Hello My Name Is
Introductions are in order. This is a blog about an office, the office I work in, which is an arts nonprofit attached to a university. We don't have any students, but we do put on events, raise money, and publish an annual journal. By we I mean me. Me and the Contessa of Poetry, who is the other secretary in the operation.
We are overseen by two bosses. The vice-boss is in charge of the events. Mostly what she does is go out to lunch to "plan" the events but I can't imagine what actually happens at these lunches, certainly no eating. She is very thin and wears Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dresses that show off her ribs. She has dark brown hair that she straightens. She keeps a supply of Ensure in her office but I've never seen her drink any of it. In fact, I've never seen her eat real food except for one time when she brought jerk chicken in to the office for her birthday. She said she didn't want a cake. She gnawed every bit of meat off the bones, including the sinew and connective tissue. So what does she eat at her lunches? In the old days she could have smoked, but that isn't ok now. Does she order a Pellegrino and a pat of butter? This is one mystery that must be solved.
Once, we had to go a "retreat" at her house in Amagansett (her husband works for Lazard Freres and there appears to be some family money.) We had the retreat to supposedly address "growing pains in the office," but really we had to go because the vice-boss caught the Contessa flipping her off. The Contessa tried to cover up, saying that she was flipping the computer off, because of something she'd read. The Contessa, for all of her charms, is a terrible liar.
Right before out jitney left to take us to Amagansett, I bought two Odwalla bars. The Contessa and I foolishly wolfed them down before we were even in Queens. We got to the house about noon. I brought coffee and chocolates as a hostess gift which, upon presentation, the vice-boss whisked away. The boss was already there, and we started right in on our trust building exercises. I was on the boss's team and the Contessa was on the vice-boss's team. The vice-boss seemed to have gotten her party games confused because we had to dress our partners up in toilet paper dresses. The boss seemed to enjoy wearing his toilet paper dress. "Not the first or last time I'll wear a dress," is how he put it. The contessa and the vice-boss got very competitive and tense, but there was no judge so the game was called a draw. Then we played pictionary. But we didn't get to eat anything, not even peanuts. We had cocktails before dinner. I've never eaten such a nourishing olive. Dinner was sushi at a loud place in East Hampton and we didn't order enough of it. When we got home, everyone went to bed. The contessa had the spins. I snuck out to the kitchen to see what was in the refrigerator. There was a jar of orange marmelade, some mustard and a bottle of Champagne. I brought (the Contessa and I were billeted in bunk beds in what used to be a kid's room) the marmelade and a spoon back to the bedroom and woke the Contessa up. One nice thing about marmelade is that it has the bits of orange rind in it.
We call the vice-boss Mom. Ergo, the boss is Dad. He and Mom are locked in a death-grip power struggle but it is only Mom who knows that they are at war. Dad is friendly, as big as Mom is skinny. He has a belly, and once he had shingles on his face. According to my research, it is not clear whether or not drinking makes rosacea worse but the boss has what I'd call an alcoholic's nose, very red, an an alcoholic's mouth, wide open.
I am keeping this journal to keep myself away from political (lefty) blogs. I agreed with what the blogs had to say, mostly, (despite the occasional egregious grammar mistake) but the hysterical tone of the blogs started to wear on me. Also, even on the lefty blogs there are inevitablly links that lead to the the websites of holocoaust denyers and the fag haters and worse. It got to be so it seemed to me that global warming would rise the seas tomorrow rather than in a few years and I just can't live that way. On the National Geographic channel I just saw a show about natural disasters. I kept waiting to feel the familiar feeling of panic, but it didn't come. Of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 1944, a old man in Naples said, "we were sure that we would shortly experience a most horrible death," which was oddly comforting.
In the mornings, before I come to work, I work on my book, a murder mystery set in an archeological dig in Peru. I don't know if I can get away with calling the book "The Shining Path" or not. (What would the next in the series be, a murder mystery called "Al-Quaida"? Set in Afghanistan? Poor taste, but tempting. That Kite Runner book is VERY popular. )
The Xerox machine is making grinding noises and I've got to go call Konica Minolta. Maybe the technician with alcoholic shakes will come.
