Thursday Throw Out
Its Thursday. I am sick of my work week. It has been a long time my friends. Here is a little something I think I might call Ember Burning.
“Oh good. I was hoping someone would be making coffee soon.” Kevin says with a smile in his tone. I try not to make eye contact, because right now my silent tears would not take too much to turn into a full on mental breakdown. Not that Kevin did anything to warrant me taking out my weeks frustrations on him. But, In the state I am in, he could be Brad Pitt naked and throwing chocolate at me, and I would still go full postal on him. I take the two steps to the sink and retrieve the pot, quickly pouring its contents into the machine, hit the button to start the brewing process, and storm strait out of the room, catching at the last second the muffled voice of Kevin before the door closes. “Note to self, Ember is not a morning person.”
My office, or cubicle, is a five by five square with grey walls that are NOT high enough to muffle the sound of my Russian coworkers voice. You would think in a call center People would have the decency to keep their voice down, but when Inga is on the phone, the whole office knows it. Several times a day I get asked if there is an office party going on, or if I have the television or radio on. I don’t sugar coat. I usually just reply with a louder than necessary, “No I just have coworkers that don’t know what an inside voice is.” The Irony of sharing a cubicle wall with loud Inga is, I have been talked to several times about my references to her loud voice, she has never seven been asked to lower it.
I sit down in my ergonomic chair and wiggle my mouse to wake up my computer. Loud Inga, is speaking feverishly in Russian, I assume to a family member, and her voice makes me cringe. Pulling my purse into my lap, I open it and retrieve a brightly colored stuffed animal. Staring at the happy little poof of teal with just a face and no other features makes me smile. The toy is my favorite color, and my twelve year old daughter gave it to me last night so I would think of her while I am at work. I didn’t have the heart to tell her my self-important, douchebag supervisor won’t allow people to decorate their cubicles with personal items . So I put it in my purse and decided I will put it on my desk during the day, and hide it whenever he comes around.
“Ember.” The voice of the aforementioned supervisor comes from behind me, startling me into shoving the toy back in my purse and into my desk drawer.
“Yes Mr. Allen.” I say spastically as I swivel my chair in his direction. His face contorts as I make eye contact, but I smile and fold my hands into my lap, acting as naturally as possible.
Mr.. Allen resigns his features and clears his throat. “Upper management was asking if there was going to be a holiday party for the staff. While there isn’t any room in the budget for a formal get together, I was hoping you could organize another one of those pot lucks you are so good at. I will email you the times the conference room is available. Thank you for doing this.” Mr. A turns and disappears as quickly as he showed up. Two years ago I inherited this cubicle for a girl who left the company, evidently she was the designated pot luck planner prior to my inhabitance. My desk resides directly across from the conference room, and Mr. A just never realized I am not the same girl. I am not a people person, nor do I particularly like parties, but as the new person in the office I didn’t bother correcting him. So, henceforth I have become the office party planner.
Kevin’s cheery voice greets Mr. A in passing and I remember my cup of disappointment. I grab my company mug and make my way back to the break room, but pause as I see my reflection in the window of the conference room. My mascara and eye liner is streaked halfway down my face and my red lipstick is smeared about my right cheek. My appearance is nothing short of Heath Ledgers Joker, No wonder Mr. A was looking at me strangely. Rushing into the break room to sort myself out I stop in front of the sink and start wiping at the catastrophe that is my face, using the paper towel dispenser as a makeshift mirror. Once I am thoroughly convinced that my inner Gotham has been contained, I step over to the coffee pot and mindlessly pour its contents into my cup.
The pot is really light for just having made it less than five minutes ago.
I stand here staring at my quarter cup of coffee with tears
pouring down my face. Who knew the Office coffeemaker would be the straw
that broke the camel’s back. But the fact someone left just enough coffee
in the bottom of the pot to not have to make more, just seems like a metaphor for
my life at this point.
