The Office: A Reality Series

Just a short hot while ago, I emerged from the bathroom to find a youngish man clutching a clipboard and speaking to my coworker Kathy in that faux-official voice that marks the telemarketer and his brethren.

Kathy appeared confused and slightly reluctant to be talking to this youngish clipboard-carrying man, so she referred him to another coworker, Aleeta, who courteously rose from her chair and said, "Yes? How can I help you?"

This is where it gets special.

The youngish man looked straight at Aleeta and, using his clipboard, gestured toward her and said, "May I approach?"

Yes, folks, the dweeby polo-shirt clad 22 year-old solicitor man-child asked if he could "approach."

Somehow I managed to sit back down at my desk without belching laughter and I whipped off a quick IM to Kathy to the effect of: "Did he just say ’May I approach?’"

"Yes. Hee hee," was Kathy’s reply. There might have been an emoticon in there somewhere, but definitely no LOL or ROTFL. We’re adults, people.

Using her superpowers, Aleeta eventually turned him away and we all went back to work. Approximately seven minutes later, when I felt the timing was ripe, I gingerly strode to Aleeta’s desk-area and said, "May I approach?"

Wild laughter ensued.

Wild, wild laughter.

Each of us took turns, howling, asking, "May I approach?"

Bellyaching laughter. Gregarious laughter.

Then we looked to the doorway, only to see Señor Salesman looking in at us before walking outside.

Uh. Apparently he was next door all along.

Like teenage girls, we all ran to the back of the office, behind the cover of a concrete wall, where I proceeded to lay down on the floor and laugh my ass off. Aleeta and Kathy followed in suit, alternately leaning on the wall and a bookcase for support.

"Oh man, that was bad," Aleeta said. "Now we’re gonna get shot."

Kathy and I looked at Aleeta: "Um, I think he’ll be okay. He doesn’t seem very dangerous...I mean, he’s a bottled water salesman."

Aleeta: "Oh, right!"

Dissolve into 60 more seconds of laughter.

Epilogue: Later, a drunk guy came in off of the street and looked at our O’Jays Survival poster, resplendent with afros and naked people, said "Damn that Eddie Murphy!" and kicked the wall.

I’m so happy to have blog fodder again. You have no idea.

je t'adore l'eau!

This week was the week that my cat picked to start rubbing his wet little cat-nose all over my face at approximately 5am - each morning. Without fail.

This week was also the week where I accidentally deleted all of my work mailboxes from my mail program.

This week was also the week wherein a dirt-caked dude motioned and attempted to whisper sweet nothings to me whilst peeing on the sidewalk in front of the post office; incidentally, the post office where I was nearly escorted out after engaging in a verbal disagreement with the very stupid postal worker lady behind Window No. 1 who insisted that I needed a pin number to use the work-issued, specifically-for-the-post-office-so-I-can-mail-packages-to-dudes-like-Ben-Fong-Torres-which-I-did-this-week gift card that said "Gift Card" on it.

However, this week was also the week that, at 8:30am, a man sauntered into the office and said that he had free water for me...

Oh yessss... FREE water. For me.

The upside had arrived.

Aqua Delivery Man: Hi, I'm (insert generic, one-syllable name here). I have your free water sample from Contrex.

Still Half-Asleep Me: (Dude, CONTREX? Sounds like an incontinence drug). Uh, I don't think I ordered free water.

ADM: Well, I spoke to Allejandra...Allejandro...Allegria...

SH-AM: We don't have an Alle-whatever here... (Reconsidering, after brain finally computes word "free")...but, say...what kind of water is that?

ADM: Contrex! It is natural French mineral water designed for women! It will [insert catch-phrasy crap here that sounds totally bogus]! How many cases do you want - there are 12 bottles to a case.

SH-AM: (Considering how we already get overwatered bi-weekly by a different, overly-zealous ADM) Um, one is fine.

Time elapses. Consider the bad choice I made in "brewing" the instant-decaf coffee that was hidden behind the shiny foil party hats (yes, really) and plastic plates. Stomach starts to turn. Eat a chunk of dark chocolate sitting next to the Maker's Mark (yes, really). Wonder when I'll wake up.

Suddenly - a noise from the doorway -

Contrex Man: (Wheeling in a giant palette of boxes) How about 4 cases! So thats...12 liter bottles in each case. Where should I put them?

SH-AM: (Holy Jeezus, that is a lot of freakin' Contrex Water.) Uh, in the store room.

Contrex Man cheerfully dropped all 20 tons of Contrex Water and, no joke, 30 pamphlets (for our large office of 4 staff) and bid me adieu. I stared at the space that used to be the storage room, now occupied by a mountain of Contrex. I took a bottle. I sipped. It was weird. I kept sipping. It was free.

As luck would have it, none of my co-workers enjoyed the mineral-y tastes of fresh French Contrex. I am now the proud owner of 48 liters of weird-tasting water. FREE water. My week has been redeemed.

sea legs on the head

So, today I was supposed to be camping in Joshua Tree, eatin' s'mores, roasting hot dogs, drinking whiskey, running around like a headless chicken in the desert...you know. However, I did not confirm early enough and wasn't no room for me to cop a ride, so I accepted a ride on a yacht instead.

Yeah, baby. A fuckin' yacht!

There were only a few rules on this yacht:

1) Flush the toilet with the foot pedal
2) NO PAPER IN THE TOILET
3) No falling overboard

Easy as pie. Right?

About five minutes after this speech, I visited the loo to prepare myself for an afternoon of alcohol and sun (superb combo, if I might add). I did a quick tinkle, wiiiiped, and...threw the paper into the toilet...

NO! Nooooooo! RULE #2!!! SHIT! (Not literally...at least at this point.)

I made a power dive and caught the last dry corner of the TP and just held it there, over the bowl, thinking, considering my options...

If we aren't supposed to put the toilet paper in the toilet...where are we supposed to put it....?

I looked around, still gingerly holding the dripping tissue above the bowl. I pulled open a cupboard. No. I slid open a door. NO. I looked to the side and saw...

A garbage can. The toilet paper needed to go in the garbage can.

Well, fuck. It is sopping wet.

I flung the TP into the can and stared at it.

I need to cover that with something. Anything. Tissues! Yes! I will just ball up tissues and throw them on top of that sopping wet, used TP and it will be fine!

Wad, wad, wad...throw...

...right into the fucking toilet.

How is this possible???? I haven't even started drinking yet!! SHIT!!!

I made the second rescue attempt of the afternoon, but I wasn't so lucky with this one...it started to go under, slowly, slowly....so I grabbed even more tissue and started wadding it up to try to fish this tissue out of the toilet. Pieces started splintering off, floating around in the bowl.

Then, as if things couldn't get worse, there was a knock at the door. I banged my elbow on the wall. Yacht bathrooms are tiny. A line was forming outside. Now they were going to think that I was taking so long because I was taking a shit in there. GREAT. 5 minutes into my virgin yachting experience and I was ruining not only the septic system, but also my reputation.

Fish, fish, fish....finally I had a large enough wad of dry tissue that I was able to sort of dredge up the wad of tissue I inadvertently dropped in the tank. God, wet tissue is heavy. I whipped the whole mess into the garbage can, flushed the toilet, threw down the lid, and stuffed several more wads of dry tissue in the can to cover up my mess.

Then I went and drank 4 bellinis in a row. Because that's what you do when you're on a yacht and you just spent 10 minutes fishing used toilet paper out of a toilet bowl and everyone thinks you have irregular bowel movements.

And now I think I have the flu.