Oh,my name is Fritz.
We are overseen by two bosses. The vice-boss is in charge of the events. Mostly what she does is go out to lunch to "plan" the events but I can't imagine what actually happens at these lunches, certainly no eating. She is very thin and wears Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dresses that show off her ribs. She has dark brown hair that she straightens. She keeps a supply of Ensure in her office but I've never seen her drink any of it. In fact, I've never seen her eat real food except for one time when she brought jerk chicken in to the office for her birthday. She said she didn't want a cake. She gnawed every bit of meat off the bones, including the sinew and connective tissue. So what does she eat at her lunches? In the old days she could have smoked, but that isn't ok now. Does she order a Pellegrino and a pat of butter? This is one mystery that must be solved.
Once, we had to go a "retreat" at her house in Amagansett (her husband works for Lazard Freres and there appears to be some family money.) We had the retreat to supposedly address "growing pains in the office," but really we had to go because the vice-boss caught the Contessa flipping her off. The Contessa tried to cover up, saying that she was flipping the computer off, because of something she'd read. The Contessa, for all of her charms, is a terrible liar.
Right before out jitney left to take us to Amagansett, I bought two Odwalla bars. The Contessa and I foolishly wolfed them down before we were even in Queens. We got to the house about noon. I brought coffee and chocolates as a hostess gift which, upon presentation, the vice-boss whisked away. The boss was already there, and we started right in on our trust building exercises. I was on the boss's team and the Contessa was on the vice-boss's team. The vice-boss seemed to have gotten her party games confused because we had to dress our partners up in toilet paper dresses. The boss seemed to enjoy wearing his toilet paper dress. "Not the first or last time I'll wear a dress," is how he put it. The contessa and the vice-boss got very competitive and tense, but there was no judge so the game was called a draw. Then we played pictionary. But we didn't get to eat anything, not even peanuts. We had cocktails before dinner. I've never eaten such a nourishing olive. Dinner was sushi at a loud place in East Hampton and we didn't order enough of it. When we got home, everyone went to bed. The contessa had the spins. I snuck out to the kitchen to see what was in the refrigerator. There was a jar of orange marmelade, some mustard and a bottle of Champagne. I brought (the Contessa and I were billeted in bunk beds in what used to be a kid's room) the marmelade and a spoon back to the bedroom and woke the Contessa up. One nice thing about marmelade is that it has the bits of orange rind in it.
We call the vice-boss Mom. Ergo, the boss is Dad. He and Mom are locked in a death-grip power struggle but it is only Mom who knows that they are at war. Dad is friendly, as big as Mom is skinny. He has a belly, and once he had shingles on his face. According to my research, it is not clear whether or not drinking makes rosacea worse but the boss has what I'd call an alcoholic's nose, very red, an an alcoholic's mouth, wide open.
I am keeping this journal to keep myself away from political (lefty) blogs. I agreed with what the blogs had to say, mostly, (despite the occasional egregious grammar mistake) but the hysterical tone of the blogs started to wear on me. Also, even on the lefty blogs there are inevitablly links that lead to the the websites of holocoaust denyers and the fag haters and worse. It got to be so it seemed to me that global warming would rise the seas tomorrow rather than in a few years and I just can't live that way. On the National Geographic channel I just saw a show about natural disasters. I kept waiting to feel the familiar feeling of panic, but it didn't come. Of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 1944, a old man in Naples said, "we were sure that we would shortly experience a most horrible death," which was oddly comforting.
In the mornings, before I come to work, I work on my book, a murder mystery set in an archeological dig in Peru. I don't know if I can get away with calling the book "The Shining Path" or not. (What would the next in the series be, a murder mystery called "Al-Quaida"? Set in Afghanistan? Poor taste, but tempting. That Kite Runner book is VERY popular. )
The Xerox machine is making grinding noises and I've got to go call Konica Minolta. Maybe the technician with alcoholic shakes will come.
Oh,my name is Fritz.
posted by thirty-year-old secretary at 10:56 AM
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