BaddMinton » The Office

Love on the L.A. Metro

marcyminton — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 21:49:49 +0000

Please read the title to the tune of Aerosmith’s “Love in an elevator.” And now that we have that taken care of:

I’ve been reading a self-help book, as I am wont to do, that told me to look for love everywhere I went, and to look for the connections between others and myself, and between others and other otherses. This was very good for me, because lately I’ve been witnessing a lot of hate in the world, and it’s started to get me down in a major way. I’ve gotten so tired of experiencing all the aggression that occurs 1,000 times a second on the freeways, for example, and it all culminated a couple weeks ago when someone put a pre-printed business card on my car that said it hoped I got cancer, because I was parked a little bit over the line in the tiny compact car space that my compact car does not fit into properly. Yes, I will repeat that: Someone went to the trouble of ordering and purchasing business cards that say on the front, “Way to park, asshole.” And on the back, “I hope you get cancer.” It was actually quite a visually appealing card, with a lovely combination of fonts printed on a nice brick-red color. But the point is, feeling that malice directed at me was the straw on the camel’s back of hate that I’d been witnessing, and it made me really, really sad.

So, back to the self-help book. The day after I read the section about looking for love everywhere, it was “one of those mornings” where all forces of the universe were determined to slow me down, and after running to catch the metro, I got there a minute too late, and had to wait, all sweaty-like, for the next one. When I finally got on, a woman using a walker (with difficulty) got on, too. A youngerish woman and a blind man both got up for her to take their seats. (Side note: The question has been raised as to how the blind man knew to get up for her, and my guess is that the youngerish woman said something, or maybe he’s just that good.) Well, the walker woman (henceforth referred to as Walker Woman or WW) took the blind man’s seat and began talking with him and the youngerish woman (YW). When the blind man got off, he said goodbye to YW, and she and WW kept talking. Throughout their conversation, I unabashedly eavesdropped and exchanged eye contact and smiles with both of them at various points. When it was time for me to get off at my stop, I said goodbye to Walker Woman, and Youngerish woman got off there, too. And here comes the best part: Youngerish woman crossed to the other side of the platform to wait for the train going in the opposite direction. She had gone past her stop, and I believe it was out of love, because she didn’t want to prematurely end her conversation with Walker Woman. She wanted to make sure WW was taken care of, and then and only then did she get off and make her way back to where she needed to go.

Love.

I’m so glad I missed my train that morning and ended up on the one I ended up on.

That day marked a new chapter for me, one of looking everywhere for love and kindness, and finding it. I make a point to make eye contact, smile at, and talk with more strangers, and I’m making new friends all over town. I still see the hate, and it still bums me out, but now I have something with which to balance it.

I think you should try it, too. We’ll fill the world with love, one person at a time. Then one day, we’ll realize that we don’t see any hate, because there won’t be any.

(Do I sound like a hippy, or what?)

Update!

marcyminton — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 21:20:26 +0000

Remember the mystery of the never-empty office toilet paper? I walked by the janitor’s cart just now and saw a pile of take-home rolls, as pretty as you please! Oh, sweet relief! They’re not throwing away the toilet paper. Finally, for the first time since Tuesday, August 14th, 2007, I can get a good night’s sleep!

…Or Getting Caught in the Rain

marcyminton — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 19:18:34 +0000

The new soap in the bathroom at work smells like bad piña coladas, like the kind made with malibu rum and a pre-made mix. Incidentally, I’ve often thought bad piña coladas taste like soap.

Coincidence?

I think so.

Ending 2007 With a Bang

marcyminton — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 16:49:38 +0000

I just did the dumbest thing. I was pulling into the parking garage at work and putting my window down so I could scan my keycard, and I was concentrating on the window, because there’s a blob of bird doodoo on the top part, and I didn’t want to put it all the way down and get the doodoo all over the window and between the door panels, which I already did once, and as I was being super careful about that, I forgot that the car was also moving forward, and BAM! I hit the thing on the side of the thing where I was pulling in, and put a big fat dent in the front of my new car. I feel like such an idiot. I’m glad this happened today and not tomorrow, because I can chalk it up to being part of 2007, and I’m moving on to a much smarter 2008, a year in which I will not run my car into anything out of sheer stupidity.

