a thing”.

This, however, is not easy. I feel like you can’t just up and pick “a thing” out of nowhere. It needs to suit you. It also needs to be something you can sport with ease. I kind of want “my thing” to be something jewelry associated, however this will be difficult for me as when I do actually wear jewelry it isn’t always for the correct intents and purposes. Prime example is my outfit today. I am wearing a necklace but only because it helps to cover up the safety pin that is holding the top part of my dress together as to not let it become NSFW. Straight class.

I also kind of want “my thing” to be apparent. Not like a hidden necklace or something. Because then I will be the only one that knows it is “my thing” which for me defeats the purpose of having “a thing.”

Now I am getting worried. Am I being totally lame by forcing myself to have “a thing?” If I was really cool then “my thing” would just happen without even trying. I would have had my “thing” since childhood.

Actually, in high school my "thing" was my deceased grandmother’s ring which was a rosary but in ring form and I wore it on my left thumb. That was really cool. I wonder what I did with that, I should bring it back. I think I lost it. Which means that my grandma is probably going lightning zap me from heaven any minute now.

The Bad Smells Are Killing Me

Sensitive nostrils beware of the marketing corridor of my company’s office. It is not necessarily a bad smell per se, but it is a smell that would wake a dying man from the threshold of death. His nose hairs would prickle then he would suddenly come back to life in order to punch the person who introduced this overwhelming stench to his clean air.

In a less dramatic narrative, the girl next to me puts on lotion at approximately 2:30 PM each day. And it reeks. I am not usually one who is sensitive to certain smells. But the strong odor of this lotion, combined with the fact that I have a cold and my breathing capabilities are already struggling, is making this smell torturous. And it lasts. And lasts and lasts and lasts.

I had a lotion in high school that I used to think smelled great. However, my two best friends hated it with a passion. They even banned the lotion bottle from both of their cars. Therefore, I refuse to complain. Different things smell good to different people. But I must admit I have succumbed to making my fake cough every time the smell appears. To help you understand, my fake cough is very pathetic and comparable to the noise Derek Zoolander makes when he complains of the black lung. Possibly for this reason, it has yet to work.

I fear it is only going to get worse. I overheard Duane complaining of dry hands the other day. In a moment which seemed to take place in slow motion (because I could hear the voice in my head going “Nooooooooooooo”) the girl next to me offered Duane her lotion. And then Duane proceeded to walk by my desk about 50 times forcing me to survive the smell from all angles for the remainder of the day.

TGIF.

My Identity is Ugly

Two posts in one day, I feel very over-achiever.

So here is my dilemma. My signature is horrendous. I am aware that horrendous is a very strong word to describe a signature, but that is in fact why I used it. Because it is true.

The sad part of this is that my signature has greatly improved over the past year. A large part of this is due to my promotion last January which forces me to sign a lot of letters. In doing so, I have become very embarrassed that people are looking at these signed letters and wondering who the 12 year old was that had the nerve to send them this communication.

I feel that a good signature is very important. It serves as your identity on paper. It is a first impression in ink. I have judged people on their signature and I will be the first person to admit it. You are squiggly cursive with the possible inclusion of hearts equals you are girly and dramatic/ possibly Paris Hilton. You are scratchy and brisk cursive combined with print equals you are a tomboy who is in a constant rush. You are a full name spelled out in childish cursive that makes you cringe when you look at it equals you are my damn signature. I hate it.

I have even practiced. Then I have had my friends with good writing write my name and made attempts to copy it. While it has improved, it is still not even close to the high caliber that I want my signature to be. Maybe signatures work similar to how physical appearance does. Like how boys look at girls’ mothers to judge what they are going to look like in 10 years. Hopefully that is true because my mother has a fantastic signature. One can only hope.

Can I Get a Witness?

I have a bad cold. Colds suck for many reasons including the fact that you cannot technically call out of work when you have a cold because everyone in your office will think you are a pansy and talk about you behind your back.

Every office has a Duane. Ours just happens to be a temp and a Jehovah’s Witness. (see blog post “Why”). He is one of those insanely hard workers that by just watching him you get stressed out. But the problem is no one really knows why he is still here. He doesn’t even have an assigned desk so he just kind of floats around. It is very similar to the Seinfeld episode where Kramer gets an office job and the executive feels awkward “firing” him because he never actually worked there. While our Duane has been known to corner people in an attempt to convert them, I still feel bad writing about him because he is honestly a really nice person, however odd he may be.

So when Duane found out that I had a cold, he brought in these weird vitamins for me to take. There are AM packs and PM packs. He handed them to me with strict instructions to take the 5 (5!) pills in the AM pack in the morning and the 5 pills in the PM pack at night. Genius. Then he said, “Now I am not going to give you more yet because I want to see how you react to them first.” Ummm…react? From what I know about vitamins you just take them and eventually start feeling more energetic or something. Vitamins are not supposed to have the long list of side effects or a warning label for possible diarrhea or death.