Angrily, I fill the coffee filter, as I watch the questionably
cloudy water fill the pot in the nearby break room sink. All I wanted was some coffee to get me through
another dreary day of mindless questions and typing. Instead I got a tiny shot
of luke-warm disappointment, and more work to do. Kevin, one of the office coffee
fiends enters the room with a cheerful grin. It’s not natural for a person to
be that happy at seven forty-five in the morning. When I notice that his cup is
half full, I know it is him that probably left just enough black silk in the
bottom of the pot so he didn’t have to make more. He is known for that trick,
it is one of his signature moves. “Oh good. I was hoping someone would be making coffee soon.” Kevin says with a smile in his tone. I try not to make eye contact, because right now my silent tears would not take too much to turn into a full on mental breakdown. Not that Kevin did anything to warrant me taking out my weeks frustrations on him. But, In the state I am in, he could be Brad Pitt naked and throwing chocolate at me, and I would still go full postal on him. I take the two steps to the sink and retrieve the pot, quickly pouring its contents into the machine, hit the button to start the brewing process, and storm strait out of the room, catching at the last second the muffled voice of Kevin before the door closes. “Note to self, Ember is not a morning person.”
My office, or cubicle, is a five by five square with grey walls that are NOT high enough to muffle the sound of my Russian coworkers voice. You would think in a call center People would have the decency to keep their voice down, but when Inga is on the phone, the whole office knows it. Several times a day I get asked if there is an office party going on, or if I have the television or radio on. I don’t sugar coat. I usually just reply with a louder than necessary, “No I just have coworkers that don’t know what an inside voice is.” The Irony of sharing a cubicle wall with loud Inga is, I have been talked to several times about my references to her loud voice, she has never seven been asked to lower it.
I sit down in my ergonomic chair and wiggle my mouse to wake up my computer. Loud Inga, is speaking feverishly in Russian, I assume to a family member, and her voice makes me cringe. Pulling my purse into my lap, I open it and retrieve a brightly colored stuffed animal. Staring at the happy little poof of teal with just a face and no other features makes me smile. The toy is my favorite color, and my twelve year old daughter gave it to me last night so I would think of her while I am at work. I didn’t have the heart to tell her my self-important, douchebag supervisor won’t allow people to decorate their cubicles with personal items . So I put it in my purse and decided I will put it on my desk during the day, and hide it whenever he comes around.
“Ember.” The voice of the aforementioned supervisor comes from behind me, startling me into shoving the toy back in my purse and into my desk drawer.
“Yes Mr. Allen.” I say spastically as I swivel my chair in his direction. His face contorts as I make eye contact, but I smile and fold my hands into my lap, acting as naturally as possible.
Mr.. Allen resigns his features and clears his throat. “Upper management was asking if there was going to be a holiday party for the staff. While there isn’t any room in the budget for a formal get together, I was hoping you could organize another one of those pot lucks you are so good at. I will email you the times the conference room is available. Thank you for doing this.” Mr. A turns and disappears as quickly as he showed up. Two years ago I inherited this cubicle for a girl who left the company, evidently she was the designated pot luck planner prior to my inhabitance. My desk resides directly across from the conference room, and Mr. A just never realized I am not the same girl. I am not a people person, nor do I particularly like parties, but as the new person in the office I didn’t bother correcting him. So, henceforth I have become the office party planner.
Kevin’s cheery voice greets Mr. A in passing and I remember my cup of disappointment. I grab my company mug and make my way back to the break room, but pause as I see my reflection in the window of the conference room. My mascara and eye liner is streaked halfway down my face and my red lipstick is smeared about my right cheek. My appearance is nothing short of Heath Ledgers Joker, No wonder Mr. A was looking at me strangely. Rushing into the break room to sort myself out I stop in front of the sink and start wiping at the catastrophe that is my face, using the paper towel dispenser as a makeshift mirror. Once I am thoroughly convinced that my inner Gotham has been contained, I step over to the coffee pot and mindlessly pour its contents into my cup.
The pot is really light for just having made it less than five minutes ago.