A Bowl of Awkward Soup

marcyminton — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 22:57:49 +0000

The other day for lunch, I walked over to the cafe at the building next door. Since it was a blustery 60 degrees outside, everyone who usually sits outside was sitting inside, and there weren’t too many available tables. I sat down at a 4-person table, propped up my little number on the edge of the table, and proceeded to wait for the dude to bring my soup. A minute later, a woman comes by and asks if she can sit down. Which I could completely understand if there were no other empty tables, but by then 2 more had been cleared, so I’m really not sure why she wanted to sit with me. She sat diagonal from me, and we exchanged an awkward glance/smile, then kind of both fidgeted around for a second trying to look occupied. I hadn’t brought a book, so I thought, OK, I’ll just write something in my moleskine. So I fished around in my purse for a pen… and fished… and fished… and no pen. So all I could do was hold my stone-age cell phone and poke at the buttons hoping it looked like I was doing something. It was soooooo awkward, you guys. And out of the corner of my eye, I could see that she was having the exact same problem. I kid you not, she literally sat there and just read a company memo over and over, sometimes folding it in half and then unfolding it, and a couple times turning it over in case any additional text had appeared on the back.

Y’all.

So the waiter brings my soup, and it’s great, because we have something to talk about!

“That looks good.”

“Yes, it does. (sniff, sniff). It smells good, too.” (Why did I just smell it? I am such a dork). What did you order?”

“Pizza.”

“Oh,… that sounds good.”

…

(Then about a thousand minutes go by in silence while I shovel soup into my mouth as quickly as possible and she reads the memo again)

…

“Wow, your pizza is taking a long time. I hope they didn’t forget about you.”

“Yeah, I hope not.”

…

(A billion minutes of uncomfortable silence and slurpy soup sounds)
…

(Guy brings pizza)

…

“Oh, that looks good.”

“Oh, yeah.”

…

(silence)

…

“Do you work in this building?”

“No, that one.”

(pause)

“Do you?”

“Yes, I work in this one.”

(pause)

“The food over there is terrible.”

“Yes, I’m glad we’ve got this place downstairs here.”

“Yeah, the food is always good here.”

“yeah.”

(years of silence)
(finally done with soup)

“Enjoy your lunch!”

“OK.”

(I run for freedom and don’t look back)

Agatha Christie? Care to Take a Stab?

marcyminton — Wed, 15 Aug 2007 01:59:48 +0000

So… The toilet paper at work never runs out. This is a good thing on one level, for obvious reasons… but I can’t help wondering what happens to the almost-empty rolls. Do they throw them away? That would be mighty wasteful. Or do the janitors take them home to their families? Are there a bunch of cute little Latino kids using scratchy office toilet paper that is never fuller than 1/8 of a roll? I wonder these things.

I tried to confirm my theory by peeking into the janitor’s cart when I walked by just now, but I saw no evidence of auxiliary TP stashed in any sort of “take home” pile.

Your theories are welcome.

Marbles, and the Loss Thereof

marcyminton — Wed, 23 May 2007 19:38:05 +0000

Rebecca has gotten a new job, and while I am thrilled for her, I am sad for myself, because now she no longer works with me. When I arrived at work on Monday, I was greeted by her hard-partying patriotic kangaroo and koala, who were partying it up on my desk.

It made me a little sad, although I’m glad they’ve joined me at my workstation, and it’s good that they brought beverages, because from the look of him clinging for dear life onto that paper tray, I think my own patriotic kangaroo could use a drink. Poor fella.

Office stress will get to you if you’re not careful.

Me, Myself, and I

marcyminton — Mon, 26 Mar 2007 18:28:00 +0000

I’m so tired of people using the word “myself” incorrectly. It is rampant. Why do people do this? And so many do. I am an editor. For my job, I edit things for correctness, or “correctaliciousness,” if you will. You would think my fellow editors would know when to say “me,” when to say “I,” and when to say “myself.” They do not. Emails I receive on a regular basis include such phrases as, “If you have any questions, please ask myself or Bob.”

There’s a simple way to know which word you are supposed to use. Remove “Bob.” Would you say “Please ask myself?” Well… unfortunately I’ve seen people do that, too. But, well, you shouldn’t. You should say, “Please ask me.” Now, add Bob back into the equation, and say, “Please ask Bob or me.” It’s simple! And correct!

Now, if you’ll excuse myself, I’m going to get me some water.

Cranky Pants

marcyminton — Thu, 15 Mar 2007 18:55:59 +0000

I’m wearing my cranky pants today. Or maybe cranky shoes is more accurate, because it’s mostly because of my feet. As some of you know, I injured both of my feet in early December for the dumbest reason: I wore the wrong shoes in Disneyland. Ironically, these ones, that I was so excited about and bought 2 pairs of. Which apparently have no shock absorption or arch support. And who knew, but apparently I am an old person and have to worry about ruining my feet by wearing the wrong m-f-ing shoes. And even more unfair, as evidenced here, I am very conscious about taking good care of my feet. It would be one thing if I didn’t try, but I do, and feel that this is entirely unjust.

