Pickles & Dimes

The receptionist called me today with an “emergency.” (Note: previous emergencies have included cutting and pasting, finding a font, and how to open an e-mail attachment.)

But this time, it must have been an actual emergency, because she was whispering. She only does this in emergencies, or whenever she doesn’t want the president to know she’s asking for help.

Her: “I have an emergency.”

Me: “What is it?”

Her: “[The president] gave me some Very Large Paper and wants me to make copies of them.”

Me: “What do you mean, large pieces of paper?” (I have no idea what I’m working with here. Is she talking about sandwich board-large? Will two people be necessary to wrestle this paper onto the copy machine??)

Her: “I don’t know. They’re LARGE. They’ll need to be shrank down.”

Me: “Are they 11 x 17’s?”

Her, now whispering very loudly, because obviously I. Am. NOT. Getting. It: “No, they’re LARGE!”

Me: (Now thinking that the president has somehow acquired a giant billboard that he wants photocopied onto a business card-sized piece of paper) “OK. I’ll come check it out.”

When I get up to her desk, she hurriedly shoves two LARGE pieces of paper into my hands. They’re 11 x 17’s. Normal sized pieces of paper, used hundreds of times daily in any office setting.

Me: “Um…these are 11 x 17’s. Why does he want them shrank down?”

Her: “What? Oh, I said they should be shrank down…you know…because they’re so LARGE.”

So anyway, I went and made copies…for our receptionist. I swear I have a bachelor’s degree and that my business cards read Marketing. Not that I’m above making copies for anyone, but I only make LARGE copies, dammit.

***

At our department meeting today, a coworker and I, with the help of our supervisor, were trying to determine the owners of the various creepy noises in our office.

Me: “So who’s the one that makes that ungodly noise? You know, the cough-barker?”

Supervisor: “You mean the Horker? Oh, that’s so-and-so.”

Coworker: “No, no that’s a guy. This is a woman who makes the noise.”

Supervisor: “Are you talking about the Bathroom Hocker?”

Me and Coworker:: “WHAT?! There’s a BATHROOM Hocker? Eew.”

Supervisor: “Oh yeah. Every time he goes in there. Hey, I think I know who the Serial Sneezer is.”

Me: “Yeah. Us too.”

Coworker: “So who’s the other Tuberculosis Twin?”

And so on. So in addition to the Serial Sneezer and the Tuberculosis Twins, I now have to be concerned about The Horker and The Bathroom Hocker. It’s like some freaky comic book filled with germ-riddled villains here, folks.

I’m attempting to write a press announcement today (literally - it’s an announcement about a press), when one of the Tuberculosis Twins™ receives yet another phone call from her husband. He calls approximately 32 times a day, which is just like the woman in my Glamour magazine who wrote in to say that because her husband “checks in with her” at work 7-8 times a day, they are so totally IN LOVE. Actually, I think it means he is a controlling STALKER, but whatever, Glamour lady. So, Tuberculosis Twin (“Form of a Germ Molecule!“) ends her conversations with her hubby the same way every time:

“Shut up! NO, you shut up! Shut up! OK. Bye.”

(Note: Due to graphic pretend violence, viewer discretion is advised.)

Apparently, she is 13. And annoying. Even my boyfriend Batista is annoyed.

In addition to Tuberculosis Twin, there is a woman here who sneezes violently every day. About 8 or 9 sneezes each time. After the first sneeze, I always automatically think, “Bless you.” (I’d say it out loud, but she sits too far away. But not too far away that I can’t hear her explosive sneezing. Because to NOT hear that would require me to live in, say, Iowa.) After the 2nd and 3rd sneeze, I think, “OK. Let’s wrap it up here.” After Sneeze 6 or 7, I think, “Oh come on. Stop milking this already.” And after Sneeze 9, I’m ready to go over there and throttle her myself. I mean, seriously - every day?

And then, and THEN, there is this woman who makes the weirdest noise ever. And every time, I say to myself, “What the hell IS that?” Because it sounds something like this:

Bwaaaaaaarpcoughhehsnorkblorgachkldjafksfksafkhiihgggggggggkkkkkkkk

I literally cannot decide if she’s choking, puking, coughing, barking, or all four. I can’t concentrate on writing dynamic copy about our company’s capabilities when I hear the equivalent of a sea lion gargling with a dying hyena, man.

Batista needs to take action.

Abby and I have developed this highly elaborate game, which combines the childhood games of Hide & Seek and Tag, with a vicious attack scene reminiscent of Alien. It goes something like this: Abby runs up to me with that crazy, “I’m frisky! Look at my dilated pupils and bushy tail” look in her eye.

Then she taps me on the leg with her dainty, furry paw and bolts for her scratching post. This is my cue to sneak up on her, tap her on the side and run like hell into the bedroom, laughing like a drunken hyena the whole time. Because her expressions are just so hilarious to me.

When you “tag” her, she gets all indignant and pissed off. She also hates if you pant like a dog. I’m not sure how I figured that out, but it’s funny nonetheless. Never mind the fact that I look like a complete moron sitting on my bed, panting like an overweight sheepdog and laughing under my breath, nervously waiting for her to find me. She’s so stealthy that she usually sneaks up behind me without me noticing.

At that point, she is so pissy that she lunges at me and bites my ankle, which results in me shrieking in fright and dissolving into giggles, while she makes her elephant-thumping dash back to her scratching post, which she kicks viciously with her back legs like a rabid kangaroo. Meanwhile, Jason sits on the couch and rolls his eyes, pretending not to know us. Good times.

The Thing got pissed when SpiderMan kicked sand on his chair. We think he may have anger issues.