So obviously I was not planning on taking these Jesus pills. The whole concept and way they were given to me freaked me out. Then I googled them and found out that they were in fact real, however only sold on the internet which is still shady. Long story short, I popped the pills and I have no idea why. I think I got worried that if I didn’t and just threw them out or something Duane would tell God and I would go to hell. I took them about a half hour ago and have yet to faint or die. Only time will tell I guess.

Ye Old Country

If I was English…people in my office wouldn’t look at me weird when I put cream in my tea.

If I was English my weird obsession with English indie bands wouldn’t actually be weird.

If I was English I wouldn’t be spending a million dollars on fixing my teeth because bad teeth are the norm.

If I was English my weird obsession with reading historical fiction from 1800’s England wouldn’t be as much weird but more like I was educating myself about my country’s history.

If I was English I could say cool words like bullocks and major and not sound retarded.

If I was English I would say the F word with an accent which gives it so much more emphasis. And since I would be an English woman swearing would be more OK for some reason.

If I was English I could travel to a bunch of cool countries without having to fly across the ocean.

If I was English I would probably get more wear out of the expensive wellies I just bought. (OK…that my dad bought me)

If I was English I would have a cool accent and people would tell me “I love your accent” and my cool factor would immediately rise.

If I was English maybe my dream of losing 10 lbs wouldn’t be a dream but a reality because American people are fat. (sidebar: IHOP)

If I was English I wouldn’t be writing a whole blog dedicated to my weird fantasy of being English.

You So Funny

My fellow blog friend has written before about the substitute voice that she uses when she enters the office in the morning. Her voice goes up a few octaves to add the extra friendly kick to the salutation. I do this as well. I think a lot of us do.

Office behavior is interesting. My office personality does a lot of things that the real me most likely would not. I laugh with a lot of people that I honestly outside of work would probably laugh at.

The new object I have sitting on my desk provides the perfect example of this. Right now, as I write this, I have a small package of shredded U.S. currency sitting on my desk. Right next to the stapler, highlighter package and tape dispenser. You know, normal office items.

One of my co-workers brought it over to me with a huge smile on his face. He handed it to me with a little too much pride and said “funny what you can find in this place.” Then he waited for me to giggle and walked away.

Obviously this was a joke. And supposed to be reallllly funny. But now I have absolutely no clue what to do with this. I would love to throw it away but…
1) It is kind of money so is it of value?
2) I would feel rude since he was so proud of his joke. What if he comes back for it?

My polite office humor has gotten me in quite a predicament this time.

UPDATE:
The currency has been removed. I decided that if I left it long enough someone would find it cool and take it. Someone did indeed come over and proceeded to make a few jokes about taping it all together while they pretended to throw the heavy package across the room to others. We all chuckled. And then I said, "hey if you want it it's yours!" Mission get weird shredded money off my desk accomplished.

Remember, It Could Happen To You

This week I have held a steady spot at about a 1.5 on the luck-o meter. Stuff just hasn’t been working out so well for me. However, ever the optimist, it can only go up from here.

If you have ever worked in a restaurant, or at least seen the movie “Waiting”, you are familiar with the cardinal rule of never f**k with the people who handle your food. The disgust of watching that specific scene of the movie “Waiting”, combined with the reality that I was raised in a family full of laid back push-overs, has resulted in the fact that I never complain in a restaurant. I just don’t. It makes me feel weird. My dad hates seafood. One time he ordered a burger and got delivered a plate of fish and chips and ate it instead of sending it back. His reasoning? Well, the waitress was nice and I didn’t feel like waiting any longer for my food to come. It’s just how we are.

So Monday night I had to go out to dinner with about 15 of my colleagues after we sat through a leadership training session all day. These are the events that you usually dread going to, but once you’re there you realize it really isn’t all that bad. You eat free food and get to watch some of your quiet co-workers get a little boozed up and say inappropriate things. It never fails that I am always the youngest one at these events. Because of this, I always try to go out of my way to act mature and composed. I don’t drink too much, and when I do I try to order a “mature” drink like a nice glass of wine, when I really want a pitcher of cheap beer.

All was going well. This is until the waitress brought over a tray of ice water and spilled a full glass all down my back. And when I say glass I mean like large-pizza hut size glass. It felt like a tub. Actually, one of the executives compared it to a football team dumping the gatorade barrel on their coach after a flawless victory. Another who was already two beers deep joked about how lucky I am that it wasn’t down the front.

I, of course, felt bad for the overly apologetic waitress and sucked it up. Luckily, I had the office mom sitting next to me who pampered me with an endless supply of napkins. Many of my co-workers stood up for me and complained to the manager. The first complaint I could live with. But then as the bad service continued, more complaints ensued. I could picture Ryan Reynolds hocking a loogy in my asian chop salad.

The bad luck continued when I walked into the office 15 minutes late the next day and got a sweet morning welcome from the office hater as I removed my smelly cashmere coat (it got drenched in the water incident the night before).

“We’ve already met.” Insert nasty side glance and the snotty “snuff” look.

“Um, OK. Morning. Wait…what?” Was my fantastically managerial response. Leadership training what?

Long story short, I missed the email about the early morning meeting and hence decided to come in later than I am already supposed to on usual days.

So now here I sit, two days after the water incident and one day after the meeting missing incident waiting and wishing for my week to improve.