When my sister April came to visit, we spent a day at Disneyland, and something you need to know about us is that we are never half-assed about Disney excursions. When we were little, Disney World was truly the happiest place on Earth for us, and we are used to long, hardcore days of fun (if anything involving anamatronic singing tiki-birds can be called “hardcore”). So when she came, we got a park hopper pass and spent about 4 hours in California Adventure and 6 hours in the Disneyland park. We do it right. Except… I wore those dang shoes, and my feet were fine until we were about to leave, and suddenly I just couldn’t walk. I could shuffle, but couldn’t bend my feet at all without excruciating pain. This went on for almost two weeks, so I went to the doctor who said I had damaged my ligaments. I spent the entire holiday season in sneakers with Dr. Scholl’s arch supports — I even found an outfit for our company holiday party that I could wear with cute sneakers. I have been so good, and have tried so hard to allow them to heal, and for a long time they got slowly better and better. I even went hiking twice, and wore heels one time and boots one time.
But apparently I got too cocky, because within the last week or so, they’ve been relapsing. Now even my cute sneakers hurt, and all I can wear is my dorky New Balance running shoes. I mean, at least I’m getting some wear out of them, because heaven knows I won’t be running anytime soon. I’m so tired of feeling unfashionable and flagrantly ignoring the dress code at work. I mean yeah, I kind of ignored it before, but not flagrantly, and at least that was my own choice.

Even with the dorky sneakers my feet hurt. Pushing on the gas pedal while driving causes sharp pains in my heel, and combined with heavy traffic and PMS, let’s just say that this morning I screamed out a not-so-nice word on my way to work. Grrrrr.

I know I’m being a total baby about this, because I could actually have much worse things to be cranky about, like oh, I don’t know, a terminal illness, and in the grand scheme of things, this is not that bad and doesn’t interfere with my life THAT much. But I can’t do any of the physical activites that make me feel good and not irritable, like hiking, spinning, or anything that involves my feet in any way. That pretty much rules out… everything except swimming, yoga, and pilates, and swimming is usually more trouble than it’s worth because the pool at the gym is almost always packed. So that means I am getting no aerobic exercise and am about to jump out of my skin. And most frustrating of all is that on April first I am flying to Vancouver for a week of skiing with my family at Whistler. I have been looking forward to this trip forever, and if I can’t ski life will be so unfair. I have lots of trouble with ski boots anyway, so I’m kind of feeling like the odds are stacked against me.

You want to know the other reason I’m cranky? For over a year I have been asking for a keyboard tray under my desk at work so I don’t have to hunch my shoulders up when typing. Finally, yesterday I got it. My desk is like a curvy corner, and the dude said he was going to install it right in the bend. Except he didn’t put it right in the middle, he put it like 5 inches over to one side, and it is HURTING MY OCD. I NEED IT TO BE IN THE MIDDLE. It is making me crazy.

So, to recap for you: My feet hurt, my body is fidgety, and my brain hurts because it really wants the keyboard tray to be dead center. It hurts so much, like when I drive over bump after bump with the left wheels of my car, and until I drive over enough bumps with my right wheels, the entire right side of my body screams in panic and agony.

Am I a brat? I sure sound like one. “Waaah, waaah, I might not be able to ski at this amazing ski resort I’m going to. My life is soooooo hard. Waaaaah, my keyboard tray is off center.” I know, I know. But writing about it makes me feel better, so thanks for reading. Know what would make me feel even better? A bloody mary. Hmmmm…

Really Gunning for a Raise

marcyminton — Wed, 31 Jan 2007 02:51:23 +0000

So I was just in a meeting for like 25 minutes in which one other person and I were sitting directly across a table from my boss, and after about 15 of those minutes, I looked down to realize the top FOUR buttons of my shirt were undone, giving any onlooker an unrestricted view of my bra and cleavage. I hastily buttoned them, and then suddenly had the urge to laugh because there is no way my boss didn’t just see what happened, and I sat there trying to wipe the embarrassed smirk off my face and appear as though I were paying total attention to what we were talking about. I tried using things I learned in my college acting classes, like focusing on something concrete in front of me, like the writing on my water bottle, my hands, the table, the thumb tack I had been playing with — but the harder I tried the harder it got and the more smirky I became. It’s just classic, is all.