The Office Chronicles

I’ve always wondered how the person on the other end feels when someone takes her on a cell phone trip to the bathroom. I guess they don’t mind? I don’t know, it seems a little disrespectful to say the least, but I guess if nobody cares, who am I to judge? And to show my approval, I like to flush constantly during their conversation whether I need to or not.

Yesterday, in between my own flushes, I heard the funniest thing.

“Did you send the invitations?”

“Did you handwrite them?”

“What about the envelopes? Did you handwrite the envelopes?”

“Good. I think that’s always so much more personal.”

If anybody knows personal, it’s you, honey.

Flush.

There is something in Indiana I call “The Indiana Man Syndrome”. I don’t know if it’s the accent (or the lack thereof), the formal enunciation, the candid emotion, but there are an extraordinary amount of married men who, frankly, seem gay. My first encounter with it was more behavioral: Two men I worked with ate their lunches (packed in little lunchboxes by their wives) together in an enclave behind closed doors every day. Men where I come from wouldn’t do this.

Now, I have nothing against anything any-sexual, be it hetero-, homo-, this-ho-, that-ho-, a-, etc. But I don’t enjoy people who can’t just pick one and own it. Be honest with yourself and the rest of us, I say. Be proud. Don’t pretend. It’s like lying. And don’t think I don’t know. It’s insulting. And creepy.

I am sitting across from a man who is a grandfather. He gets excited (think full-on-girly-giddiness with flailing hands and bouncy feet) about the most questionable things.

Yesterday, he created a ruckus because someone asked him about his color-coded folders.

“Oh, my, yes! I JUST LO-O-O-O-V-V-V-E my folders. I don’t want to think about having to be without them.

I have blue folders for jobs I must do today. I have red folders for jobs due in a week. I have green folders for jobs that I repeat each month.

I enjoy them so much!”

(See? Now, I ask ya: Is this normal man talk?)

“That’s a great setup. Do you mind if I steal your idea?”

“Oh, my, no!!! You’ll love it! You can buy color-coded folders at Staples. They’re right down the road. And I think you could get your system up and running for less than $20.”

“I’ll go today. Thanks, Dan!”

“Call me when you get it together and I’ll stop by your office. You can show off what you created. I know you’ll be soooo happy.”

I want to saw off a toe with my color-coded Bic pen. It would have to be less painful.

There is a receptionist who rightfully spends her entire day on the phone.  Most of it, though, is apparently spent on personal conversations, because she’s always baby-talking into the receiver.  (If it’s business, it ain’t right.)

“Awww. I’m so sawwie. Want me to kiss it?”

“Ooo be cawefuw. I wuv ooo too much fo’ ooo to get huwt.”

Upon investigation, she’s talking to her children. She has two daughters and a son, the youngest of whom is 42 years old. They have children who have children of their own.

How can a person not know?

Ah, the holidays in an office. The office manager has a huge bucket of popcorn sent in by a customer. 

“Grab you some popcorn,” she says as she hands me a paper towel. “You can put it in this.”

I look, but the thought of putting my hand in a big ol’ bucket where fifity other hands had been makes me want to vomit.

“You’re sweet. But, no thanks.” 

“Scrooge.” (She thinks I’m weird anyway, ever since I commented about the decorated tampon machine.)

Why, Lock-it-Man, why???

Maybe if I understood, I’d understand. Why do you lock your office door every time you leave? If you go to your friend’s office down the hall to check in about Sunday football games, you lock your door. If you go to what I guess is the bathroom, you lock your door. If you go to lunch, you lock your door. If you go to a meeting, you lock your door. If you go speak to an employee five feet from your office, you lock your door.

I can’t stand not knowing why. It’s not that I’m annoyed by it or am complaining about it, I’m just so stinkin’ curious.

What the heck is in your office? I’ve looked in there when I know you’re out of the office and I can’t see a thing that would cause you do this. I don’t see equipment or filing cabinets or anything that would make one think you required all this security.

I have no answers. I don’t even have any guesses. I give up. Not really, though, because I still wonder every time I think of you. And I want to write a song to the tune of RocketMan and sing it to you until you tell me why.