August 18, 2008
Office Space, Wenchie Style
Some days, my life resembles a sitcom. One of those sitcoms where I'd the dufus next door neighbor. I'm not the star, but I do provide the ocassional comic relief.
Friday was such a day.
I work on the top floor of my organization's building. It's the floor where all the bigwigs have their posh offices with the fabulous views. I am, indeed, awash with bigwigs.
This week has been very different in that The Biggest Wig Of Them All has been here all week. Usually, he's off touring hospitals in Africa or meeting with Bush's cabinet or speaking to an assembly of other bigwigs. Seriously, he's like Jeebus. I've been scared all week that some asshole was going to fly a plane into the building. That's how important he is.
Although everyone on this floor calls him by his first name, my peon brain has elevated him to TOTAL ROCKSTAR STATUS, and I call him by his official title. He's a very kind, personable man, but since I'm a temp, and prior to this week, he's only been here a total of 7 days in the past 3 months, we've never spoken.
Until Friday. THREE TIMES Friday, we spoke.
The last three days of last week, my department hosted a big event for 70 important people. All their meetings were on our floor, and we provided them with breakfast, lunch and dinner every day. This means that the other admins (administrative assistants) and I got to run around like bus boys. I hated it, but I got to eat what the important people ate, so it's a decent trade-off.
Friday morning, the caterer didn't bring enough little individual cereals. You know, the ones that come in the little bowls? Mind you, this was Chris' fault, not the caterer's. He panicked when he saw 45 bowls of cereal for 70 people and sent me to the Dominick's for more.
So at 7:15 in the morning, having been at work a full 15 minutes, I grabbed his money, my keys and my sunglasses, and headed back out to the parking garage.
Outside the front entrance of the building, Official Title was being dropped off by his wife. Stupidly, I decided to initiate contact, so I said, "Good morning, Official Title!"
To which he replied, "You put in a full day's work already?"
Deer in the headlights.
"Uh... I have to get cereal."
Really? "I have to get cereal"? That's the best I could come up with? Real clever, Wenchie. What a sharpie.
Later that morning, it was plastic cutlery that were were running low on. Chris sent me to get forks and knives from the filing cabinet in our department. (We have to hide supplies from the other departments, otherwise, they disappear. I have six boxes of granola bars, two rolls of Saran Wrap and some big Ziploc bags in my cube.)
I grabbed the box of 500 knives and put it on my little handcart. Then I grabbed the box of 500 forks.
Only it was a box of 499 forks because some yabbo had already opened it.
You guessed it. All 499 forks spilled onto my feet and the surrounding rug. Official Title CAME OUT OF HIS OFFICE to see what the racket was, only to see the idiot temp standing in a sea of plastic forks.
He goes, "What happened?"
Deer in the headlights.
"Uh... nothing."
Seriously? I'm like a genius with the snappy answers. I should go on tour.
As I picked up the forks, I thought to myself, I'm going to have to bake cookies for Monday so he'll think of me as Baker Girl and not Fork-Dropping Cereal Girl. I must redeem myself!
Later that afternoon, Mark had a birthday. Well, Mark had a birthday earlier that week. We had a birthday celebration for him Friday afternoon. There were about half a dozen of us standing around the file cabinets, eating cake. All of them are waaaaaaaaaaaaay more important than me.
One of them was Official Title's Executive Secretary. She's this 60-year old black woman named Rose. She has dreadlocks. And last week, she, too, talked to me about her hair!
Anyhoo, have I mentioned that Official Title is also a man of the cloth? Because he is. See? Just like Jeebus.
So we were standing around, eating cake, shooting the breeze, talking about what we used to hate to eat that our parents tried to make us eat and we tried to devise original and sneaky way to dispose of. Things were going well, I was engaging and witty without dominating the conversation. I felt that Official Title was starting to warm to me and see me as a person instead of just That Idiot Temp.
And then? Rose threw me under the bus.
Appropos of NOTHING -- we were talking about lutefisk -- Rose was like "Wenchie said the funniest thing at lunch today!"
Oh. Shit.
I covered my face with my hands and laid my head on the counter, trying not to pass out.
I instantly knew what was coming. I'd been lunching with three very highly-ranked, older women in the organization, whom I worship and adore and want to be like when I grow up, and I'd gotten a little too giddy and comfortable with my company.
Rose continued her story, "TJ asked me where I worked before I came here. And before I could even open my mouth, Wenchie said, Hooters!"
Well, the reaction at the birthday celebration was the same as the reaction at lunch. People laughed so hard they couldn't stand up, let alone speak.
I looked up to tell Rose that I hate her, and The Rev. Official Title pointed and me and said, "Lookit how red she is!" Before continuing to laugh his ass off.
I knew that, one day, my lack of a brain-to-mouth filter would get me into trouble. But I never thought that I'd actually have to leave the country.
Heather, you might want to start a rough draft of my eulogy blog.
Comments
you know the eulogy will start with "hooters" and end with "shanties" now. jeebus would be proud.
Posted by: heather at August 18, 2008 10:53 AM